Amber Morn (7 page)

The gunfire. It had come from Java Joint.

Bailey.
A shuddering gasp wrenched from John’s throat. He crawled forward, stopped at the end of the entryway, and stuck his head out. Squinted up the street. No one in sight.

Was
anybody
in Java Joint still alive?

Brain numb, John crawled out to the middle of the sidewalk and peered at the café, expecting to see shattered windows.

They were intact. Which meant the gun had been fired from outside the café.

But they were dark. As if they’d been blacked out?

John swiveled his head up and down his side of Main, checking all other businesses.

No damage.

He reversed back into the entryway and collapsed against the brick wall, trying to reason. The men had come out of Java Joint and shot across the street — just to show their firepower? The gun — it couldn’t have been the one used to shoot Frank. He’d be cut to pieces.

Bailey and the others.
Please, God, let them still be alive.

John’s chest constricted. He forced his chin up, took three deep, long breaths. Longing,
needing
to see life, he pushed to his knees and leaned over Frank again. He tried a second time for a wrist pulse to no avail. He groaned and in desperation pressed the palm of his hand against the policeman’s chest.

He felt a faint stir.

A
heartbeat
? He pressed harder, holding his breath.

Yes! It was there. Frank was alive. Barely. But he was
alive
.

John had to get him to a hospital — now.

Cell phone
. In the Subaru —

The sound of a car engine, coming from the bottom of the street. John staggered to his feet and edged toward the right front of the recessed entry, angling a look left and down. A black pickup truck was turning onto Main from Hanley.

John glanced up toward Java Joint. No movement. He stepped out onto the sidewalk, waving his arms. The driver signaled to him. John jumped back inside the entry.

The truck rumbled past the first block and swerved right onto First Street. John saw its rear bumper as it ground to a stop. The engine cut; a door slammed. Stan Seybert, a muscular logger in his thirties, appeared. He gawked at the broken glass across the street.

John could see a cell phone clipped to the right side of his belt. “Hurry!”

Stan sprinted toward him. Reached the entry and veered inside. “What’s going
on
?” He gawked down at Frank.

John gulped air. “He’s been shot. Give me your phone.”

NINETEEN

Bailey’s ankles shook. Was this man going to kill her just because she didn’t have a cell phone?

She turned to walk the length of the hostage lineup, prayers running through her head. Her heart pounded, blood whooshing in her ears. Tension vibrated from her friends. She saw clutched hands, trembling limbs. Leslie reached out to touch Bailey’s arm as she passed.

“Stop!” The man cried. Leslie’s arm recoiled. “
Nobody
else move. And don’t talk.”

Bailey rounded the counter and stopped. She stared at the man’s gun, unable to take another step.

“I said
here
.” He pointed to the floor in front of him.

Mitch jumped forward, grabbed her arm and shoved. “Go!”

Bailey stumbled to the man in charge, only half sensing her feet against the floor. He backed up two steps, gun pointed at her chest. “Brad.”

Brad strode to her, stopping within inches of her face. He stared down at her, blue eyes as deep and cold as a glacier lake.

What did these people
want
?

“Hold your arms up and out to your sides,” Man-in-Charge commanded.

Bailey obeyed.

With efficient movements Brad patted her down like a policeman looking for weapons. Bailey’s eyes squeezed shut at the violation, and she swayed. Someone in the line hissed in a breath.

“She’s clean.” Brad stepped away.

“All right. Get back where you were.” Man-in-Charge grazed Bailey with a glance.

Bailey hurried to her place in line, pulled to her friends like a fugitive seeking shelter from a storm.

Man-in-Charge curled his lip. “Anybody else say they don’t have a phone, they’re coming out here too. We find one on ya, you’re dead.” He looked to Angie. “You next. Hurry up.”

Angie’s hands clutched each side of her face. “It’s in my purse. Over there.” She pointed toward a table in the center of the room.

Brad yanked up the purse, pulled out a phone. He turned it off and threw it in the duffel bag.

They went down the line, each person throwing in a phone except for Wilbur, who didn’t carry one. Brittany and Ali carried their phones in their jeans pockets. Bev, Leslie, and Carla had to pull their phones from purses that sat askew on the counter or had been knocked to the floor. Brad lined up all the handbags on the counter when they were done.

Wilbur was ordered around front to be patted down. He stalked to Brad like a stubborn soldier caught by the enemy. Stared straight ahead, his mouth working as he was searched.

Brad smirked at him. “Like your shirt.”

Cell phones all taken, Brad zipped up the duffel bag and ran down the hall to throw it in the office. It landed on the floor with a muted clatter. He returned and went to the second bag, pulling out two large guns like the one he’d used outside.

Bailey’s fingers clenched, her short nails cutting into her palms. Angie gasped. Ali burst into sobs, quickly muffled in Carla’s shoulder.

Mitch grinned and stuck his handgun back in his pocket. “Yeehaw, I like this one much better.” He took the large gun from Brad. With Mitch’s new weapon trained on the group, Man-in-Charge slipped his handgun in his jacket and took the larger one. From the duffel bag Brad lifted out extra magazines of ammunition, each of the three stuffing them in their pockets.

So many bullets. A shiver ran down Bailey’s spine. Did they plan to shoot the entire town?

Leaving the duffel bag unzipped — for easy access to more ammunition? — Brad put it in the far corner, near the computer table.

He grabbed his own gun and pointed it toward them. “All right. We’re in business.”

The three men stepped into their own straight line, fanned out the length of the counter. All three guns pointed at Bailey and her friends.

Now we die.

Brad’s lips curved in a chilling smile. His eyes traveled up and down the line and fell on Brittany with satisfaction. Bailey’s limbs flushed cold. She could see the girl tense. Carla’s arm tightened around her daughter.

Bailey’s mind numbed. Her bleary eyes drifted back to the men, then up to the clock on the opposite wall. Twelve minutes after eight — that was all. Everything had happened — her whole life had changed — in less than twelve minutes.

Man-in-Charge took a deep breath, and his nostrils flared. “Suppose we should introduce ourselves. My name’s Kent Wick-sell. My oldest son, Mitch. Second son, Brad.”

Wicksell
. Where had Bailey heard that name?

“You’re looking at three desperate men. Nobody listened to reason, so here we are. We want one thing. We get it, you all go free —
if
you do what you’re told until then. We don’t get it — you die.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “It don’t get much simpler than that.”

TWENTY

Kanner Lake Police Chief Vince Edwards punched off the last call on his cell phone, calculating his next moves. Five minutes ago he’d been reading the paper in his kitchen and enjoying a second cup of coffee on his day off. Now he sprang into action. No time to let his emotions run. No time to mourn for a deputy down or hostages taken.

He grabbed his gun and a backup weapon and ran outside.

A few months ago Vince had earned a national certification in hostage negotiation. Three phases of training in Las Vegas and Scottsdale, each forty hours. Lessons in the psychology of negotiating and the personality types of hostage takers. Acting out scenarios. The final phase included an intense eight-hour drill of being taken hostage himself.

Never had he expected to use the training in his own town.

From his police vehicle Vince grabbed his body armor and slipped into it. By Idaho law the Kevlar vest was with a chief of police at all times. The vest was a level III-A with side panels plus two trauma plates — one each covering the center of mass on the front and back of the body. While the vest alone would stop a bullet, the impact could still inflict serious injuries such as broken ribs. The plates served as protection against those injuries. At a lightweight and comfortable 1.6 pounds, the vest was designed to wear under clothing if needed.

With each second counting, Vince put it on over his shirt and jumped into his vehicle.

Lights flashing, he screeched out of the driveway and headed for downtown, less than a mile away. Vince had already phoned two of his remaining deputies. One was Jim Tentley, a Kanner Lake officer for over six years. Late forties, six feet and stocky, Jim had been out aiming radar on the west side of the Lake. He’d now be flying toward their meeting point — Lakeshore and Hanley, one block down from the beginning of Main.

Vince had also talked to Al Newman, aka Charlie Brown, thanks to his round, bald head. Al had been off duty but was now on his way to block off Main above Java Joint. Vince had given Al the task of calling the fourth officer, Roger Waitman. Crusty, opinionated Roger had been with the Kanner Lake Police almost fifteen years. He was lean but strong, an often humorless, no-nonsense cop. He lived just three blocks from the downtown area and should be at their meeting point by the time Vince arrived.

Dispatch had told Stan Seybert and John Truitt to stay where they were, and someone would come get them. The maneuver was called a “sneak and snatch.” A victim down, in line of fire, rescued under temporary cover.

The area would need to be cordoned off for a good five blocks in all directions — and that took a fair amount of people. The Idaho State Police — ISP — were sending officers and three snipers from their Crisis Response Team. The CRT, another term for the often-used SWAT acronym (Special Weapons and Tactics), was based in Coeur d’Alene, with many of its members living between that town and Spirit Lake. CRT response time to Kanner Lake — one hour.

Vince took a circular route toward downtown, since it was unsafe to drive past Main. He hit Lakeshore two blocks to the west, hung a hard left, and carved to a halt opposite the bottom of Hanley. Roger was already getting out of his vehicle. As Vince slid from the car, Jim pulled up. The three met on the sidewalk in front of the hotel construction site. Jim and Roger both wore Kevlar vests.

“Let’s go over this again.” Vince launched into details.

Via cell phone he’d talked to Stan and John, who’d told him the location of all cars on their side of Main Street, up to their position at the bait and tackle shop. There were quite a few. Thank God for Kanner Lake’s wide sidewalks.

When Vince finished, Jim’s face was grim. “Is Frank going to make it?”

From what Vince had heard, it didn’t look good. He glanced from one man to the other. “Better be praying.”

Roger shook his head. Vince and Jim locked eyes. Vince could feel Jim’s adrenaline vibrating the air, mixing with his own.

“Let’s go.”

He and Jim threw themselves back into their cars. Vince gunned his vehicle forward on Lakeshore past the intersection, then reversed around the corner onto Hanley. He idled, foot on the brake, while Jim followed and lined up with his car single file, stopping within four feet of his front bumper. Al remained on Lakeshore, awaiting the ambulance.

Vince half turned, laid his right arm across the seat. In his peripheral vision he saw Jim doing the same. The sequence that would follow strung out in his mind. In a few minutes he could have John, Stan, and Frank to safety. Or he could get them all killed.

Vince took a deep breath. Into his radio he said, “Ready to reverse?”

“Ready.”

Vince’s fingers dug into the back of the seat. “On the count of three.” His left hand curled around the steering wheel. “One. Two. Three.
Go!
“

He hit the accelerator.

TWENTY-ONE

Sarah Wray awoke to the sound of her own groaning.

Her weighted eyes fought to open, her gaze landing on the lighting tracks along the Simple Pleasures ceiling. Some of the bulbs were gone.
Shattered. Like the windows
.

The nerves in Sarah’s left arm writhed with pain. She rolled to her right side and pushed halfway to a sitting position. Her stomach roiled and her head pounded. Broken glass surrounded her. Blood stained the carpet where she had lain.

Telephone
.

She had to make it back to her office, call 911. Something terrible had happened at Java Joint. And she’d been
shot
. The
whole town
had been shot.

Could she stand? Her legs felt weak, her gut churning.