through his veins.
They—the small group of cops and sheriff's deputies clustered with him around the bailiff's phone, which the courtroom used for communicating with the deputies guarding the prisoners—had just heard the muffled sound of a gun going off inside the secure corridor. Tom thought of Kate White, slim and lovely with her Scandinavian blond hair, flawless pale skin, and wide blue eyes, helpless as a mouse between the paws of a hungry cat in her current situation, and felt his gut clench.
Was she dead?
What about Charlie, whom he hadn't been able to locate yet? If Charlie was anywhere in the Justice Center where he could get to the heart of the action, he'd be with them already.
Was Charlie dead?
The possibility was making Tom crazy. The dispatcher in the sub-basement had thought, but wasn't sure, that after logging his prisoner in, Charlie had escorted him on up to the second floor. Instead of taking the same labyrinthine secure corridors that his brother had used, which he didn't have clearance for anyway, Tom had opted for the easier, civilian route to the second floor in pursuit of Charlie. He had just leaped off the elevator with a pair of deputies alerted by Johnson in tow when he'd heard the first shots being fired in courtroom 207. He'd had to battle his way through the stampede of people exiting the building, exiting the courtroom, running for their lives. In the midst of all the carnage, he still hadn't found Charlie, and his bad feeling about that was growing exponentially.
But at the moment, his first duty was to Kate White.
"If he won't put her on the phone, we got to assume he probably shot her, right?" Mitch Cooney asked. The pudgy, balding, fifty-something deputy was gray-faced. The massacre of so many of his friends and fellow officers had hit him hard. But like the rest of the group around Tom, he was still standing, still serving, still doing his duty, semper fi.
"He'd be stupid to kill her. Then he's got nothing. No bargaining power." Police Corporal LaRonda Davis, a petite black woman with a bodacious figure that made even her uniform look good, sounded shaken. She was part of the group huddled around the phone because she'd been on her way to an adjoining courtroom to testify when the shooting had broken out.
"Shut up, everybody. I'm calling in now." Tom pushed the button that rang the secure corridor.
"We got nothing. What are you going to say?" Police Officer Tim Linnig sounded on the verge of panic. The truth was, none of them felt qualified to be the ones responsible for nurturing the complex web of greed, hope, and stupidity that was all that was keeping Kate White alive. But unless and until somebody with better qualifications showed up, the motley crew now gathered around the phone was all she had.
"I'm gonna ask to talk to the lady again," Tom said grimly. "If he puts her on the phone, I'm gonna lie like a mother, tell him he's getting everything he wants. If he doesn't—well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."
The call went through. In his ear, he could hear the phone in the secure corridor start to ring. Every nerve in his body was on edge as he listened.
Brriing ...
He waited. The suspense was making him as jittery as a caffeine addict outside a closed Starbucks. Determined not to let it show, Tom set his teeth.
Brriing ...
Four minutes were left before the fifteen-minute deadline Nico Rodriguez had given them ran out. The helicopter—they were getting Rodriguez the helicopter he'd demanded, but he wasn't going to be flying away in it; it was basically bait to lure him into the open—was at least ten minutes out. The hundred thousand dollars—which, again, he wasn't going to be going anywhere with—was still being assembled, just in case Rodriguez had the time and smarts to check the money bag. The SWAT team, with its contingent of crack snipers, was on the way: ETA three minutes. So was a hostage negotiator. So was the bulk of Philly's police and
They—the small group of cops and sheriff's deputies clustered with him around the bailiff's phone, which the courtroom used for communicating with the deputies guarding the prisoners—had just heard the muffled sound of a gun going off inside the secure corridor. Tom thought of Kate White, slim and lovely with her Scandinavian blond hair, flawless pale skin, and wide blue eyes, helpless as a mouse between the paws of a hungry cat in her current situation, and felt his gut clench.
Was she dead?
What about Charlie, whom he hadn't been able to locate yet? If Charlie was anywhere in the Justice Center where he could get to the heart of the action, he'd be with them already.
Was Charlie dead?
The possibility was making Tom crazy. The dispatcher in the sub-basement had thought, but wasn't sure, that after logging his prisoner in, Charlie had escorted him on up to the second floor. Instead of taking the same labyrinthine secure corridors that his brother had used, which he didn't have clearance for anyway, Tom had opted for the easier, civilian route to the second floor in pursuit of Charlie. He had just leaped off the elevator with a pair of deputies alerted by Johnson in tow when he'd heard the first shots being fired in courtroom 207. He'd had to battle his way through the stampede of people exiting the building, exiting the courtroom, running for their lives. In the midst of all the carnage, he still hadn't found Charlie, and his bad feeling about that was growing exponentially.
But at the moment, his first duty was to Kate White.
"If he won't put her on the phone, we got to assume he probably shot her, right?" Mitch Cooney asked. The pudgy, balding, fifty-something deputy was gray-faced. The massacre of so many of his friends and fellow officers had hit him hard. But like the rest of the group around Tom, he was still standing, still serving, still doing his duty, semper fi.
"He'd be stupid to kill her. Then he's got nothing. No bargaining power." Police Corporal LaRonda Davis, a petite black woman with a bodacious figure that made even her uniform look good, sounded shaken. She was part of the group huddled around the phone because she'd been on her way to an adjoining courtroom to testify when the shooting had broken out.
"Shut up, everybody. I'm calling in now." Tom pushed the button that rang the secure corridor.
"We got nothing. What are you going to say?" Police Officer Tim Linnig sounded on the verge of panic. The truth was, none of them felt qualified to be the ones responsible for nurturing the complex web of greed, hope, and stupidity that was all that was keeping Kate White alive. But unless and until somebody with better qualifications showed up, the motley crew now gathered around the phone was all she had.
"I'm gonna ask to talk to the lady again," Tom said grimly. "If he puts her on the phone, I'm gonna lie like a mother, tell him he's getting everything he wants. If he doesn't—well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."
The call went through. In his ear, he could hear the phone in the secure corridor start to ring. Every nerve in his body was on edge as he listened.
Brriing ...
He waited. The suspense was making him as jittery as a caffeine addict outside a closed Starbucks. Determined not to let it show, Tom set his teeth.
Brriing ...
Four minutes were left before the fifteen-minute deadline Nico Rodriguez had given them ran out. The helicopter—they were getting Rodriguez the helicopter he'd demanded, but he wasn't going to be flying away in it; it was basically bait to lure him into the open—was at least ten minutes out. The hundred thousand dollars—which, again, he wasn't going to be going anywhere with—was still being assembled, just in case Rodriguez had the time and smarts to check the money bag. The SWAT team, with its contingent of crack snipers, was on the way: ETA three minutes. So was a hostage negotiator. So was the bulk of Philly's police and
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