Takeover

“I don’t want to. It’s some nut who says he’s my brother, like I’m going to believe that. Those cops must think I’m a total wack job.”

“I told you they’d try anything. But you’re right, stay where you are.”

Should she tell Bobby that she’d spoken with his brother earlier?

“Okay, Theresa.” Lucas gestured at her with the tip of the automatic rifle, which she really wished he wouldn’t do. “Step up to the opening. After that, your feet do not move, not even an inch, right?”

And there she stood. In front of her, there were at least ten aggressive, heavily armed men. Behind her, there were two aggressive, heavily armed men.

Theresa found herself face-to-face with a stocky guy of about thirty, with brown skin and an SRT uniform that had been crisply starched when he put it on that morning. It had since wilted in the heat, leaving circles of wetness under both arms.

“Hi. I’m Sergeant Filmore, CPD. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Part of her found that very sweet. Part of her thought that Sergeant Filmore might not be the best judge of future events.

“Mrs. MacLean?” he went on. They must have told the young sergeant her name. “You with me?”

“Yeah.”

“Everyone okay in there?”

“So far,” she told him. “How’s Paul?”

He blinked. “Who’s Paul?”

“Less chatting, Theresa,” Lucas called from behind Jessica Ludlow. “I want to see some money start changing hands.”

Sergeant Filmore turned, and most of the other guards did as well. Theresa followed their gaze to the open doors of the armored truck. A neat pile of plastic-wrapped squares occupied a space about five feet by five feet.

“Is that it?” she asked.

“That’s it. Let’s go,” the sergeant called, and the guard closest to the pile plucked the top package from its perch. He handed it down the line until Sergeant Filmore put it in her hands. She could see the green-printed pieces of paper through the thin wrap. It weighed about twenty pounds. She handed it to Brad, who trotted up the few steps to the main lobby floor to toss it at Missy and the duffel bag. Then Theresa accepted another from the sergeant.

She could only think of it as surreal, to pass down packets of money as if they were sandbags and the hostages were concerned citizens awaiting a flood.

But if the tenuous calm were breached and all the armed men in this city block began shooting, the room would be flooded-with the blood of people. The image sickened her. Better to concentrate on her actions, grab the package, hold it firmly. She couldn’t let it drop, didn’t know what might set Lucas off.

The phone rang.

“Don’t answer it!” Lucas shouted to, she assumed, Bobby.

“But-”

“He’s trying to distract us. Stay where you are.”

Lucas seemed to think Cavanaugh had an assault planned but needed to lure Bobby into the open. Would they try it with Jessica and her son standing in front of Lucas, his gun in her back? Theresa hoped not. Cavanaugh seemed too proud of his no-fa-talities record.

“We’re going to get you out of there,” the sergeant said to her, very quietly. “Just keep everyone calm. Did you see the explosives?”

“No.”

“But you think they’re behind the teller cages.” He spoke when he turned to accept another package from the man behind him, so Lucas could not see his lips move. If Brad heard them, he gave no sign.

“I’m guessing.” She kept her head down, as if focusing on the money, and chin pointed slightly away from Lucas and Jessica.

“Do they have anything strapped to them? Chest? Waist?”

“No. Not that I see.”

“Bobby keep his hand in his pocket a lot?”

She tried to think over the past hour. Lucas always held their attention; she glanced at Bobby only when he did something to warrant it. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Any other ordnance besides the guns? Any grenades? Any idea what’s in those bags?”

“Don’t know.” Hell, Theresa, a voice in her head asked, exactly what have you been doing? You’re supposed to be on our side, you know. The lives of seven other people at stake, and she’d spent the past hour admiring the architecture. “Investigate Cherise. He’s lying about why he killed her.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re not chatting, are we, Theresa?” Lucas called, making any pores that weren’t producing sweat suddenly shove it out in waves.

She paused to wipe her forehead. “This stuff ’s heavy.”

It didn’t answer his question, but he did not ask another. She could feel his eyes on her, hotter than the summer air and just as suffocating.

“What do you mean?” the sergeant repeated. She could barely hear him, so Lucas couldn’t-she hoped.

But she had once taken Rachael to a museum in Cincinnati where you could stand at one corner of a busy, cavernous room and whisper and someone standing elsewhere could hear every word. She hoped the lobby had not been similarly constructed.

“Mom!”

Theresa almost dropped the package of money in her sweating hands. Had her brain snapped? She could have sworn that was Ra-chael’s voice and not just the memory of that day in the museum. But it did not sound like a whisper this time.

“Mom!”

Past all the guards and the money and the expanse of hot asphalt, across Rockwell where the sawhorses held back the Cleveland office workers watching the show, her daughter waved her arms. “Mom!”

Theresa froze.

Rachael stood with her stomach pressed against a metal barrier with CAUTION! stenciled on its side. She wore the same clothes she’d worn to school that morning, pencil-thin jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt that Theresa felt was too tight for a buxom seventeen-year-old. Rachael’s boyfriend, Craig, who must have been pressed into service to drive her downtown, flanked her. On her other side, Frank had a hand on each of her shoulders, almost certainly to keep her from leaping the barricade and rushing to her mother’s rescue. That would be Rachael.

“Who’s that?” the police sergeant asked.

Theresa’s shock instantly ceded to fury. What was in Frank’s mind, to let Rachael get this close? If bullets started to fly, who knew how far they could go, not to mention allowing her a ringside seat to her mother’s potential murder? Wasn’t this traumatic enough-did she have to be an eyewitness as well? Had he lost his mind? She was seventeen bloody years old! He should have locked her in the back of a police car if he had to, just get her out of there.

And she would throttle Craig, if she lived through the day.

But the two men hadn’t told her to sacrifice herself for her fiance. They did not create this situation.

If I run, I could make it. The cops wouldn’t stop me. I’ d be halfway up the street before Lucas could react, and he couldn’t hit me. He might shoot everyone else, but not me.

And he might not shoot anyone. He’d have seven hostages left, it’s not like he couldn’t spare one. Unless everyone else tried to run out, too. Then he’d shoot. He’d have to.

“Mom!”

If she ran, she could make it.

“Lucas.” She spoke calmly and clearly. “My daughter is out there. I’m going to wave to her, just wave my hand. I won’t move.”

“She’s out where?”