“Everybody at your posts!” he demanded. “I want this show live in two minutes or this sweet thing dies.”
Trembling, Rachel scanned the studio. One of the cameramen, a gentle giant Rachel had spoken with on many occasions, lay next to his camera, blood pooling from his chest. She noticed a young female camera operator hunched in a corner. The control booth had been deserted. She couldn’t see Lisa and Manuel-they must have crawled to the other side of the anchor desk.
“Get back to your camera!” Jamison shouted at the woman in the corner. He fired several rounds into the wall above her head. Sparks flew and she screamed, scrambling to her station. “Two minutes,” Jamison repeated. “I’m talking to one of my partners on my Bluetooth right now. He’s waiting for the television signal.”
Rachel fought for breath as Jamison squeezed his left arm tighter around her neck, dragging her toward the end of the anchor desk where Lisa and Manuel sat huddled together on the floor. Jamison pointed his gun at Lisa. “Looky here.”
He laughed as she stared at him in horror. “Get back behind your desk. We’ve got a show to put on.”
Trembling and sobbing, Lisa stood. She backed slowly away from Jamison, climbing into her anchor seat.
“Good girl,” he said. He pointed his gun at Manuel and squeezed Rachel’s windpipe tighter with his left arm. The room was beginning to spin.
“We’re not on the air yet,” he hissed, his frustration showing. “Somebody get in that control room.”
Manuel glanced quickly at the booth. “They’re gone.”
“I can see they’re gone!” Jamison shouted. He turned and unloaded another stream of bullets toward the control booth, the gunshots echoing in Rachel’s ear. The bullets shattered the glass of the booth into tiny shards that dropped onto the sound and edit board.
He again pointed the gun toward Manuel. “Get us on the air.”
Manuel shook his head, beads of sweat popping on his forehead even in the clammy cool air of the studio. “I c-can’t… don’t know how.”
“Then you’re useless.”
Manuel opened his mouth-a silent plea, too scared to talk.
Rachel was losing consciousness fast, the edges of her vision going dark. How many shots has Jamison fired? How many are left? She said a quick prayer and threw her elbow backward into his gut, heard him grunt, and tried to squirm free. She had nearly twisted out of his arm, but he drove the corner of the gun’s rectangular magazine against her skull. The blow knocked her to the ground. Dizzy, she could feel blood oozing down her forehead.
She looked up at Jamison with blurred vision. She blinked and crawled a few feet backward.
“You think I’m playing games?” Jamison asked.
Terrified, Rachel shook her head. He smiled at her and popped a second magazine out, quickly jamming a third into place.
Jamison tilted his head back and shouted. “We’re not on the air! Every minute we’re not on the air, somebody dies!”
He took a step closer and looked down at Rachel. “Maybe I’ll start with you.” His eyes flashed with excitement. “Put your hands behind your back and lie facedown.”
Rachel did as she was told, fighting panic. To her left, she saw a flicker of movement, a crouching figure. She forced herself not to look. She hoped it was Bob Thomas, the show’s director, a tall and lanky man who had disappeared once the gunshots started. Bob would not let her die.
Jamison walked over to Rachel. He stepped over top of her, straddling her. His breath came in short, hard bursts.
“Beg.”
For a split second contempt battled her fear. She wouldn’t beg for this man-he’d fire anyway. But she knew she needed time. She closed her eyes. “Please don’t hurt me,” she said. “I can help you get out of this.”
Jamison laughed-a fake, contemptuous chortle. “Look at me,” he said softly.
She opened her eyes and looked over her shoulder, her neck craned as she stared at her tormentor. He bent closer, his face twisted with the pleasure of revenge. The black barrel of the gun dominated her field of vision, his maniacal grin forming the backdrop. “You need to learn a little humility,” he said. “You don’t know what it means to beg, do you?”
He grabbed her hair and pulled her head back farther. “ Please, ” she said, tears stinging her eyes. Pain throbbed on her cheek and radiated from her neck. She closed her eyes, but the image of the black barrel and Jamison’s face wouldn’t go away. “ Please don’t shoot.”
“That’s not begging,” Jamison said. He let go of her hair and her head dropped toward the floor. She braced herself, feeling helpless, waiting for the impact of the bullet. She thought about Blake, her husband. About the tiny life sheltered in her womb. It was supposed to be a safe place.
“Open your eyes!”
She did. Just in time to see Jamison turn the gun on Manuel Sanchez. “Say good-bye to your buddy.”
“No!” she shouted.
Before Manuel could move, Jamison fired. Rachel gasped as a small hole opened in the middle of Manuel’s forehead. He grunted-the air fleeing his body-and slouched to the floor.
Rachel saw Manuel’s eyes go glassy as blood poured from his head. She turned away, vomit rising in her throat.
“You need to learn how to beg,” Jamison said, his voice flat. “Now get in your seat.”
Rachel got to one knee, and the room started spinning. She hesitated, wiping blood away from her eyes and mouth. She watched Jamison kick Manuel’s lifeless body, rolling the co-anchor onto his back.
“Hurry up!” he said.
She stood slowly, thinking about Manuel. Watching him die had changed things. Instead of making Rachel more afraid, it somehow steeled her. She felt responsible for Manuel’s death-this whole thing was her fault. Jamison was here because of Rachel. Now it was up to her to think clearly. Somebody had to make sure there was no more bloodshed until help arrived.
She staggered to her seat, keeping a wary eye on Jamison. He had moved behind Lisa.
“Get us on the air,” he said to Lisa.
“I’m trying,” Lisa said, her voice shaking, lips trembling. “But please…” she choked out, “stop pointing that gun at me.”
“You’ve got thirty seconds,” Jamison said.
Lisa caught her breath. She pointed to a spot on the right side of the studio. “Behind there,” she said, “is our director. He can run the control booth.”
“Nice,” Jamison said.
He walked over to the camera and forced Bob Thomas out of his hiding spot, ordering him into the control booth. A minute or two later, the large television on the floor in front of the anchor desk and the other television suspended from the ceiling changed from a technical difficulties message to a live shot of the desk. Rachel was shocked by her own appearance, blood streaking down her face and staining her blouse. She pushed back her hair and waited.
How long before a SWAT team storms this place?
Jamison was just one man. Surely if the four of them acted together…
Jamison settled in next to the sole camerawoman operating the huge boom camera. She had it on a wide- angle shot that showed both Lisa and Rachel. Jamison kept the gun on Rachel, periodically glancing over his shoulder to check the studio door.
“This is Larry Jamison!” he yelled, his voice loud enough to be picked up by the wireless mikes that Lisa and Rachel wore. “You’ve just seen vicious lies broadcast by this television station. Now you’re about to hear the truth.
“Introduce yourself!” Jamison shouted. He pointed the gun at Lisa.
“I’m Lisa Roberts,” she said, her voice unsteady, an octave higher than normal. Out of habit, she looked straight at the camera.
Jamison swung the gun toward Rachel. For a moment, just long enough to show the slightest flicker of resistance, Rachel didn’t speak.
