Amber Morn (30 page)

Wilbur pictured the carnage behind him. He’d seen enough when he was over against the wall. Just as well he wasn’t looking at it now. The counter was a wreck. The top of his own stool was blown away. Only good thing about that was now Brad couldn’t sit on it. The punk now parked himself on the second stool. Only one left in one piece.

Mitch jitter-paced in the middle of the café. That boy had some big kinda humdinger drug running through his veins.
Won’t get it in jail, now, will ya?

“Here, Mitch.” Kent shoved a chair toward him. “Might as well take a load off.” The chair slid to a stop two feet from Mitch. He pulled it over and sat down. His gun pointed straight ahead — which put it at Carla Radling’s chest.

Oh yeah. These men were real brave.

Kent pushed to his feet, knocked his knuckles against his gun. “Everybody’s so
quiet
in here. What’s the matter, cat got your tongues?”

Wilbur’s mouth opened before he knew it. “It ain’t got mine.” His voice rattled with phlegm like some old man’s, which made him madder. He cleared his throat and jutted up his chin. Looked lowlife Kent Wicksell in the eye.

Kent snorted. “You always got somethin’ to say, don’tcha?”

Mitch cut a curious look at Wilbur.

Wilbur’s heart beat hard. Good for it. Triple bypass two years ago — and listen to the thing. He would have lived to be a hundred — if he’d had the chance.

“Yeah, I got somethin’ to say, you lily-livered thumbsucker.” Brad sniggered.

“You want somebody to die first, it ain’t gonna be Bailey. It’s gonna be me.”

SEVENTY-FIVE

Jack keyed his radio. “Edwards. We’re moving in.”

“Roger.”

Jack put on his mask.

As usual, Lightning was the first one ready to go. He jigged his right leg, left hand on his hip as if to say,
Come on, why you guys so slow?
Jack ignored him — as Lightning expected. Jack tugged his mask in place, hearing the sudden closed-in sound of his own breathing, and picked up his M4. As point — first man in — Swank got the added privilege of carrying a sixteen-pound ballistic shield. It was already in his hand.

Jack looked each man over. All ready.

They fell into line and set out. Within forty seconds they would reach the corner of Second and Main. Ten more seconds, and they’d stop short of the first Java Joint window. The fact that the HTs had so cleverly blacked out the glass only served to help the good guys. Using hand signals, they would run past those first two windows without being spotted — and breach the door within seconds.

Jack and his team had one mission upon entering the building: shoot to kill the three HTs. No time for mercy, no “go for the leg to wound” like in some movie. They’d pored over photos of the hostages and HTs, committing the faces to memory. The diagram from the released teenagers, delivered to their mobile command post within minutes of the command to go tactical, provided further critical information. The team had studied the arrangement of the Java Joint tables, the most likely placement of the three HTs. No guarantee the men would still be in those positions, but their guns and faces would give them away.

Five seconds of stun time was all CRT needed.

Heart pumping, the familiar bulk of gear weighting his body, Jack ran up Second Street with his men, gloved hands firm on his weapon.

SEVENTY-SIX

Wilbur glared at Kent.

“No, Wilbur, don’t!” Bailey cried. Other voices said, “
No!
” Paige swiveled in her chair, and shot him a wide-eyed gaze. Those pretty blue-green eyes. Wilbur had carried a soft spot for Paige since the day they met. She shook her head hard.

Well. Who’d-a known he had so many friends?

Kent surveyed Wilbur like he was a cootie under a rug. “Whatd’ya know. We got ourselves a hero.”

“His stool’s all shot up — he ain’t got nothin’ to live for,” Brad crowed.

“Ha-ha-ha-ha!” Mitch laughed like some machine gun.

Wilbur cranked his stiff torso around to look Brad in his ugly mug. “Tell you somethin’. I wouldn’t
want
to live if you was my son.”

Brad’s face contorted. He jerked his gun toward Wilbur. “You —”

“Shut up, Brad, ain’t worth it,” Kent said. Wilbur eased back to face him. Kent’s mouth dragged down at the corners as they sized each other up. His eyes slitted. “You ready to meet your Maker, old man?”

The phone jangled. Anger pinched Kent’s expression. He punched the button to connect and slammed the receiver on his table. “
There
. Now it ain’t gonna ring anymore.”

Paige kept shaking her head at Wilbur. Her cheeks looked pale and hollow.

Wilbur took a slow breath. “First of all, nobody calls me ‘old man’ but Preacher here.” He gestured toward his buddy Pastor Hank. “After his years of puttin’ up with my spotty attendance at church, he’s earned the right.”

Kent shrugged.

“Second, yeah, I’m ready. I done told God I’m sorry for everything I did wrong, and if He wants my soul today, He can have it. Don’t mean I want to go yet. But I’m the oldest one here, so I’m your man.”

Drat that Jake Tremaine — gone off on a trip this weekend. He was near as old as Wilbur. If he was in here, he coulda been the brave guy.

Except Jake was never brave a day in his life.

A sound seeped from Bailey. Wilbur looked over to see her eyes tear up. The sight nearly ripped his heart in two.

Kent sniffed. “You got a wife?”

Wilbur moved his jaw from side to side. “Yup. Best woman a man could ever find. Name’s Gertrude. Called Trudy.”

“Trudy, huh? What’s she gonna say when she hears what you done?”

Wilbur made a sound in his throat. “She’ll want to take the fryin’ pan to my skull — if I wasn’t already dead.”

Mitch laughed. “I’d like to see that.” He stood up, looked back at Kent. “I’m going to the bathroom.” He headed for the hall, toting his gun. The bathroom door closed.

Kent stretched out his legs. “Maybe you’ll live to see another day, old man. Long as your chief comes through.”

“I ain’t countin’ on it. He ain’t gonna let no killer outta jail.”

Brad spewed curses.

Hank shook his head in warning at Wilbur.

Kent’s eyes hooded like a snake’s. He ran his fingers along his gun barrel. “You’re not careful, you just might get yourself shot early.”

Paige was still turned around in her chair, watching him. “Wilbur,” she whispered, “don’t —”

“Shut up!” Kent shot her a black look. “I ain’t talkin’ to
you
.”

“Don’t you talk to her like that!” Wilbur half rose.

“No,
stop
!” Paige gripped her forearms until they turned white. Her beautiful face looked hard and cold as stone. She shot Wilbur a look of pain and defeat, then turned her eyes on Kent. He stared at her, heavy eyebrows raised.

“Don’t take him. Take
me
.”

Bailey gasped. Wilbur grabbed on to the table. “Paige, sit
down
!”

If Bailey’s tears had started the crack in Wilbur’s heart, Paige finished it off.
Frank.
These evil men took her man from her. Grief welled up in Wilbur’s chest so strong his legs went weak.

“Paige.” Leslie reached across their table toward her, but she drew away.

Paige stared at Kent with cold defiance. Then her face crimped, and she pushed to her feet. “I hate you.” Her mouth mushed and tears plopped out of her eyes. She took a step toward Kent. “I
hate
you, and I hope T.J.
rots
in jail.”

Rage pulled Kent’s back up straight as a stick. He yanked his gun off the table and swung the barrel toward her head.

SEVENTY-SEVEN

The police station line rang, and Roger jumped. He and the other men in the room had been intent on the monitor now that CRT was on their way. He could picture the men in their gear, running up Second — the same route he’d taken.

It rang again. Everyone else ignored it. Vince was still on his private phone until the bitter end. Wicksell had connected the line but wasn’t responding. Roger almost let the station line keep ringing, until his sense of duty pulled his arm toward the phone. His eyes stayed on the screen.

“Kanner Lake Police Station, Officer Waitman.” He spoke in low tones, not hiding his distraction. He backed up two steps from the transfixed group of men, peering at the monitor between the heads of Wiley and Justin.

“Hello.” A female voice. Sounded fairly young. Nervous. “I, um… I used to live in the building where Marya Whitbey lived. Died.”

Wiley shifted on his feet, blocking the monitor. Roger moved a little to the right.

“Yes?”

“I saw the thing on the news a little while ago. That reporter reading the statement from T.J. Wicksell?”

“Kent?” Vince said into his receiver. “Come on, talk to me.”

Nothing yet onscreen.
Under sixty seconds,
Roger thought. “Yes, I’m listening.”

The young woman started to cry. “I’m s-sorry.”

“It’s all right. Take your time.”

Judge Hadkin hit his palm with a fist. “They’re going to come around the corner any minute.”

The woman sniffed. “I’m just kind of scared. Maybe it’s nothing, but… With all those people being held in that coffee shop, I thought you should know. Maybe it would help somehow.”

“We’re happy to hear anything that might help.”

“And the way he
looked
when he said it.” Her voice trembled. “Totally cold and sort of smirking. Like he was proud of pulling off something big.”

The words triggered Roger’s instincts, pulling his attention away from the screen. “Who?”

Justin threw a curious glance over his shoulder at Roger.

“This friend of mine. We were watching the news. And when the reporter read about that T.J. guy seeing somebody running away down the hall? He said, ‘That was me.’”

Roger’s eyes cut to Lester Tranning’s back. The defense attorney stood with head tilted to one side, fingers drumming against his thigh.

“Did he tell you why he was there?”

“I didn’t ask, but it was like… I was supposed to understand what he was saying. He freaked me out. I just shrugged and acted like I didn’t get it.”

“There they are!” Larry pointed.

On the monitor a CRT member’s gas-masked head appeared as he checked around the corner building toward Java Joint.

“Kent?” Vince’s voice remained calm. No giveaway from him of what was about to happen.

The CRT man swiped a hand forward in an all clear.

Roger’s heart skipped a beat. One side of him whispered this phone call meant nothing. A wrong hunch on the woman’s part — too little, too late. Or merely a sick joke by her friend. “Tell me what you think he was saying.”

The CRT’s lead man stepped around the corner, followed by a second… a third. Within two seconds the team was moving in a swift line down Main.

SEVENTY-EIGHT

At the edge of Java Joint’s first window, Jack and his men halted. Jack’s hands tightened around his weapon.

In front, Dust-up checked over his shoulder. Swank nodded. And Harley.

The three of them would run first — Swank, toting his shield, to the right of the entrance, Dust-up to the left. Harley gripped his twelve-gauge shotgun fit with an XM26 — the lightweight modular accessory system attached beneath the M4’s barrel, capable of firing frangible bullets to breach the door. Harley would shoot out the lock at a forty-five degree angle. The fran-gible ammo could blow down a door in seconds, turning to dust upon striking its target, so that no fragments could fly back at the shooter. Once the door was breached, Harley’s weapon would transition to firing lethal bullets as he provided rear cover for the men going in.

Dust-up pointed to the door. He, Swank, and Harley bent low and ran into position. Jack and the other three men followed to stack behind Dust-up.

Jack’s mind shifted into overdrive, picturing in the final second the sequence of actions.

Harley aims his shotgun at the proper angle and fires.

Java Joint’s door locks blow apart.

Harley kicks in the door.

Dust-up rolls in the flash-bang followed by tear gas.

All seven men swivel their heads away, eyes closed.

The flash-bang explodes.

They storm inside, Swank in the lead
…

Harley lifted his weapon and aimed it at the door lock.
Now.

SEVENTY-NINE

Paige’s body felt stone-cold numb. Death didn’t matter. She welcomed it.

In the second that she saw Kent Wicksell reach for his gun, memories flashed through her mind. The day she arrived in Kanner Lake, lonely and terrified, fleeing her secret past. The first time — in this very café and with these very people — when she allowed herself to begin accepting the friendship they offered. The kindness on Bailey’s face that day, in S-Man’s voice. And Wilbur, most of all. He’d raised his shirt and proudly shown her the scar from his surgery. The others had moaned. But the look in Wilbur’s eyes said so much more. He wasn’t just showing off his battle wounds. He was saying,
See what I’ve been through? And I made it. Don’t hide your own scars, Paige. Friends help friends heal.