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The Negotiator
Kay David


For the Negotiator, talk is never cheap. In a moment, he has to make connections with the crazed and the desperate and the lost. He has to promise, cajole and placate. Success is a rush. Failure would cripple a lesser man. Above all, he must stay detached.Beck Winters is the Negotiator.Despite everything he's seen and done, Beck's still sane, but only because he never allows himself to get close to anyone. Then during a hostage incident, he hears a voice over the phone line, Jennifer Barclay's voice.Jennifer's in the wrong place at the wrong time. Her plan has always been to avoid excitement. But that was before she was taken hostage…before the incident ended badly…and before she met the Negotiator.The Guardians: This time the good guys wear black







Beck wanted to tell her everything was going to be all right

He’d be lying if he did. For the survivors, a hostage incident didn’t end when the SWAT team busted in.

In fact, Jennifer Barclay’s wide brown eyes told him shock had inched its way in, forcing into her eyes the kind of glazed disbelief he’d seen too many times. She’d been stronger than most, but that was over.

It was a mistake of monumental proportions and he knew it, but Beck decided he didn’t care. He reached for her.

She stepped back so quickly she almost fell. Grabbing the window sill, she spoke from between gritted teeth. “You lied to me! You promised no one would get hurt.”

Immediately, Beck’s mask slid into place. Her words weren’t what he’d expected, but different people reacted in different ways. Jennifer had been holding her emotions in check for hours and now she was going to erupt. At him.

She made no attempt to hide her emotions, and it wouldn’t have mattered if she had. He understood better than she did what she was feeling.

I feel guilty because I couldn’t stop this. I feel guilty because I survived.


Dear Reader,

Thirty-five years ago this August, I was eleven years old. Sitting in the front seat of my mother’s Cadillac, I waited impatiently for my eighteen-year-old sister Dana while she purchased gasoline. It was unbearably hot and I was already upset. In just a few weeks, Dana was moving away from home, going to Austin and the University of Texas. She was growing up and leaving me behind.

Then the radio blared with a sudden bulletin. That didn’t happen quite so often in those days as it does now, and even my young ears perked up as the announcer began to speak with anxious excitement. His news was not good.

A sniper was in the clock tower at the university, and he was shooting people. In broad daylight. With a high-powered rifle. I yelled at my sister to come quick and listen. We sat in the sweltering heat of that August day and held our breath. As the news went on, seemingly forever, her eyes met mine, a mixture of horror, disbelief and fright darkening their depths.

By the end of that afternoon, Charles Whitman had shot over forty people, killing more than a dozen strangers, plus his wife and mother. The rest of us were wounded, too, because he taught us a terrible lesson that day. No one is safe.

That incident is largely regarded as the genesis for SWAT teams as we know them. Back then, law enforcement officials weren’t prepared; they’d encountered few situations like this. Today, unfortunately, we’re all much better equipped, physically if not emotionally, to deal with such horrible circumstances. Daily, SWAT teams the world over handle hostage situations, suicide threats, snipers…anything and everything that is dangerous and deadly.

The Negotiator is the first in a trilogy of books I’ve written about just such a team. It will be followed in March and May by The Commander and The Listener. Set in the Florida panhandle, each of these stories will focus on a special member of the team. No one can fully understand the stress and danger these brave men and women face every day. I hope in some small way, however, that I’ve deepened understanding for everything they—and the people who love them—do to keep the rest of us safe.

Sincerely,

Kay David




The Negotiator

Kay David





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This book is dedicated to the incredibly brave police officers who struggle every day to make the world a safer place. Their jobs are too important and too dangerous for any writer to fully capture the essence of their sacrifices, but I hope these stories somehow express the appreciation I feel for their efforts.


A special acknowledgment to Laura and Paula. Your support and encouragement mean more than I can adequately express. Thank you both for having faith in my abilities and for giving me the opportunity to tell the stories my way.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE (#u7511aeff-2d54-5a68-ae24-d554ae80c375)

CHAPTER TWO (#u826cbf36-54dc-509f-9862-bd321f9ab4d3)

CHAPTER THREE (#u425d58ec-b1da-57f5-ad7d-678c98a136da)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u26cf8df2-2bd9-5012-ae77-399e6e3e7588)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE


LOOKING BACK on it, that night after everything was over, Jennifer Barclay realized with amazement that the morning had started out like any other ordinary day.

She’d had no sense of impending doom, no feeling things were about to go horribly wrong. Not a single clue. If she’d known—if she’d had even the slightest inkling—she would have stayed home in bed.

But she hadn’t suspected a thing.

She’d arrived at Westside Elementary at seven-thirty and by four that afternoon, as usual, she was totally exhausted. She loved her job as a fourth-grade teacher, but by May, even she needed a break. With only another five weeks of school, the kids had been wild, and none of them had wanted to concentrate. Their heads were at the coast, a mile down Highway 98, where the white Florida sand and crashing emerald waves were just begging to be enjoyed. Truth be told, Jennifer had had a hard time focusing herself…but for a totally different reason.

She’d had to change her schedule.

Jennifer always visited her mother on Wednesdays and Saturdays, but this afternoon she wouldn’t be able to make it to the nursing home. She’d had to arrange an after-school meeting for the children participating in the annual beach cleanup, and the disruption to her usual orderly agenda bothered her a lot. Her friends teased her, but for Jennifer, routine meant everything. During her childhood, no plans had ever been made, much less kept, and now nothing was more important to her than the steady, day-to-day patterns she lived by.

She hurried down the hallway toward her classroom and tried to convince herself to stop worrying. Half the time Nadine Barclay didn’t even know who she was, never mind if Jennifer was there or not. Alzheimer’s had robbed Jennifer’s mother of her family and her memories. Jennifer wanted to be a good daughter to her mother, though. She showed up twice a week whether Nadine knew it not.

Whether Jennifer wanted to or not.

Reaching her classroom, she walked inside and closed the door behind her. In between the last bell and the scheduled meeting, she had exactly five minutes to gulp the diet cola she’d retrieved from the teachers’ lounge, but she hadn’t even taken her first sip when the door opened. She closed her eyes for just a second, then turned to see who was standing in the doorway.

Ten-year-old Juan Canales smiled shyly at her.

“Juan!” Putting aside her plans to snatch a moment of peace, Jennifer grinned and held up the icy drink. “Come on in. I just went and got a Coke. If you don’t tell anyone, I’ll share it with you!”

He replaced his indecisive look with one of contained excitement. His family was very poor, and she doubted he and his siblings got enough to eat. Sodas would have been out of the question. The Canales family represented the flip side of Destin, the beautiful resort town Westside Elementary served. Juan’s mother cleaned rooms for one of the elegant beach hotels and his father clipped the bushes surrounding its luxurious pool. When Jennifer handed the little boy the filled paper cup, he gripped it with two hands and sipped slowly.

Jennifer studied Juan surreptitiously as he drank. He was one of her very best students, and even though she knew she wasn’t supposed to have favorites, Jennifer had to admit, he was one. Smart, clever and as sweet as he could be, Juan Canales made Jennifer ache to have children of her own. He was a perfect example of why she’d become a teacher, too. He seemed as starved for information as he was for everything else.

He finished his drink with noisy gusto and she poured the last of the Coke into his cup with a smile.

“I wasn’t all that thirsty,” she confided. “I’m glad you’re here to help me.”

His eyes rounded with pleasure. “Muchas gracias…uh…thank you very much, Miss Barclay. It really tastes good.”

Within a few minutes, a dozen other ten-year-olds had arrived, and Jennifer started passing out permission slips. She walked up and down the aisle between the desks and spoke. “I have to have these back by next week, signed, sealed and delivered. You can’t participate in the beach cleanup if I don’t have this on record, okay?” Returning to the front of the room, she stopped beside her desk and rested one hip on the corner. “We’re cleaning up at Blue Mountain. Does everyone know where that is?”

The question prompted chatter and Jennifer grinned, letting it wash over her. God, she loved her job! The students, their enthusiasm, their joy—they represented everything good in her life. Actually, they represented everything in her life. Even her free hours were devoted to the school and if she wasn’t visiting her mother, she was here.

Again, sometimes she took ribbing over this. “There’s more to living than just work,” her best friend Wanda would say. The black woman, who was Nadine’s nurse, constantly gave Jennifer a hard time. She was right, of course, but Jennifer had her life organized just as she liked it.

She held up her hands for silence, but before she could speak, she heard a noise in the hallway. Jennifer glanced curiously at the door and the small window in the upper half.

Howard French stood before the glass. The strained expression on the young man’s face brought Jennifer to her feet, bells of warning sounding inside her head. He’d been fired from the maintenance staff just last week. What on earth was he doing here now?

Starting toward the door, she thought of how she’d tried to help him. She’d complained after he’d been let go, but it’d been pointless, and she’d known that before she stepped inside Betty Whitmire’s office. The school’s local board member, Betty hated the simple man. More than once, Jennifer had cringed, hearing Betty’s stinging voice down the hall. “If you can’t do better than that, French, we’ll find someone who can. Mopping the floor isn’t brain surgery, you know!”

Jennifer was halfway to the door when Howard burst inside. He stumbled once, then straightened, giving his arm a short jerk. A screaming woman lurched in behind him, her hands on her head in a useless attempt to ease the grip Howard had on her hair. He turned and locked the door behind him, pulling the shade down with his other hand. For a moment, the scene made no sense, no sense at all, then the woman shrieked again, and things became distressingly clear. Disheveled and obviously distraught, Betty Whitmire had an ugly bruise on the side of her face and a rip in the sleeve of her dress. Jennifer’s heart stopped, then leapt inside her chest and began to pound, disbelief leaving her mouth dry.

She spoke without thinking. “Howard? My God—what’s going on? Wh-what are you doing with Mrs. Whitmire?”

He didn’t answer, and Betty’s labored breathing was raw and guttural in the shocked hush of the room. Behind Jennifer, one of the children started to sniffle. The sound seemed to bring Howard out of his apparent trance.

“You got to help me, Miss Jennifer,” he cried. “I’m in trouble.”

Not knowing what else to do, Jennifer took two steps toward the crazed man and his hostage.

“Don’t come no further!” he screamed. “Don’t do it!”

She wanted to argue, but nothing came out. She was paralyzed, and all she could do was stare as he swung up the barrel of a rifle and pointed it directly at her.

THE DUFFEL BAG was already strained at the seams when Beck Winters threw in one more book, then yanked the zipper closed. He was taking his first vacation in eight years and he wasn’t really sure what people did on vacation. He wanted to have plenty to read in case he got bored. He just couldn’t stand having time on his hands and nothing to do. His brain would sense the emptiness and before he could stop it, his thoughts would take him places he didn’t want to go.

Looking around one more time, he walked out of the bedroom. He was almost to the front door when the telephone rang. As if getting a reprieve, he dropped the bag and raced into the kitchen. “Beck Winters,” he answered eagerly.

“We’ve got a call.” Lena McKinney’s throaty voice filled the line. The SWAT team’s lieutenant, Lena kept the two cells of the group organized and motivated as they covered the Emerald Coast of Florida from just past Pensacola all the way down to Panama City Beach. The fifteen members were close as a family, albeit a dysfunctional one at times.

“I know you’re about to leave but Bradley’s got the flu and he’s whining like a baby. But he couldn’t work this one even if he felt okay. We’re at Westside Elementary. Get here as fast as you can. We’ve got a man gone barricade. There are hostages, too.”

Beck didn’t bother to ask any questions because Lena hung up before he could voice them, just as he’d known she would. If she was there and had called him, the team was already on-site with the perimeter secured and a sniper in place. Now they needed someone to talk. A negotiator. Kicking the duffel aside, Beck ran out the front door without wasting another minute. It’d been planned for a long time, but obviously his vacation would just have to wait.

Thank God…

He hadn’t a clue what to do with himself anyway. “HOWARD…” Jennifer made her voice as soft and nonthreatening as she could. “What’s going on? Why do you have a gun? Why are you hurting Mrs. Whitmire like that?”

He looked at the woman whose hair he still held. He almost seemed surprised to see her. Jerking his head up, he met Jennifer’s gaze, his eyes wide and confused, his hand trembling on the weapon. “She was ugly to me,” he said simply.

“That doesn’t mean you have to be the same way to her.” Jennifer held out her hands. “Put the rifle down, please, Howard. It’s scaring the children.”

The gun stayed level as he glanced behind her. Jennifer tried not to look down the barrel but she couldn’t help herself. She felt her eyes go inexorably to the bore, and for just a second, black dots swam before her. She was a child herself, ten years old, terrified and helpless. Her vision tunneled, bloody images hovering on the edges like the ghosts they were.

Howard’s voice yanked her back. “I—I don’t care,” he said. “N-nobody cares about me so why should I care about them?”

“That’s not true, Howard. I care about you and so does everyone—”

“He’s insane!” Betty Whitmire cried. Her voice was shrill and discordant, destroying Jennifer’s effort for calmness like a train whistle shattering the night’s silence. “He grabbed me in the hall and dragged me in here. He’s going to kill us all!”

Jennifer stared at her in disbelief, wondering—not for the first time—how on earth the woman had managed to land her position on the school board. Her people skills were nonexistent, and she was totally clueless when it came to the kids. Neither the parents nor teachers respected her, but Jennifer had to admit one thing: Betty was involved. There wasn’t a detail about any of the schools she didn’t know.

Hearing Betty speak, one of the children started crying in earnest, small terrified sobs escaping. Jennifer turned and tried to look reassuring, but when she saw them, she wanted to cry herself. They’d fled their desks and had instinctively huddled at the back of the room. Cherise was the one sobbing, and Juan was patting her awkwardly on the arm, whispering something to her. His best friend, Julian, hovered nearby, an uncertain expression on his face. Jennifer caught Juan’s eye and nodded slightly, hoping her approval would make its way across the room.

Looking at Howard once more, Jennifer spoke above the pounding of her heart. She made her words sound certain and composed, even though she was panicking inside. “Betty, please stay quiet. You’re not helping matters. Howard is not going to shoot you. Not you, not anyone. Isn’t that right, Howard? In fact, he’s going to turn you loose right now.”

He tightened his grip on Betty’s scalp, but then unexpectedly opened his fist. She cried out and fell down, unprepared for the sudden release. From the floor, she shot Jennifer a look of confusion mixed with gratitude, then she scrambled past her on all fours, heading for the children. Jennifer didn’t turn but she could hear the chairs scraping and the muffled voices as they moved to accommodate her.

Taking advantage of the confusion, Jennifer forced herself to move an inch nearer the man and the gun, a trickle of sweat forming along her shoulders then drawing a line down her back. She was lucky enough to have a phone in her room, but there was no way she could get to it and dial for help. Howard stood between her and the wall where it hung.

She truly was confident that Howard wouldn’t shoot. He just wasn’t that kind of man. When the class hamster had died, he’d cried more than any of the kids. If anything, he was too quiet and unassuming…and every time she looked at him, Jennifer saw her brother. Unlike Howard, Danny had been brilliant, but in their eyes lived the same haunted expression. It was filled with confusion, uncertainty and a complete lack of self-confidence. She’d been trying to help the janitor since the day she’d met him. A penance, she knew.

Even still, a thousand thoughts crowded Jennifer’s head. Could she grab the gun? Should she even try? What would happen if she didn’t? Her forward movement finally registered and Howard yanked the weapon up, tucking the stock under his arm.

“Don’t come no closer, Miss Jennifer. I mean it. I’m serious.”

Her mouth felt full of beach sand, but she held out her hands and spoke in an appeasing way. “Okay, okay, I’ll stay right here. But talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”

The air seemed to go out of his body and he slumped against her desk. The black, empty barrel of the rifle remained pointed at Jennifer’s chest. “I’m in trouble,” he said again. “Big, big trouble.”

Another child started to cry. “Let the kids go, Howard,” she whispered. “Let Mrs. Whitmire take them out and then you and I can talk. You can tell me what happened.”

He shook his head morosely. “I can’t let ’em go,” he said. “I can’t. It’s too late.”

“Too late for what?”

He shook his head and said nothing. The bore of the weapon dropped an inch.

“How can I help you if you won’t tell me what’s going on?” she asked. “Let them go. I’ll stay. I promise.”

“Won’t do no good. Not now. Everbody hates me and they all think I’m stupid. It’s too late.” He dipped his head and shook it again, the picture of total dejection. “They hate me. All of ’em.”

The gun slipped a second inch lower. Jennifer licked her lips, swallowed hard then took a quiet step forward. Another foot and she could touch the barrel, grab it, twist it away from him. She held her breath, trapping it inside her chest and holding it captive, afraid to even breathe. Slowly, so slowly the movement was practically imperceptible, she began to raise her right hand. Howard continued to talk.

“It’s all wrong,” he mumbled. “All wrong. I’m not that way. I’m a nice person. I really am.”

Without any warning, he looked up. Jennifer stopped instantly, her hand halfway up her side. He didn’t even seem to notice. “I’m a nice person,” he cried. “I’m nice!”

“I know that,” she said soothingly. “I know you are, Howard.” Her shoulders tightened, a reflexive action. “But nice people don’t point guns. So why don’t you hand it over and we’ll talk?” She took another step and reached out, her fingers brushing the cold, hard metal of the barrel.

She didn’t know what happened first—the ringing phone or Howard’s reaction—but an instant later, the opportunity was lost. Wild-eyed, he grabbed her and pulled her close.

“THEY’RE NOT ANSWERING.” Beck turned to Lena and shook his head, the phone pressed to his ear. They were inside the War Wagon, a modified Winnebago motor home stocked with the equipment and supplies that would be required during any situation. Parked down the block from the school, he could see the side of the building, an older structure with tilt-out windows facing a worn playground. They were less than a mile from some of the most expensive real estate in Florida, but no one would know it from looking at the school. There was a world of difference between its run-down appearance and the elegant high-rises that dotted the sparkling beaches.

“Are you sure the phone’s right there in her classroom? We never had phones inside the rooms when I was in school. Maybe I should drag out the bullhorn.”

Lena stared at him, her gray eyes impatient and stormy as usual. “Wake up, Beck. This is the computer age. A lot of the classrooms have their own phones now. Besides that, the guys are already in place in the hallway and they can hear it ringing. It’s the right phone.”

“Maybe he took ’em somewhere else.”

“They’re there. A teacher saw the suspect grab a member of the school board who happened to be in the hall and drag her inside a classroom. She’s pretty sure she saw a gun, but isn’t positive. The responding officers didn’t even try to go in. They just called us.”

“How many are inside?”

“We don’t know yet. Another teacher was having a meeting with some of the students. Fourth graders. Their teacher’s name is Jennifer Barclay.”

He gripped the phone tightly. He’d faced countless calls like this one since he’d joined the team, but Beck never did it without nervousness sucker punching him in the gut, especially if there were kids involved. He knew too much, he thought all at once. When he was less experienced and more reckless, he hadn’t understood what was on the line.

Now he understood all too well.

He forced himself to focus. “Any background info yet?”

“Sarah’s working on it, but she hasn’t found a lot yet.”

Beck nodded. The only nontactical member of the team, Sarah Greenberg served as the information officer. She labored just as hard and was just as sharp as any of the other cops. Her job was to gather any details they might need to resolve a situation. Next to time, information was key.

“Who’s in there?”

Lena spoke as she brought a pair of high-powered binoculars to her eyes. “Cal and Jason are inside at one end of the hallway, and the rest of the gang’s at the other end. We don’t have much recon yet—can’t see inside. The perp pulled the shade on the window in the door and apparently they’re nowhere near the only window in the classroom. I’ve got the floor plans to the school and the guys have those already. Randy’s across the street.”

“Where?”

She nodded toward the row of the small frame houses opposite the school. “There, the fifth one down with the green shutters, the two-story with the oleanders in front. The owners are gone. Neighbor had a key and she let us in the back door.” She handed Beck the glasses. “He’s in the upstairs corner window.”

Beck stared through the lenses and the head of Randy Tamirisa, the team’s countersniper, leapt into focus. He was lying motionless behind his weapon, the sight trained on the school. Beck couldn’t see his face, but he didn’t need to. Black hair and even blacker eyes, Randy was an enigma to Beck, the exact opposite of most snipers. They’d never gotten along; hotheaded and heavy-handed, Randy didn’t have the discipline Beck felt was necessary to be on the team, but Lena disagreed and she was the boss. Randy’s perfect shooting range score didn’t hurt, either.

“Where’s Chase?”

Beside him Lena sighed.

“I know, I know—” He spoke before she could answer him. “Chase is not a member of my cell, and Randy is good, and what’s my problem?” He lowered the glasses and looked at the woman beside him.

“And the answer is?” she said dryly.

“I don’t trust Randy,” he said bluntly, bringing the glasses back to his face. “He’s not a team player. He’s a hot dog.”

“C’mon, Beck. He’s been with us a year and he scores one hundred percent every time he’s on the range. He’s inexperienced but he’s done nothing wrong.”

“He’s done nothing period.”

“Give the guy a chance. You were young once, too, you know.”

“I was never that young.” Without waiting for her reply, he picked up the phone and hit the redial button. It began to ring in his ear as he looked down at his boss. “I don’t trust him,” he repeated darkly, “and neither should you.”

“LET ME ANSWER the phone, Howard, please.” His arm was so tightly pressed against her throat, Jennifer could hardly speak. “P-please. I-it could be important.”

“Who is it?” he asked illogically.

“I—I don’t know.” She put her fingers against his sleeve and gently tugged, trying for a little more air. He had on an orange jumpsuit, the uniform of the maintenance people. It smelled like diesel and fear. “Please, Howard.”

They stood together in the center of the room. When the phone stopped ringing, the thick tension seemed to hold the vibrations. A moment later, the sound started all over just as it had for the past hour.

“Let me answer it,” she whispered. “It might be a parent. Whoever it is won’t give up.”

“All right…but don’t tell ’em anything. Don’t tell ’em ’bout me.”

They stumbled together toward the telephone, which hung on the wall beside the door. Jennifer’s voice was breathless as she answered, and she prayed someone she knew was on the other end. Someone who could tell something was wrong with her even if she couldn’t get the words out. “H-hello?”

“This is Officer Beck Winters with the Emerald Coast SWAT team. Who am I speaking with, please?”

Jennifer’s heart knocked against her ribs in surprise, then she pulled herself together, fear, shock and relief combining inside her in a crazy mix. “Th-this is Jennifer Barclay.”

“Who is it?”

“Is everyone okay in there?”

Howard’s voice was harsh in her left ear, the policeman’s cool tones were in her right. She answered the policeman and ignored Howard. “W-we’re fine.”

Howard jerked his arm and Jennifer gasped automatically. “Who is it?” His voice dropped and menace filled it. “You tell me who that is. Right now!”

Jennifer turned slightly and looked into his face. Their eyes were inches apart, and she’d never noticed until this moment that one of his irises was lighter than the other. For some unexplained reason, those mismatched eyes sparked a moment of fear. She spoke quickly. “It’s the police. They want to know if everyone’s okay.”

His reaction was the last one she expected. He stiffened, dropped his arm from her neck and slowly began to back up, shaking his head. The rifle stayed pointed at her.

“Miss Barclay? Jennifer? Talk to me. I need to know what’s going on.”

Her mind drifting strangely, she imagined what the cop must look like—he had to be a big man, tall and barrel-chested, judging from the depth of his voice. Dark hair, she decided, and a pleasant face, rounded and caring.

“What does he want?” Howard asked again.

Apparently hearing the question, the cop spoke, still composed, still collected. He could have been asking to speak to his own brother. “I need to talk with Mr. French, please, Jennifer. Put him on the line.”

Jennifer held the phone out. “He wants to talk with you.”

Howard shook his head rapidly, his eyes huge. “No! No way. I’m not talking to them. Uh-uh.” He waved the rifle at her and she had to swallow a gasp. “You talk to ’em.”

She slowly brought the phone back to her ear. “He doesn’t want to speak with you.”

“Okay, okay. That’s all right for now, but eventually, I’ll need to talk to him. If he changes his mind and wants to speak to me, all you have to do is pick up the phone. It’s been reprogrammed to ring me automatically. Understand?”

His voice was so reassuring and confident Jennifer felt her shoulders ease just a tad. Here was help, she thought. She added a pair of warm brown eyes to the image of the officer she’d made in her mind. “Y-yes. I—I understand,” she answered.

“Good. Now answer my questions and don’t say anything else. We don’t want to upset him any more than he already is. How many people are there, including you and Howard French? Does he have a weapon? Is anyone hurt? Where are the kids?”

Jennifer glanced at the terrified students, then spoke. “Fifteen. Yes. No. At the back of the room.”

“All right.” She could hear him writing something down, a pen scratching on paper, then the sound stopped. “I’m going to ask you some more questions but first, no matter what happens, keep those kids where they are, okay? We have to know they’re in the same location and staying there. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Now, does he have a gun?”

“Yes.”

“A rifle or pistol?”

“The first.” She licked her suddenly dry lips. “A .22.”

A second passed, as if he were surprised by her recognition of the weapon. She found herself wishing she didn’t know.

“Is he calm?”

“For the moment.”

“Scared?”

“Yes.”

“Violent?”

“No, absolutely not.” She dropped her voice. “Howard isn’t like that at all. You don’t understand. Something must have happened to upset him. Something really bad—”

“Yes, ma’am, something bad happened. He’s come into your classroom, taken hostages and has a weapon.” He didn’t give her time to reply. “Our first priority is you and those children, though. We want everyone in there to come out alive and that’s our main goal. We want Mr. French to stay cool. We’ve got nothing but time, okay? But I’ve got to talk to him. That’s paramount. I can’t do my job if I can’t talk to him.”

“Well, I’m sure he’ll talk to you as soon as—”

The moment Jennifer spoke, Howard’s eyes flew open and his whole body stiffened. With a practiced movement, he brought the rifle to his shoulder and looked through the sight. “Put down the phone!” he screamed. “Put it down right now or I’ll shoot!”




CHAPTER TWO


“JENNIFER! Jennifer…Shit!”

Beck slammed down the phone and wiped his brow. The Winnebago’s air-conditioning was cranked all the way up but it didn’t seem to matter. The ever present humidity, a damp and sticky gift from the nearby Gulf of Mexico, still managed to creep through the sealed windows. He watched an errant breeze kick up a small cloud of dirt at the center of the deserted playground and cursed again. A month later and there wouldn’t have been any kids or teachers in that classroom. “I lost ’em.”

“Move him to the end of the classroom. I can set a shot if she gets him by the window.”

Randy Tamirisa’s voice sounded inside Beck’s head, coming through the tiny earpiece he wore. The whole team communicated with each other via a complicated system of earphones and wraparound microphones. As Randy spoke, Lena raised her hand to her ear and Beck knew she’d heard the sniper as well.

“It’s way too early—”

“Not yet, Randy—”

Lena and Beck spoke at the same time, but Lena immediately hushed him with a hand motion and answered the sniper herself.

“Randy, we’re not ready for that yet. Stay cool, all right?”

“There’re kids in that room.”

Beck bit his tongue.

“I know that,” Lena said patiently, “but I’ll let you know when it’s time to set the shot, not the other way around.”

Silence filled their earphones and Beck knew that was all the answer she’d get from her rebuke. He spoke anyway, pulling his microphone closer as if he and Randy were the only ones hearing the conversation. “I haven’t even talked to the suspect yet, Tamirisa. I need to establish communications before you get trigger-happy.”

Again, Randy didn’t answer.

“I need an acknowledgment, Officer.” Beck’s voice was icy.

Nothing but an absence of sound, then finally—“Ten-four, Officer.”

A pointed stick of pain stabbed Beck between his eyes. He resisted the urge to lift his hand and massage the bridge of his nose. The tension headaches were getting worse with each situation.

Showing no outward sign of discomfort, he picked up the phone with an unhurried movement and redialed the number.

Jennifer Barclay answered after the fifteenth ring. She spoke before Beck could. “He won’t talk to you, okay? The only reason he let me answer is because I promised I wouldn’t make him talk.”

She sounded remarkably collected, and Beck suspected that was for the children’s benefit. She didn’t want them more scared than they already were, but deep down she had to be terrified. Every hostage was. When someone had total control over your life…you were terrified.

“I understand,” Beck answered. “I can work with that. Like I told you before, we’ve got all the time in the world. There’s no hurry. We can wait him out, but ask him this…will he at least listen to me? He doesn’t have to answer, okay?”

“Let me see.”

Beck heard her put the question to Howard French, then a moment later, she spoke into the phone. “He said he’ll listen, but that’s all.”

“Great. Let me talk with him.”

Harsh breathing sounded in Beck’s ear. “Howard? I can call you Howard, can’t I?”

Silence.

“Listen, Howard, you doing okay in there? Everybody all right? You need anything?” This time, without waiting for an answer, he continued. “I want to help you, Howard. I’m here just for you, but you have to tell us what you want, buddy. We can help you out with almost anything. There’s one rule, though, okay?”

Beck’s fingers cramped on the phone and he consciously loosened them. “Are you with me?”

Silence.

“You can’t hurt any of those kids. That’s the rule. You can’t hurt them or the teacher or the school board lady, okay? Once you understand that, we can talk and I can help you out, but you have to tell me you understand me.”

A rustling sound came over the line, then Jennifer Barclay spoke again. “He said to tell you he won’t harm anyone. And I believe him. You won’t hurt him, will you?”

Beck looked out the window. It was still light, but the sky had begun to fade into purple, the shadows growing long and dark. He filled his voice with hearty reassurance. “He’ll be fine and so will you and the kids. No one’s going to get hurt. Our goal is to keep everyone alive, including Mr. French. I promise you that.”

“He said I could ask for some sodas. He’s thirsty….”

“I’d be happy to bring that in. Tell him to send out one of the kids and we’ll send in cans of anything he wants.”

He heard another muffled conversation. “Okay…okay…he says that’s fine.” She spoke once more, but this time in a whisper. “Look, this guy isn’t some kind of wild killer, okay? He’s a little simple, but he’s not going to shoot anyone. He loves the kids and he loved his job and he’s just upset because he got fired. Let me work on him a little bit, okay? I think I can talk to him.”

Beck closed his eyes. Everyone was an expert. “Miss Barclay—Jennifer—the man has a gun. He’s assaulted your boss and taken hostages. I understand that you know him and think of him as a friend, but he’s dangerous. You need to let us handle this.”

“He isn’t dangerous,” she insisted. “He can’t even read, for pity’s sake. I’ve been working with him for months. He’s confused and upset, all right? I’m telling you—”

He interrupted her gently. “Ma’am, we’ve got a situation here you’re unfamiliar with…but we aren’t. It’s our business so let us take care of it.”

“And just how are you going to accomplish that if he won’t talk to you?”

Beck waited a second, then spoke. “We don’t negotiate everything, Miss Barclay. Believe me, we have alternative ways of resolving issues.”

WHEN SHE WAS TEN, Jennifer’s father had taken all of them to Disney World for a rare family outing. She didn’t want to ride the monster roller coaster, but the cruel gibing she would have gotten from William Barclay had she refused would have been worse. She hadn’t known the word then, but sadistic came to mean a lot to her as an adult.

She’d looked askance at Danny, but he’d slid his eyes away from hers and stared off into the distance. He knew how frightened she was, but what choice did she have? What choice had any of them had? Afterward, when she’d jumped off the ride, her rubbery legs had given out and she’d collapsed. It was one of the few times she’d failed in front of her father, but it’d given her a taste of what Danny got every day. Her father had never let her forget the incident.

Her legs felt the same way now. She walked slowly to the rear of the classroom. Howard’s eyes were on her back, and she prayed she wouldn’t fall down. The children surrounded her as she reached them and kneeled down.

“I want you all to stay back here,” she said in a low, reassuring voice, “and don’t say anything. I know you’re scared, but so is Mr. French.” She glanced at Betty—no help there—then again forced her eyes to the children’s faces. “He lost his job last week and he doesn’t understand what’s going on.”

“Who called?”

She looked over at Juan and by the quiet way he spoke, she was sure he knew the answer to his question. “It was the police,” she said. “They’re outside and they’re going to help everybody, including Mr. French. But you guys have to do your part and don’t move from here. If you need something, Mrs. Whitmire will help you.”

Betty nodded but stayed silent.

Jennifer cleared her throat. “Mr. French has asked the police for some colas and they’re going to send some in to us….” She faltered here, not knowing what to do. Which one to send? Which ones to keep? Her gaze fell to Taylor and the answer became clear. The little girl was diabetic; she had to go. Jennifer reached for her. “But…someone has to go get the drinks, so Taylor here is going to help us out.”

She put her hand on the child’s shoulder and squeezed, leading her to the front of the room. She didn’t explain that the little girl wouldn’t be coming back. “You’ll be fine,” Jennifer whispered. “Don’t worry.” A moment later, Taylor was gone. Howard locked the door behind her, her tennis shoes slapping as she ran down the hallway.

Jennifer listened to the sound with Beck Winters’s words ringing in her mind. We have alternative ways of resolving issues. She’d seen enough movies to know what he meant. SWAT teams stormed buildings. People got shot. Hostages were killed. Then she remembered what else he’d said. No one’s going to get hurt…I promise you that.

She didn’t know him, of course, but she believed him. Unlike her father, he had the voice of a man who would tell the truth, no matter what.

Jennifer turned back to Howard. One way or the other, she had to try. “What’s wrong, Howard? Why are you doing this?”

He lifted his dejected gaze to hers. “I lost my job.”

“I know. Remember, I tried to help but—”

“They came and took my truck.” His expression was dead and lifeless. “How can I get another job without no truck? How can I pay my rent if I don’t have a job?” He started shaking his head before she could even speak. “I ain’t going back to that shelter place. There’s bad people living there.”

Jennifer didn’t want to be naive; this man had done just what the cop had said—he’d come into her classroom with a gun and taken hostages—but this was Howard, for God’s sake. He was a lost soul. Like Danny.

“You’re jumping to conclusions, Howard. Thinking the worst possible thing. Remember how we talked about that when you left here? I told you a positive attitude would help you get another position, remember?”

“And you lied.” His voice was blunt. “I went ever’where and I had a real positive attitude, but wouldn’t nobody hire me. Said they didn’t need nobody.” He took a ragged breath and stared out the window. The light drifting through was faint and dim. “That’s why I came up here,” he said. “I wanted to make Miz Whitmire give me my old job.”

Jennifer didn’t reply but he shook his head as if she had, his hand tightening on the gun at this side. “When she saw me in the hall, she acted all crazy and ever’thing, and started talking trash to me like she always does. Then she saw my gun, and she tried to run off. She crashed into the door and hit her head. That’s how she got the bump. I didn’t hit her.”

“Of course you didn’t,” she said soothingly.

“I—I reached out to help her up and something went off in my head, like an explosion or something. I grabbed her…then I didn’t know what to do with her. That’s when I saw I was by your door. I knowed you’d help me.”

“And I will, but Howard…what on earth were you doing here with a gun anyway?”

His eyes narrowed. “I was gonna scare ’er. That’s all. Just to make her gimme the job back.”

“Well, that plan didn’t work too well, did it?” She paused, but he didn’t answer. “Let the children go, Howard. Let them go and we’ll think up a new plan.”

He didn’t appear to even notice she’d said anything. He raised his hand to his bottom lip and pulled gently, then after a minute, he spoke. “That policeman fellow on the phone—he said he’d help me. Do you think he could make her give me my job again? And make ’em give me my truck, too?”

Her heart fell. He simply didn’t grasp the seriousness of what he’d done. “I don’t know, Howard.”

He stood up and gripped the rifle’s barrel with both hands. “You call ’em,” he said, nodding his head to the phone. “Tell ’em what I want. You can do it.”

BECK GRABBED THE PHONE even before the first ring ended. “Winters.”

“This is Jennifer. Did Taylor make it out okay?”

“She’s fine, just fine. Her mother is here and they’re together. I’ve got the drinks coming. They’ll leave it at the door.”

“Are the other parents there?”

Beck glanced down the street. Behind a cordon of officers, the media was gathering, along with the gawkers events like this somehow always attracted. Mixed in the throng, there were worried school officials and moms and dads going crazy. Lena had been down twice to reassure them.

“A few of them, yes,” he said. Switching gears, he spoke again. “Let me talk to Howard, Jennifer. That’s the only way this is going to get resolved.”

“He wants me to ask you something,” she said, by way of answering. “He wants to know if you can help him get his old job back.”

“Tell him anything’s possible,” Beck said instantly, “but not until I talk to him. I can’t help him if I can’t talk to him.”

Jennifer’s voice was soft as she relayed his message. A second later, she spoke again. “He wants his truck, too,” she said. “It was repossessed yesterday. He said if you bring his truck to him, he’ll talk to you.”

“I’ll get the truck and we’ll talk. But I want another child, too.”

She was starting to sound tense, and just around the edges, a little unraveled. Beck glanced at the countdown clock he’d started when he’d gotten there. They’d been at it almost two hours already. It seemed like he’d just arrived; it seemed like he’d been born there. Catching his eye, beside the clock, were the photos Sarah had obtained. With the phone propped against his shoulder, he shuffled through the mess of papers until he came to the one he wanted. The school picture of Jennifer Barclay.

Sometimes when he watched television, he placed bets with himself. He’d close his eyes, switch channels, and listen to whoever was on the screen. Nine times out of ten, he could guess what they looked like by the way they spoke. He would have lost the farm on this one, though. Jennifer Barclay did not match her voice at all. Her chestnut shoulder-length hair was straight and shiny and her gaze was dark and sad. Except for those eyes, she looked much younger than he would have expected. He’d imagined a woman in her forties, someone with a lot of experience behind her, a person who knew and understood others well.

Flipping through the profiles of the suspect and all the hostages Sarah had gotten along with the photos, Beck found the notes on Jennifer. She lived in Fort Walton Beach, in a small condo complex a few blocks off the beach. She drove a white 1995 Toyota Camry, had no outstanding tickets or warrants and she lived alone.

She’d sounded middle-aged, but Jennifer Barclay was young, pretty and single.

She came back on the line. “Okay, he’ll do it. As soon as he sees the truck, he’ll send another child out.”

The line went dead and Beck grabbed the microphone attached to the headset he wore. “Lena? Did you get all that? You got a line on the truck?”

“We’re trying. Sarah knew he’d had a vehicle repossessed so she’s contacting the dealership now, but they’re closed. It’s going to take a while.”

Beck nodded, but before he could reply, his ear phone crackled to life.

“Get him to the window to see the damned truck. I want to set my shot.”

Beck spoke instantly. “That’s premature—”

Lena’s voice interrupted. “Beck, we don’t have another option. We can’t do a chemical assault here, not with those kids, and this guy isn’t going to surrender. He’s not the type and you know it. We need to be prepared just in case.” She spoke to someone nearby, then came back over the headset. “While you were talking to the teacher, I told Randy you’d move the guy.”

“This is ridiculous.” Beck felt his jaw clench, the pain in his head intensifying, his voice going cold. “What are you doing? Trying to make the ten o’clock news?”

When Lena answered, her tone was as chilly as Beck’s. “I don’t make command decisions based on the media. If you don’t know that by now, you should. You’re out of line.”

Beck closed his eyes and shook his head. Dammit, what in the hell was he thinking? What in the hell was he doing? His head throbbed, and suddenly he felt like the situation was sand slipping through his fingers. Lena had seen what he hadn’t in forcing him into taking that vacation. He did need some time off.

But not yet.

“You’re right. That was out of line, and I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “But I still think Jennifer’s got a point. Howard French doesn’t have a sheet and I can get him out of there. Randy should be our last resort, and you know that.”

“What I know is he didn’t have a record before, but not now. Cal called in while you were talking. There’s been a new development. It’s not good.”

“What is it?”

“One of the guys found someone in the maintenance shack, out behind the school. We’re not sure yet, but it looks like it might be French’s supervisor.” She took a breath, then spoke. “He’s been shot with a .22 rifle.”




CHAPTER THREE


BECK’S GUT TIGHTENED. “Damn! Is he dead?”

“He’s hanging on but barely.”

“Has anyone talked to him?”

“No. He was completely out of it and fading fast. The medics were struggling just to get him to Central before it was too late.”

His gaze went to the school, his mind going with it to the woman and children inside. Did Jennifer Barclay know? He answered his own question. Obviously not. She wouldn’t be defending Howard French if she knew he’d shot his boss. Would she?

“Get him to the window.” Randy spoke bluntly. “It’s at the front, away from the kids. If he’s looking for the truck, I can get a clean shot.”

“And that’s it? The decision’s made?”

Lena answered. “We’re setting the shot, Beck, that’s all. I haven’t given Randy the green light.”

“All right.” Beck’s words were clipped. “But I think this is premature. I think you’re making a mistake, both of you.”

“I have to think of the team, Beck. The guys are getting tired and that means they’re going to get sloppy and let their guard down. I can’t risk a breakout, either. If he starts shooting…”

“I know the drill, Lena, but those kids in there are nine and ten years old. Do you want them living with the sight of a man’s brains getting blown out for the rest of their lives?”

“I want them to live, Beck. That’s my only concern and it ought to be yours, too.”

“But—”

“If you have a problem with this, we’ll discuss it later.” She interrupted him, ending the argument sharply. “Right now, act like a team member and do your job. Get the man to the window. When the time comes, I’ll decide if we shoot or not.”

THE CHILDREN were getting restless.

Jennifer had done her best to keep them corralled—without much help from Betty—but they couldn’t be expected to huddle in one corner forever. Howard had let them use the bathroom attached to the classroom, but other than that, they hadn’t really moved. She glanced down at her watch and was shocked to see the time. It was past eight!

The drinks had helped. A dozen cans had been left outside the classroom. Howard had made Juan retrieve them, then report back to him. Were there police in the hallway? No? Was he sure?

It was hot, too, and that didn’t help. The air-conditioning had shut down hours ago. It was on an automatic timer, but Jennifer suspected it’d been purposely shut down early. She pushed a sticky strand of hair off her forehead and glanced toward Howard. He was standing by the door. Obviously growing weary, his expression was one of pure dejection, his shoulders slumped, his face shadowed. The gun had never left his side, and she’d given up the idea of grabbing it. It was just too risky.

They’d talked on and off, but he’d refused to say much more than “It’s too late.” When she’d pressed him, he’d simply shaken his head, and she’d finally moved to the rear of the room to be near the children. Trying to reassure them, she’d sat down and waited for the phone to ring again.

When it did, though, what would happen? They weren’t really going to give Howard his truck…or get his job back for him. He wasn’t going to just drive away from the school and off into the sunset. Surely, he understood that.

The phone sounded shrilly, startling her even though she’d expected it. Jennifer looked at Howard and he gave her an almost perceptible nod. She jumped up and ran to the front of the room to grab the receiver. “Hello?”

He answered as he did each time he’d called. “Everyone okay in there?”

Jennifer closed her eyes briefly and leaned against the wall. “We’re all right,” she said. “But getting tired.”

“I understand. It’s a tough situation, but you’re doing a terrific job keeping everyone together.” His voice turned lighter. “How ’bout coming to work for us when this is over? I could get you a negotiator’s job. Sound good?”

Jennifer shuddered. “No, thank you. That’s way more excitement than I want. Ever.”

“It’s not all that thrilling. Mainly I sit here, then I talk but no one really listens, and when it’s finally settled, I do paperwork. The next day, we do it all over again.”

“Sounds like my job.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I guess it does at that. You like being a teacher?”

“I love it,” she answered, surprised by his question. It seemed like a strange time to be talking like this, but it made sense in a weird kind of way. He was trying to keep her relaxed. “The kids are fantastic and I feel as if I’m doing something worthwhile. Most days, that is.”

“You are doing something worthwhile—all the time—but especially right now. You’re holding this thing together, Jennifer, and you really are doing a great job.”

For just a second, she almost felt she was somewhere else, in a different time and place. The warmth of his praise eased her fear. “Thanks.”

His raspy voice went serious. “So now…you have to help me some more. The truck’s finally on the way. Put Howard on the phone so I can tell him.”

“I’ll try.”

Jennifer turned and looked in Howard’s direction. He was staring into the distance, his mind obviously not in the present. “Howard?” she asked gently. “Howard? Please come talk to the officer.”

He didn’t respond at all. She rested the phone’s receiver on a shelf and walked to where he stood. Her stomach in knots, she ignored her fright and spoke firmly, as if talking to one of the children. “Howard, you need to come talk to Officer Winters. He’s on the phone and he has something to tell you.”

“You tell me.”

“No. You need to hear this yourself.”

To her total surprise, he nodded once, then lumbered across the room and picked up the phone. She hurried behind him. He held the receiver to his ear but didn’t say anything.

A moment later, he turned and handed her the phone.

Jennifer spoke. “Yes?”

“I told him the truck’s on the way. In the meantime, you’re going to have to do something else, too.”

“What?”

Instead of answering, he waited a moment, the seconds ticking by almost audibly. Once again, Jennifer found herself imaging the man behind the voice. His words carried the same timbre of authority her father’s always had—academies taught you how to do that, she suspected, military or police, it made no difference—but absent from Beck Winters’s tones was the overlay of cruelty her father’s voice had always possessed. Winters had children of his own, she decided, and was a good father. Patient. Kind. Loving. Emotions and actions that had been empty words to her father. With a start, she realized she was connecting with Beck Winters, this stranger, on a level she seldom did with men.

“You have to get him to stand by the window. I won’t bring the truck down the street until that point.”

She felt a flicker of unease. “Why?”

“Because that’s how we do things. These are negotiations, and he gets nothing for free. When he sees the truck, then he has to talk to me and release another child. You’ve got to get him to do this.”

Her mouth went dry. “I understand but…”

Beck’s voice dropped, and she felt as if he were standing right beside her, his warm eyes on hers. “Jennifer…how else can he see the truck? This is the only way.”

Her chest eased a tad and she took a deep breath. He was right, of course.

“It’s going to be fine, Jennifer. He trusts you, and I know you can get him to that window. Once he’s there, then…then we’ll start to talk and I can influence him.” He fell silent. “I have to be able to talk directly to this guy, Jennifer. The most dangerous hostage takers are the ones who won’t talk to me. If I can’t get some kind of conversation going with him, this is going to end badly. I can almost guarantee that, especially with Howard’s history.”

“His history? What do you mean? He’s never done anything like this before.”

The officer answered quickly. “He’s male, he’s urban, he has below average intelligence. These are people who turn to violence as an answer. It’s not the boss at the steel plant, it’s not the manager at the oil company. It’s the worker, Jennifer. The poor slob at the bottom who has no control over his life.” He paused. “He has nothing to lose. He thinks it’s hopeless anyway.”

“I understand how you could read it that way, but you don’t know him the way I do—”

“And you don’t know everything I know.” He bit off the words, as if he’d said more than he’d planned. “Just help me out, okay? Are the kids still at the back of the room?”

“Yes.”

“It’s imperative you keep them back there. I’ll bring the truck down the street as soon as I see Howard at the window. You just get him over there.”

“Okay.”

She started to hang up, but before she could put the receiver down, she heard his voice say her name. She brought the phone back to her ear. “Yes?”

Static rippled over the line, faint and barely discernable. The noise made her wonder if they were being recorded. “Be careful, Jennifer. Just…be careful.”

She started to answer, then realized he was gone. Hanging up the phone, she looked over at Howard and said a silent prayer.

BECK WIPED HIS FACE and looked over at Lena. “Is the truck here yet?”

“There’s a traffic tie-up on Highway 98. One Q-Tip rammed another. Surprise, surprise. The road’s blocked in both directions, but Dispatch said they’d have it moving in just a few minutes. It should get here anytime.”

Beck shook his head. Everyone on the force called the older local residents “Q-Tips” because they all had white hair and wore tennis shoes to match. Florida had its share of elderly drivers, but Beck wasn’t sure they were any worse than the tourists who drank too much then got on the road. At least the older people drove slowly.

Lena ducked her head toward the building. “How are they doing? The teacher holding up?”

“She’s the only reason there hasn’t been gunfire yet. She’s keeping French appeased and the kids quiet.”

He stared out the window of the motor home into the dusk. They’d cut the electricity to the school and the building had fallen into darkness as soon as the summer sun had dipped behind them, rimming the school in gold. Occasionally he saw the beam of a flashlight near the rear of the room. Beck wasn’t surprised to see the teacher was prepared. Classrooms were supposed to have emergency supplies in case of hurricanes, but people forgot, and batteries went bad. Not in Miss Barclay’s class, though. He’d bet money she had the correct number of bandages and aspirin as well.

Lena sank into a chair by his side, her fingers going to the shuffle of papers beside the phone. She picked out Jennifer’s photo, studying it intently. Without looking at him, she spoke. “She’s pretty.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

Lena’s head came up. “Right.”

He flicked his eyes toward the picture, but immediately returned his gaze to the school. He didn’t need the fuzzy image anymore—Jennifer’s face was planted firmly in his brain. Too firmly, in fact. It’d be a while before he was able to get those brown eyes out of his mind, no matter how this all ended. They sat without talking for a few minutes, then Lena spoke once more. “Did you tell her to get him to the window?”

“Yeah.”

“What’d she say?”

He turned and looked at her. “I didn’t explain why—”

“Of course not.”

He turned back. “She’ll do it.”

Lena leaned forward and put her hand on his arm. “Beck, listen. I know you don’t agree, but we can’t let this go on forever—”

Lena had taken off her headset and had been using a radio. It came to life with garbled speech. She pushed the button on the side and barked, “What is it?”

“The truck’s here.” Lincoln Hood, one of the entry men, spoke, the noise of the crowd behind him filtering into the radio’s microphone along with his voice. “I’m switching places with the driver right now, then I’ll bring it down the street when you’re ready.”

“Go slow, Linc,” Tamirisa said immediately. “Less than five miles an hour, okay?”

“No problem.”

Beck resisted looking at Lena. She stood and paced the tiny aisle. “Listen, Randy—French is going to be facing the window, looking down the street. Are you sure it’s going to be a cold shot? If it isn’t, I don’t want you taking it. Not with those kids in there.”

When he’d been younger and gung ho, the euphemisms had meant something to Beck. They’d made him feel as if he were part of a secret club that ordinary cops didn’t belong to; now the words made him feel tired and old. Why didn’t she just say what she meant?

Can you kill the guy with one shot?

“It’ll be so cold, you’ll freeze.” Randy’s cocky answer spilled into the room with arrogance. “Hear that, Officer Winters?”

“That’s enough. I’m not giving you the green light yet,” she snapped. “The man’s promised Beck he’ll talk so let’s see how it goes down first.” She turned and motioned for Beck to pick up the phone. “Beck’s calling now to get him in place. On my word, Linc, you go. If necessary, if necessary, I’ll give you the code, Randy, otherwise, standard ops are in effect. Heads up, everyone. This is it.”

JENNIFER JUMPED when the phone rang. She grabbed the receiver. “Yes?”

“Everyone okay?”

“We’re fine.”

“Then it’s time. We’ve got the truck and we’re bringing it down the street. You need to get Howard to the window.”

Although it was just as calm and reassuring as always, his voice sounded different. The tension was getting to him, too, Jennifer thought. How could he do this day after day? What kind of man would want this crazy life?

“All right,” she said. “We’re going right now—”

“Not you!” Beck’s voice went up, then he spoke again, in a more reasonable tone. “That’s not necessary. Use this time to calm the children. Go back to where they are and wait there.”

The suggestion seemed perfectly reasonable.

“Okay,” she answered.

“Let me talk to him first.”

Holding the receiver at her side, she turned to Howard. He was standing right beside her, the rifle cradled in his arms, crossed before his chest. “They want you at the window, Howard. Your truck is here. But Officer Winters needs to talk to you first.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Not going,” he mumbled. “Won’t talk.”

“Howard…” She put a warning in her voice, and the students at the back of the room lifted their heads as one. They knew that tone. “You asked for your truck,” she said. “And it’s here now. You have to be reasonable about this, or Officer Winters isn’t going to help you.” She held the receiver out to him. “Talk to him. He wants to help you.”

“No.”

She found patience from somewhere deep inside her. “Why not?”

“Don’t want to.”

“All right, then. Forget talking to him. Just go to the window and look out. Right now. No more messing around.”

He glanced at her, but there was no other warning.

He simply grabbed her and she screamed without thinking. From the back of the room, one of the children cried out. Jennifer dropped the phone. Then Howard dragged her roughly toward the window.

“OH, SHIT!”

“Jennifer!”

“What’s going on?” Beck spoke again, overriding Randy’s curse. “Randy? Can you see them?”

“He’s heading to the window, but…I’m not sure…wait, wait a minute…he’s coming to the window. Goddammit—”

Beck leapt from his desk and peered out into the night. It was completely dark now and the outline of the window was nothing more than a square of blackness. He fumbled for the night vision binoculars that had been sitting on the desk but Lena had already grabbed them and brought them to her eyes. “Tamirisa? What’s going on? Can you see?”

“He’s coming to the window and he’s got the teacher with him. Oh, man…I don’t frigging believe this!”

“What? What is it?”

“A kid…a little boy…he’s just run up to both of them—” His voice turned deep. “Don’t do it, you son of a bitch, don’t do it—” Randy’s voice broke off abruptly.

Beck yanked the binoculars out of Lena’s hands but before he could even focus, the horrible sound of glass shattering split the humid night air. A second later, a scream followed, the kind of scream he knew would be replayed in his dreams for months to come. When it stopped, Beck heard nothing beyond the beating of his heart.

Another second passed, then that stopped, too.




CHAPTER FOUR


JENNIFER HAD ALWAYS heard time slowed in a moment of crisis.

Not true.

One minute she was standing beside the window, Howard’s hand painfully gripping her arm, and the next instant Juan’s sturdy ten-year-old frame was flying through the air to knock her unexpectedly to the ground. In less time than could be counted, the two of them pitched to the linoleum, a shower of breaking glass somehow accompanying their fall. Jennifer could think of only one thing: the child in her arms. She had to protect him.

The impact between the hard floor and her shoulder sent pain streaking up her arm then down her spine, but she barely felt it. She forced it away so she could deal with everything else. Raining glass, screaming children, a strange pop she couldn’t identify at all.

Jennifer lifted her head and stared at Howard. He was standing, exactly where they’d been a second before, but something wasn’t right. A small red circle had appeared at the base of his throat. Above this spot, their gazes collided violently then he began to sway. A second later, his mouth became a silent O of surprised betrayal. The rest of his face simply collapsed—a balloon with the air suddenly released. He fell to the floor beside them, and as he landed with a heavy, dull thud, the back of his head disappeared in an exploding red mist.

Jennifer screamed and covered Juan’s face with both her hands, but the movement was useless. The child had seen it just as she had—the moment of Howard’s death.

She told herself to move, to get up, to do something but the odor of cordite hung in the air, sharp and biting, pinning her down. She wanted to gag, but she couldn’t do that, either. She couldn’t do anything. He’d promised, was all she could think. He’d promised no one would be hurt….

Juan’s urgent voice, crying out in Spanish from somewhere beneath her, finally jarred her. “Señorita Barclay? ¿Qué pasa? ¿Cómo está usted? Are you okay?”

She rolled off the child and he jumped up, his shocked gaze going instantly to Howard. He covered his mouth with his hand and pointed toward the man, still clutching his rifle. “¡M-madre de Dios!”

Jennifer scrambled to her feet. Maybe he wasn’t really dead. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe she could do something…. Before she could think of what, the door to the classroom opened with a loud bang. Adrenaline surged and she grabbed Juan again. Shoving him behind her red-flecked skirt, she faced the door.

Men spilled into the room. They were dressed in black, a barrage of noise and brutal action coming with them as they surged inside. They divided by some prearranged, silent signal; one group fanned across the classroom, obviously searching for more danger. Their guns held out before them, they quickly covered every corner and empty space. A second, smaller group raced toward Jennifer and Juan while a third team rushed to the back where the children were screaming.

“Are you all right? You weren’t hit, were you? The kids okay?”

A black-garbed figure paused at Jennifer’s feet, putting a hand on Howard’s neck. Only when she spoke, quickly but with composure, did Jennifer realize the officer was a woman. “W-we’re fine,” Jennifer answered.

Standing up, the woman nodded then pulled Juan from behind Jennifer and pushed him toward a man waiting behind her. Holding Howard’s rifle, he quickly turned away from the body to lead Juan to the back of the room.

“I-is he?”

Though lean and muscular, the woman in black had soft gray eyes and a sweet face. She looked out of place, especially when she said calmly, “He’s dead.”

A thick fog descended over Jennifer, blanketing all her emotions but two. Disbelief and betrayal. “He’s dead,” she repeated numbly.

The woman nodded again, then barked an order to the men surrounding them. To Jennifer, what she said didn’t even register but it was obviously an all-clear sign. The words passed through the group like a wave, and in its wake, another figure pushed to the front.

In a daze, Jennifer stared as the man approached. Everything was over—the damage had been done—why now, she thought almost trancelike. Why did time stop now?

He was huge, well over six feet, his chest a blur of black as he moved, his legs so long they covered the distance between the door and the window in three strides. Adults always looked bigger in the classroom where everything was reduced in scale, but this man absolutely towered over the child-size desks and bookcases. Reaching Jennifer’s side, he ripped off a black helmet to reveal thick blond hair. It was plastered to his scalp, but the pale strands gleamed, and she realized—illogically at that moment—that the lights were back on. He was intimidating and all at once, she understood the true definition of authority. It was none of this, however, that made her feel the clock had stopped.

His eyes did that.

In the fluorescent glare overhead, his cold blue stare leapt out at her. She might have thought the color unnatural, it was so disturbing, but she knew immediately it wasn’t. No one in their right mind would actually buy contacts that shade. The color was too unnerving, too strange.

His eerie gaze swept over her bloody clothing then came to a stop on her face. She forced herself into stillness and looked directly at him. When he spoke her name, she recognized his voice.

She knew without asking that this was Beck Winters.

SHE WAS COVERED in blood and bits and pieces of something else Beck noted but didn’t need to analyze. For one inane moment, he wanted to pull her into his arms and tell her everything was going to be all right, but he’d be lying if he did. It wouldn’t be all right. Not for a very long time—if ever. Not for her, not for the kids, certainly not for Howard French. For the survivors, a hostage incident didn’t end when the team busted in.

In fact, Jennifer Barclay’s wide brown eyes told him shock had inched its way in, leeching the color from her face and forcing into her eyes the kind of glazed disbelief he’d seen too many times. She’d been stronger than most, but that was over.

It was a mistake of monumental proportions and he knew it, but Beck decided he didn’t care. He reached out for her.

She stepped back so quickly she almost slipped and fell. Grabbing the windowsill behind her, her eyes blazing, she spoke from between gritted teeth. “You bastard!”

Immediately Beck’s mask fell into place. Her words weren’t what he’d expected, but different people reacted in different ways. He’d once rescued a woman who’d slapped him as he’d carried her out under fire. Jennifer Barclay’s anger was a coping technique. She’d been holding her emotions in check for hours and now she was going to erupt.

At him.

Beck took a step away from her and held up his hands, palms out. “Calm down, Miss Barclay, please…. It’s over now. You’re safe—”

She blinked, and he saw some measure of relief in her expression, something that seemed to loosen for a moment, but she put the response behind her so fast, he almost missed it. Her voice was low but scathing as she lashed out at him. “You lied to me! You promised—promised—no one would be hurt.” She flicked her eyes downward to where Howard lay. “He’s dead!

“You don’t understand—”

“You’re damned right I don’t understand!” She pushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. They were red and rimmed with exhaustion, her face contorted with the obvious anguish she was feeling. “He wouldn’t have killed anyone—”

“He raised his gun at that child.”

“He wasn’t going to shoot! He was trying to stop Juan from grabbing the gun—”

“That’s not how it looked to us.”

“But he wouldn’t have shot! He wouldn’t have done that.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I know him, that’s how!” Her gaze filled with angry tears. “My God, I told him to go that window and then you shot him! What happened? I can’t believe this….”

Beck watched the emotions cross her face. She made no attempt to hide them, but it wouldn’t have mattered if she had. He understood better than she did what she was feeling.

I feel guilty because I couldn’t stop this.

I feel guilty because I survived.

I feel guilty because I helped.

Before he could say more, Lena broke in. Introducing herself formally, she put her hand on Jennifer’s arm and spoke gently. “Miss Barclay, why don’t you come with me now? We’ll get you cleaned up, then we need to talk to you. Everyone in the room will have to speak to an officer and give their version of what happened.”

Jennifer turned her back to Beck and answered Lena quickly, her voice filled with dismay. “Of course…but not the kids—”

She wanted to protect them above all, Beck realized. That was the only thing that mattered to her.

“I’m afraid they’ll have to. It’s standard, but it’s necessary, too. Especially after a shooting.”

“My God, I don’t believe this…. My students…”

“I know, I know.” Lena’s attitude was sympathetic and calm. “I’ve already spoken to Mrs. Whitmire. Our information officer called Dr. Church, the school counselor, and she arrived some time ago. She’s with the kids right now, and so is our department psychologist, Dr. Worley. You should talk to the doctors, too. Not just tonight but in the coming days as well.”

Jennifer Barclay’s full lips were drawn in a narrow line across the bottom of her face. Beck could see traces of pale-pink lipstick she’d put on earlier that day. When her life had been normal. “I don’t need to do that.”

“You will.”

Her gaze shot to Beck as he spoke. Her look was controlled and measured. “What makes you think I’ll need help?”

“No one goes through something like this without needing to talk about it later. If you don’t, you’ll pay for it in ways you can’t even imagine.”

“I don’t have to imagine anything, Mr. Winters.” She held out her hands, palms forward, mimicking his earlier action. The smooth skin was sticky with blood and her fingers trembled even as she spoke. “Thanks to you, I’ve gone through the real thing. I think I’ll be able to handle the instant replays on my own.”

IT WAS AFTER midnight when they finished. The questions had been endless, and Jennifer had described the situation so many times, she almost felt as if she were telling a story. A story that had happened to someone else, not her. Dr. Church had counseled every one of children and had tried to talk to Jennifer, too. She’d nodded and told the woman she’d call, but she wouldn’t. There’d been a police psychologist, too. Another “professional.”

Pointless. Simply pointless.

Jennifer would go home, take a hot bath and get into bed. That’s what would help her, not talking with some half-baked psychologist. Maybe she’d call Wanda, too. If the other woman had heard what happened—and who wouldn’t?—she’d be worried sick.

The press had been satisfied with Betty Whitmire’s histrionics and thankfully had left thirty minutes before. Jennifer trudged through the now dark and empty parking lot to her car. She was glad she didn’t have to face the cameras and microphones because she didn’t think she could. Nothing seemed real to her. How could it? One man she’d known was dead and another was wounded. A second wash of shock came over as she recalled Lieutenant McKinney’s words during the debriefing.

“Mr. French said nothing to you about shooting Robert Dalmart? Nothing at all?”

“No. I—I had no idea….”

It must have been an accident. Howard wouldn’t have shot down Robert like some kind of animal. The police lieutenant had told Jennifer that Robert would probably survive, but he’d been injured badly.

The rush of a passing truck caught her attention and Jennifer glanced up in time to catch the white oval of the driver’s face. Where was he going? How could he pass by so casually? Didn’t he know lives had just been ruined?

She knew she was being ridiculous, but she didn’t care. Howard French had been shot before her very eyes. A man who had reminded her of her brother. A man who had trusted her. A man she only wanted to help, but had led to his death instead.

In the back of her mind, a silent voice countered her words. He’d promised no one would be hurt.

She reached her car and pulled out her keys but they wouldn’t go into the lock. Something was wrong. She struggled with them for a moment, then her hand began to shake and she dropped the ring, somewhere underneath the car door. It was the final straw. She laid her head against the roof of the vehicle and began to cry.

“Can I help?”

Jennifer turned at once. The body armor was gone, but its absence didn’t diminish Beck Winters’s size. In fact, he looked even taller and more commanding, looming over her car and staring down at her with his strange, cold eyes. A ripple of anger went through her, but she was too exhausted to even acknowledge it.

“I—I dropped my keys,” she said stupidly.

He knelt down, patted the ground beside her feet, then stood. She held out her hand, but he reached past her and slipped the key in. The sound of the door unlocking was unnaturally loud.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome.”

There was nothing else to say, but neither of them moved. After a moment, he broke the silence. “Look, I know it’s hard to understand what happened back there and I sympathize because this man was your friend, but the team has to save lives—first and foremost. Surely you understand that.”

“I told Lieutenant McKinney what I understood,” she said. “I don’t think you and I need to go over it again.”

“Of course,” he said stiffly. “I just thought…”

The medic had checked Jennifer and pronounced her all right, but she wondered briefly if he hadn’t missed an unseen injury. A painful stab flared in her chest as the cop before her spoke.

“No, you didn’t think,” she snapped back. “That’s the problem with men like you. You put on your uniforms and grab your guns and run out the door to fight. The people left behind are the ones who have to pick up the pieces, but you never consider them!”

As soon as the words were out her mouth, Jennifer regretted them. They weren’t fair and she knew it—they came from a place deep in her past that had nothing to do with the man standing before her—but she was beyond caring. She was completely drained and empty of all logic and reason. She opened her mouth to say so but he stopped her.

“You’re right,” he said. “But you’re wrong, too. The ones left behind do have to pick up the pieces, but I always think about them. Believe me, Miss Barclay, they’re the reason I do what I do. Seeing someone killed in a situation like this is the last thing I want.”

He was telling the truth; she could see it in those strange, clear eyes.

“Then what happened in there tonight?” Her voice cracked. “Why was Howard shot?”

“He raised the gun and we thought he was going to shoot the boy,” he said raggedly. “Having a sniper in place is standard operating procedure and when he perceived imminent danger to the child, he took the shot.”

Something in his voice alerted her. She jerked her head up and stared into the blue ice of his gaze, her stomach churning with the gut feeling that came from hearing the truth mixed with a lie. She wasn’t getting the whole story.

She shook her head slowly and stared at him. “I don’t believe you. I want the truth. Something went wrong, didn’t it? You didn’t want him killed, did you?”

“Let me take you home,” he said gently. “I can call a uniform and catch a ride back up here to get my car. You’re in no shape to drive to Fort Walton.”

“I’m a teacher, Officer Winters. Diversions don’t work with me.”

“I’m not trying to divert you. I’m trying to help you. You’re wrung out, and you need to get home and take care of yourself.”

“So I won’t bother you anymore with my questions?”

“No.” He paused and took a breath. Was he stalling as he searched for a more satisfying explanation or simply exhausted as she was? “So you won’t torture yourself with what-ifs,” he said finally. “You did everything you could back there and we did, too. It was a bad end, yes, but it wasn’t our fault…or yours.”

“He didn’t need to be killed,” she said stubbornly.

He shocked her by his answer. “Maybe, but we’ll never know for sure. Only one thing’s certain. We can’t go back and play it a different way. We have to take what happened and deal with it.”

“Then just tell me the truth. Tell me what really happened—what I did—then let me deal with that.”

From beneath his matted hair, he stared at her, his eyes almost glowing. For a second she caught a fleeting glimpse of something in their cold depths, but she wasn’t sure. She was so tired she was imagining it. She had to be.

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head, his expression closing against itself. “But I can’t tell you more. You’ll have to be satisfied with that.”

THE MESSAGE LIGHT on her answering machine was blinking furiously when Jennifer finally reached her condo. She hit the play button and closed her eyes.

“I heard about the shooting, and I’m real worried. You call me as soon as you get in. I don’t care what time it is, you just call.”

Wanda’s Southern accent filled the small living room. Normally Jennifer would have picked up the phone and called immediately, but she couldn’t make her fingers reach for the receiver. They were as tired as the rest of her, and what little energy she had left, she wanted to use getting clean. She peeled off her clothing, right there in the middle of the den, and walked into the kitchen. Retrieving a paper sack from the pantry, she dropped everything in it and rolled the edges tightly together. Tomorrow she’d burn them.

Naked and shivering in the air-conditioning, she opened the refrigerator. The strongest drink she could find was a bottle of Coors left over from a pizza party some time back. She grabbed it, opened the bottle, and downed the beer. She didn’t lower the bottle until it was empty, then she stumbled into her bathroom and opened the shower door. When she stepped out twenty minutes later, her skin was red and raw—whether from the heat of the steaming water or the scrubbing she didn’t know.

Her stomach in knots, she knew the only way she could get to sleep was to eat something first. Somewhere between scrambling the eggs and getting the grape jelly out of the refrigerator, she began to cry. The tears ran down her cheeks, but she just ignored them. They weren’t going to stop and there was nothing she could do about it so she let them come.

God, how had it happened? One minute she’d been standing beside Howard and the next she’d ordered him to go to that window. No wonder he’d grabbed her—she’d scared him half to death. Then Beck had finished him off.

And she’d trusted him!

He’d sounded so sympathetic over the phone, so caring and warm. In reality, he reminded her of a photograph she’d seen in a sixth-grade world history textbook of a Nordic trapper. He had the same cold, blond looks and size, plus a face like a stony mask. All that was missing were the dogs and sled.

The ringing phone startled her out of her thoughts and her heart thudded in answer against her chest. It took a second for her to regain her composure. Would she ever hear a phone sound again and not jump? Wanda’s worried voice could be heard on the answering machine, her drawl even thicker than usual.

“Are you there, girl? What’s going on—”

“I’m here, Wanda.” Clutching her robe, Jennifer grabbed the phone. “I just got in. I—I’m fine.”

“Praise the Lord! I’ve been worried sick. I heard about what happened at the school, and…well, good grief, honey, are you okay?”

That was all it took. Jennifer began to sob again and several minutes filled with Wanda’s “That’s okay, now, darlin”’ and “C’mon, sugar” passed before her tears subsided. When she hiccuped to a stop, she explained what had happened.

“Oh, my God!” Wanda’s concern echoed over the line. She didn’t know him but she’d listened to Jennifer’s Howard stories time and time again. “And they killed him?”

“Y-yes. Right in front of us. It was terrible, Wanda. I—I can’t believe it actually happened. And I helped!”

“But, honey, he might have murdered every one of y’all.”

“Wanda! You’ve heard me talk about him! Do you really think he would have shot us?”

“He shot that poor other man.”

“It must have been an accident! Howard wouldn’t have just walked up and done it in cold blood. He wasn’t like that.”

“But you said he raised the gun when Juan ran over.”

“He did but he was trying to keep it away from Juan. When he saw Howard dragging me to the window, Juan thought I was in danger. He ran over to grab the gun.”

“Are you sure? Absolutely positive?”

In the background, Jennifer could hear canned laughter coming from Wanda’s television. She lived alone and when she was home, it was on.

“How do you know Howard was just keepin’ that gun away from the boy?” Wanda continued, cutting off Jennifer’s potential answer. “He could have been bringin’ it up to shoot. You don’t know! You just don’t know.”

“No.” Jennifer replied immediately. “I’m sure he wasn’t—”

“Why? What makes you so sure? Haven’t you ever been wrong before, Jennifer? I certainly have and I can’t imagine that you haven’t been in all your thirty-six years.”

Despite her Southern ways, Wanda never minced words. Jennifer swallowed, her throat tight. “I have been wrong before, certainly.”

“We never know what’s in another person’s mind, sugar.” The nurse’s voice softened. “We just don’t know. You could be mistaken. Howard French was a strange duck. He coulda been liftin’ that rifle to shoot that poor little boy. You better think long and hard before you set what you think in stone.”

They talked a few more minutes after that, Wanda reassuring Jennifer her mother was fine. “We turned off the TV so she wouldn’t hear all the news. She seemed pretty foggy today, but you never know what’s soakin’ in and what isn’t.”

“Thanks for watching out for her.”

“Oh, honey, you’re welcome. You just don’t worry about her. I know you won’t listen to me, but you take care of yourself…and if you wanna talk some more, you call me, hear?”

Walking to the balcony off her living room a few minutes later, Jennifer stood and looked at the sky. There was no moon and only the twinkling lights from a few houses here and there alleviated the dark. She wasn’t close enough to the beach to hear the ocean, but if she leaned all the way to the left at one end of the narrow patio, she could catch a glimpse of the water. She did so now, but all she saw was blackness.




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