Born to Run

“I’ll call you in an hour.”

“Don’t. Just don’t-unless you’re calling to tell me you got my money.”

“Let’s work this out together. You’ve got two hostages. Why not let one go?”

“I ain’t letting nobody go.”

“Demetri, listen to me. Let one of the hostages go. You don’t need three. You only need one.”

“That’s exactly right. All I need is one. So get me my money, or somebody’s gonna die-live on television.”

Demetri hung up.

Andie breathed deep and let it out.

“You okay?” said Schwartz.

Andie felt her hand shaking just a bit as she put the phone down. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Figueroa said, “It’s time to consider a breach.”

“No,” said Andie.

“He’s this close to snapping. Can’t you hear it in his voice?”

“It’s his accent. Greek uses a narrower pitch range than English, and to our ear, he can sound angrier than he really is.”

“How do you know that?” said Schwartz.

She’d learned it while watching the 2004 Summer Olympics from Athens on TV, but that wouldn’t have impressed anyone. “I just know these things,” she said. “Just like it’s time to work something out with the money.”

Figueroa said, “The director has made MDPD’s position on this crystal clear: We don’t give money to hostage takers. Period.”

“Why not, if it gets the hostages released? We have two SWAT teams here. He isn’t going to leave the building with it.”

Figueroa said, “We can’t let the entire television world see us hand over a half million dollars in exchange for three hostages.”

Andie looked at her boss. Schwartz said, “He has a point there, Andie. We don’t want copycats across the country.”

“Use marked bills. That won’t encourage copycats.”

“It just won’t work,” said Figueroa.

“We have to try,” said Andie. “He’s already killed a security guard, at least one and maybe two Russian mobsters, and two sisters in Washington. He has absolutely nothing to lose by killing again. If we can get the hostages out of there in exchange for a suitcase full of marked bills, I say that’s a good deal.”

Figueroa looked as if he were going to explode. “You think maybe your judgment is clouded because your boyfriend is one of the hostages inside? The FBI conveniently failed to mention that little detail to me.”

“Nothing is clouding my judgment,” said Andie.

“If you think that, I say you’re out of your mind.”

“I say it isn’t your call,” said Andie.

His eyes were like lasers.

“We’ll see about that,” he said.

Figueroa turned on his heel and slammed the door on his way out.

Chapter 46

“Swyteck, get over here,” said Demetri.

Jack was sitting alone on the floor in front of the news desk. Shannon had talked Demetri into letting her use the nearest bathroom, which was just off the back of the set. Two untied hostages-the anchor woman and the cameraman-were clearly making Demetri edgy, not to mention the constant threat of SWAT bursting into the newsroom at any moment. He stood by the weather-forecast green screen, where he could keep one eye on the barricaded entrance to the newsroom and the other on the bathroom door behind the set.

“What do you want?” said Jack.

“I said come here.”

Jack climbed to his feet and walked to the back of the set. Demetri had been extremely quiet since his last performance in front of the camera, and as 2:00 A.M. approached, he was looking tired. He’d been mumbling about his back hurting until he found a first-aid kit with some pain reliever inside. The red box was sitting on the news desk. Jack wondered if there was a pair of scissors or maybe a knife inside.

“What now?” said Jack.

Demetri turned off his wireless microphone. Whatever he was going to say, it wouldn’t be for the television audience.

“I need your help,” he said.

“My help?” said Jack, almost smiling at the absurdity of the situation. “Look, you’ve got three guns by my count, which clearly puts you in the driver’s seat. But I’m not interested in helping you do anything that could get someone killed. Especially me.”

“This isn’t going to hurt anyone. I just need you to help me draft something.”

“You mean like a demand letter?”

“No,” he said, pausing for a moment. “It’s something legal.”

“A confession?”

“No-hell no. I need a will.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

Jack studied those dark, piercing eyes. Being held hostage was bad enough. Getting stuck with a hostage taker who was so prepared to die that he seriously wanted a will was enough to ruin your whole damn day.

“I’d have to say you look pretty serious to me.”

“You’re a lawyer. I assume you do wills, right?”

“Well, not really. I’m a trial lawyer.”

“Are you trying to tell that me you’ve never helped anyone with a will?”

Jack could have told him about the time he’d represented Theo’s older brother Tatum-a reformed hit man who had stood to inherit millions in a six-way battle of survival of the greediest-but that probably wouldn’t have helped matters.

“I could do a will if I had to,” said Jack.

“You have to,” he said, pointing the gun at Jack’s forehead. Demetri called down the hall to the bathroom. “Hey, hurry it up in there, princess.”

The toilet flushed. A minute later, the door opened, and Shannon emerged.

Demetri said, “Hands up over your head where I can see them.”

She complied, walked straight to Demetri, and stopped.

“Facedown on the floor,” he said.

She did as he told her. Demetri quickly retied her hands behind her back, and then he directed both her and Jack back toward the news desk.

“You,” he told Shannon, “get on the floor.”

Jack remained behind the news desk. Demetri found a pad and paper in the drawer.

“Here’s the deal,” said Demetri. “When I get this five hundred thousand dollars in cash, I want it all to go to Sofia. I have some other personal things I want to leave to her, too.”

“It’s a nice sentiment,” said Jack. “But that’s not going to work.”

“Why not?”

“You can’t steal money and leave it to your heirs.”

“I have friends who do it all the time. Hell, how else do you expect an entire generation of baby boomers to leave something to their kids?”