The Negotiator (2 page)

The security camera video feeds had just been tapped and routed to the communications van. Four different camera angles. Two were static pictures of empty areas, the front glass doors, and the teller area for the drive up. One was focused high, covering the front windows, but it did show the hostages: five men and four women seated against the wall.

The fourth camera held Kate’s attention. The man paced the center of the room. He was big and burly, his stride impatient.

The dynamite trigger held in his right hand worried her. It looked like a compression switch. Let go, and the bomb went off. There was no audio, but he was clearly in a tirade about something. His focus seemed to be on one of the nine hostages in particular, the third man from the end.

This man had come with a purpose. Since it apparently wasn’t to rob the bank, that left more ugly possibilities.

He wasn’t answering the phone.

Kate looked over at her boss, Jim Walker. She had worked for him for eight years. He trusted her judgment; she trusted him to keep her alive if things went south. “Jim, we’ve got to calm this situation down quickly. If he won’t answer the phone, then wehave to talk the old-fashioned way.”

He studied the monitors. “Agreed.”

Kate looked at the building blueprints. The entrance was a double set of glass doors with about six feet in between them. They were designed to be energy efficient in both winter and summer. Kate wished the architects had thought about security first. She had already marked those double doors and those six feet of open space as her worst headache. A no-man’sland. Six feet without cover.

“Graham, if I stay here—” she pointed—“just inside the double glass doors, can you keep me in line of sight?” He was one of the few people she would trust to take a shot over her shoulder if it were required.

He studied the blueprint. “Yes.”

“Have Olsen and Franklin set up to cover here and here.” She marked two sweeps of the interior. It would be enough. If they had to take the gunman down, there would be limited ways to do it without blowing up a city block in the process.

Kate turned up the sleeves of her flannel shirt. Her working wardrobe at a scene was casual. She did not wear a bulletproof vest; she didn’t even carry a gun. The last thing she wanted was to look or sound like a cop. Her gender, size, and clothing were designed to keep her from being perceived as one more threat. In reality, she was the worst threat the gunman had. The snipers were under her control. To save lives, she would take one if necessary.

Kate glanced again at the security monitors. There was a lot of the bank floor plan not covered by the cameras. There might be another gunman, more hostages—both were slim but potential realities. The risks were inevitable.

“Ian, try the phones one more time.”

Kate watched the gunman’s reaction. He turned to glare at the ringing phone, paced toward it, but didn’t answer. Okay. It wouldn’t get him to answer, but it did capture his attention. That might be useful.

It was time to go.

“Stay safe, Kate.”

She smiled. “Always, Jim.”

The parking lot had been paved recently; spots on the asphalt were sticky under her tennis shoes. Kate assessed the cops in the perimeter as she walked around the squad cars toward the bank entrance. Some of the rookies looked nervous. A few veterans she recognized had been through this with her before.

Her focus turned to the glass doors. The bank name was done in a bold white stencil on the clear glass; a smaller sign below listed the lobby and drive-up teller hours. Kate put her hand on the glass door and smoothly pulled it open, prepared sometime in the next six feet to get shot.

Dave saw the woman as she reached the front doors of the bank and couldn’t believe what he was seeing. She came in, no bulletproof vest, apparently no gun, not even a radio. She just walked in.

God, have mercy.
He had never prayed so intently for someone in his life, not counting his sister. Absolutely nothing was preventing that gunman from shooting her.

He pulled back from the end of the desk, knowing that if she saw him, her surprise would give away his presence. He moved rapidly toward the other end of the counter, his hand tight around his gun, knowing he was likely going to have to intervene.

“Stay there!” The gunman’s voice had just jumped an octave.

She had certainly gotten the gunman’s attention.

If she had followed protocol and worn a vest, Dave could have taken the gunman down while his attention was diverted. Instead, she had walked in without following the basic rules of safety, and his opportunity filtered away in the process. He silently chewed out the local scene commander. The city cops should have waited for the professional negotiators to arrive instead of overreacting and sending in a plainclothes cop, creating more of a problem than they solved.

Lady, don’t you dare make things worse! Listen, say little, and at the first opportunity: Get out of here!

“You didn’t answer the phone. Jim Walker would like to know what it is you want.”

She had a calm, unhurried, Southern voice. Not what Dave was expecting. His initial assessment had certainly not fit his image of a hostage negotiator, but that calmness didn’t sound forced. His attention sharpened. The negotiators he had worked with in the past had been focused, intense, purposeful men. This lady looked like everything about her was fluid. Tall. Slender. A nice tan. Long, auburn hair. Casual clothes. Too exotically beautiful to ever make it in undercover work, she wasn’t someone you would forget meeting. She even stood relaxed. That convinced him. She had to be a negotiator; either that or a fool. Since his life was in her hands, he preferred to be optimistic.

“I’ve got exactly what I want. You can turn around and go back the way you came.”

“Of course. But would you mind if I just sat right here for a few minutes first? If I come right back out, my boss will get ticked off.”

It was how she said it. She actually made the guy laugh. “Sit down but shut up.”

“Glad to.”

Dave breathed a silent sigh of relief and eased his finger off the trigger. They wouldn’t send a rookie into a situation like this, after all; but who was she? Not FBI, that much was certain.

Kate sat down where she stood in one graceful move and rested her head against the glass doors. Her heart rate slowly decelerated. She hadn’t gotten herself shot in the first minute. That was always a good sign.

She scanned the faces of the hostages. They were all nervous, three of the women crying. The gunman was probably not enjoying that. The man the gunman was focused on looked about ready to have a coronary.

At least there were no heroics going on here. These nine folks were scared, nervous, ordinary people. Seeing it on the monitor had been one thing, confirming it directly was a relief. No athletes. No military types. She had lost hostages before who acted on their own.

She wished she could tell them to stay put, but the only communication she could make with them was in her actions. The more bored she appeared with the situation, the better. The goal was to get the gunman to relax a little. His barked humor had been a minor, very good sign. She would take it and every other one she could get.

Kate studied the bomb as the gunman paced. It was everything she had feared. Manning, her counterpart on the bomb squad, was going to have a challenge.

It was a pity God didn’t exist. Someone, God if no one else, should have solved this man’s problems before he decided to walk into this bank with dynamite and a gun. The gunman wouldn’t agree with her, but options now were limited—he would end up in jail or dead. Not exactly happy alternatives. She had to make sure he didn’t take nine innocent lives along with him.

Ten, counting hers.

She couldn’t have the guy shot; his hand would come off the bomb trigger. She couldn’t rush the guy; she would get herself shot. If she got shot, her family would descend on her like a ton of bricks for being so stupid. As she knew from firsthand experience, it was difficult enough recovering from an injury without having the entire O’Malley clan breathing down her neck as she did so.

Negotiating to get the hostages released was going to be a challenge. He didn’t appear to want anything beyond control of the bank manager’s fate—and he had that. Releasing hostages took something to exchange. She could go for sympathy for the crying women, but that would probably get her tossed out as well.

As time wore on, bargaining chips would appear she could use— food, water, the practical reality of how he would handle controlling this many people when faced with the need for restroom visits.

She could wait the situation out indefinitely, and slowly it would turn in her favor. But would he let that much time pass? Or would he escalate before then?

Dave had a difficult decision to make. Did he alert the cop of his presence and risk her giving away his position with her expression, or did he stay silent and watch the situation develop? He finally accepted that he had no choice. It would take more than one person to end this standoff. That was the reality. He eased his badge out of his pocket and flipped it open.

He moved forward, leaning around the end of the desk.

There was not even a twitch to indicate her surprise. No emotion across her face, no movement of her head, no quick glance in his direction. She flicked her index finger at him, just like she would strike an agate in a game of marbles.

An irritated flick at that, ordering him back.

Dave sat back on his heels. He would have been amused at her reaction had the situation been different. That total control of her emotions, her facial expression, her demeanor was a two-edged sword—it would keep his location safe, but it also meant it would be very hard to judge what she was thinking.

Her response told him a lot about her though. That silent flick of her finger had conveyed a definite order—one she expected to be obeyed without question. She knew how to get her point across. He felt sorry for anyone who would ever question her in a court of law. She must give defense attorneys fits.

He had to find some way to talk to her.

He opened the receptionist’s desk drawer a fraction at a time and peered inside. He found what he hoped for—paper. He silently slid out several sheets and took out his pen. He had to make the message simple and the letters large and dark enough so she could read them with a mere glance.

What did he say first?

4 SHOTS. 2 LEFT.

She adjusted her sunglasses.

Okay, message received.

The best way to take this gunman down was from behind, by surprise. But the gunman would need to be close so that Dave could put his hand around that bomb trigger.

MOVE HIM TO ME.

She read the message. Several moments passed. When the gunman paced away from her, she shook her head ever so slightly.

Why not?
His frustration was acute. There was no way for her to answer that.

RELEASE HOSTAGES.

She gave no response.

Dave grimaced. This was the equivalent of passing notes in high school, and he had done all of that he would ever like to do when he was a teen. Why had she not even tried to start a dialogue with the man?

TALK TO HIM!

Her fingers curled into a fist.

Dave backed off. Whatever she was considering, at the moment she didn’t want to take suggestions. Frustration and annoyance competed for dominance within him. She had better have a great plan in mind. His life was in her hands.

He had no choice but to settle back and wait.

Kate flexed her fingers, forced to bury all her emotions into that one gesture. She would give her next paycheck to be able to go outside for about ten minutes and pound something. She not only had a cop in her midst, she had a would-be hero who wanted to give her backseat advice!

Someone had a federal badge; he thought he understood how to deal with any crisis he faced. That suggestion she move the gunman toward him had been truly stupid: Before any negotiations had been tried, he wanted to force a tactical conclusion. There was one word that defined her job: patience. This cop didn’t have any, and he was going to get them all killed.

She had two people to keep calm: the gunman and the Fed. Right now it looked like the FBI agent was going to be the bigger problem. If he got it in his head to act, some innocent person was going to get killed, and she was the one sitting in the direct line of fire.

She never should have gotten up this morning.

Deal with it. Do the job.

Kate drew a quiet breath and turned her full attention to the man pacing away from her.

Dave shifted to ease a leg cramp as he listened to the conversation between the negotiator and the gunman. He knew her name now. Kate O’Malley. A nice Irish name for someone who didn’t sound Irish.

The conversation had begun slowly, but over the last hour it had become a running dialogue. So far the topics had touched on nothing of significance to the situation. It was all small talk, and she had that down to an art form. It was too well controlled for it to be an accident. Dave wondered how long she could talk about nothing before she drove herself crazy. He knew very few cops who could tolerate such small talk. They were too factual, cut to the bottom line, take-charge people.