Silent Justice Page 2

  With evident reluctance, Stanley laid his pistol on the floor. The other security officers did the same. The man with the shotgun rushed forward, pushing Christina ahead all the way, till he had recovered the weapons and shoved them into one of his outer coat pockets. “Now, get out of here! Now!”

  Stanley tried to maintain a calm demeanor. “Couldn’t I stay and talk? I know you don’t really want to hurt anyone. Why don’t we—”

  The gun exploded in Stanley’s face. The shot struck just over and behind him, splattering the wall. Stanley ducked, horrified, clutching the side of his face. The shot had come so close it had singed his cheek.

  “Now get out of here!” the man screamed. “Now! Now! Now!”

  This time the security guards left, including Stanley. After the door closed, the man with the shotgun whipped around. He shoved Christina down to the floor.

  “Nobody moves! Nobody goes anywhere! We’re all staying right here until I get what I want!”

  Ben rushed to Christina’s side. He took her hand and helped her up. “How are you?”

  Christina shrugged. “I’m fine, damn it.” She gazed at the maniac with the shotgun. “Wish I’d moved a little faster.”

  “You and me both.” Ben helped her to an empty seat in the front row. He had a sinking feeling they were both going to be here for a good long while.

  Eight hours later, Ben and the rest of the captives were sweaty, hungry, and even more worried for their lives than when this siege began. Ben had hoped that in time the man with the shotgun would calm down. Instead, just the opposite seemed to be happening. He was disintegrating, becoming progressively less rational. Every few minutes he would start raving again, babbling on about the “merchandise.” No one knew what to tell him.

  “I see what you’re trying to do,” the man ranted, swinging his shotgun erratically from one side to the other. “I see! You’re trying to cheat me. Cheat me out of what’s rightly mine!”

  The police had managed to get a cell phone in, but so far, all attempts at negotiating had proved worthless. Ben wondered what poor soul had drawn the thankless task of acting as chief negotiator. Someone from the local Tulsa PD, he suspected, perhaps even Mike, his friend and former brother-in-law. Or by this time, perhaps the FBI had moved in, a development that would really chap Mike off. Whoever it was, they weren’t getting anywhere. The man brandishing the shotgun was simply too paranoid, too suspicious of every suggestion. He wouldn’t let them send in pizza for the students; he was afraid they might do something to it, or smuggle something in with it. They couldn’t even negotiate safe passage out of the classroom. He didn’t want it, he kept insisting. All he wanted was the “merchandise.”

  “It’s mine!” he screamed into the cell phone. “I earned it! I deserve it!”

  About four hours into their captivity, Ben had tried to reason with him, had attempted a little negotiation of his own.

  “Look,” Ben said quietly when he had the man’s attention, “you don’t need all these students for hostages. Having so many people around only increases the chances that something unfortunate will happen.”

  The man glared at him with a steely eye. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Anything. My point is, why don’t you let the kids go? Keep me. I’ll be your hostage. I’ll do whatever you want. And I won’t try to escape.”

  “Why are you trying to get them out of here?”

  Ben chose his words carefully. “I want to help you. One manageable hostage is better than twenty-seven unmanageable ones.”

  “You don’t want to help me.” He took a step closer, his gun poised between them. “Why are you so anxious for them to leave?”

  ”I’m just—”

  “They’ve got it, don’t they? The merchandise. You’re trying to smuggle it out with one of them.”

  “No, no, I’m just trying to—”

  “Or maybe they’re going to get it. They’re going to take it away and hide it so I can never find it.”

  “No. I’m telling you—it’s nothing like that—”

  “Nobody leaves!” the man screamed. “Nobody leaves till I say so! Nobody leaves till I have my merchandise!”

  And so, eight hours after it began, the grim hostage scenario was still not resolved. And Ben was beginning to worry that it never would be. At least not without serious bloodshed.

  Ben and Christina, along with the others trapped in the room, were hot, tired, and terrified. Ben’s former foil, Mr. Brunner, seemed to be in particularly bad shape. His forehead dripped with sweat; he was muttering desperate nonsense to himself. Ben was afraid he might snap at any moment. And then they’d have two irrational people in the room—except Brunner wasn’t packing a gun.

  A few of the students were holding up with admirable stoicism. Some had even approached Ben about trying to wrestle the gun away from the maniac. Ben did his best to put an end to any wild notions of heroism under fire. He didn’t want anyone maimed or killed. The best plan was simply to wait it out—until the authorities were able to resolve the crisis.

  He knew they were trying. A few hours before, Ben had taken a walk behind the highest rear tier of seats, just to stretch his legs. A row of narrow, rectangular windows lined the back wall, and through them, Ben had spotted men in green quickly scurrying into positions. SOT—what the world outside Tulsa called a SWAT team—unless he was very mistaken.

  Maybe the man with the shotgun knew it, too, or at least suspected. He had covered the window in the front door, and he never went near the windows in the back. He was not going to give them a shot. If they wanted him, they were going to have to come in after him. In which case he could probably kill half a dozen students before they brought him down.

  “I know they’re out there!” the man shouted. His arms trembled as his hands clutched the shotgun, the barrel pointing every which way at once. “I know what I know. Why doesn’t anyone believe me? All I want is what’s mine!”

  “Psst!” Ben whispered, trying to get Christina’s attention. She seemed to have recovered from her manhandling earlier. She didn’t look good, but then, at the moment, no one did. “Any idea what he’s babbling about?”

  Christina cautiously scooted closer. She knew the man with the gun became paranoid whenever he saw people talking, and he didn’t need to be made any more paranoid than he was already. “I haven’t understood what he was babbling about from the moment he walked into the classroom.”

  “If he would just give me an opening,” Ben said quietly. “Get distracted for a moment.”

  “Ben, please promise you won’t try anything stupid. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Like I do?”

  She ignored him. “Has Mike still got you taking kung fu lessons?”

  “Yes. Every week at the Chinese Boxing Institute. Lately we’ve been practicing dropkicks and back flips.”

  “Are you any good?”

  “Better than I was.”

  “Fast?”

  Ben frowned. “Not faster than a shotgun.” He watched as the crazed man paced the length of the classroom. “I wish I could get him to calm down and just tell us what it is he wants.”

  “Don’t even try, Ben. It’s too dangerous. And you wouldn’t learn anything. He’s delusional.”

  “Maybe. But if I could at least find out what he’s after, then maybe—”

  Christina clamped down on his arm. “Ben, please. It would be suicide.”

  “We can’t just sit here and—”

  “What are you two whispering about?”

  Ben leapt back—because he suddenly found the business end of the shotgun shoved between them.

  “Answer me! What were you saying? Were you plotting against me?” Sweat flew from the man’s brow as he whipped his head back and forth. “Is that what it was?”

  “N-no, of course not,” Ben answered, trying to remain as calm as possible. “We’re just … hungry, that’s all.”

  “You’ve got the merchandise, don’t
you? You’re the one keeping what’s mine.”

  “That’s not true. I just—”

  The man shoved the shotgun barrel directly under Ben’s nose. “Don’t lie to me! Don’t you lie to me!”

  Ben threw up his hands. “I didn’t. I wouldn’t.”

  “Don’t you ever lie to me!”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  The man’s face flushed with crazed desperation. “All I want is what’s coming to me.”

  “I know that. I know it.”

  His voice boomed. “All I want is what’s mine!”

  “Stop it!” This shout came from behind the man with the gun. Mr. Brunner. “Stop shouting at him! Just stop!”

  My God, Ben thought, Brunner’s expression is almost as demented as the gunman’s. He’s cracked. He’s gone over the edge.

  “I’m tired of this!” Brunner shouted. “I want out of here! I want out now!” He turned his back to the shotgun and started toward the door.

  “Stop!” the man with the gun warned. “Don’t do it!”

  “I can’t take this anymore!” Brunner bellowed. “Don’t you understand? I can’t take it!”

  “I’m warning you.” The man drew the shotgun up to his eye, sighting carefully. “Come back.”

  “Well … if you insist.” Brunner turned, seemingly resigned, and then, all at once, he sprang forward. Moving like quicksilver, he flew across the classroom on a line drive toward the man with the gun.

  He was fast … but not fast enough. The shotgun blast hit Brunner in the chest, knocking him to the ground. He cried out in pain, then curled up like a fetus, clutching his abdomen.

  Screams and shouts pierced the air. A new level of panic swept through the classroom. Most of the students ran in terror to the opposite corner.

  Christina knelt down beside Brunner, oblivious to the shotgun tracking her every move.

  “How is he?” Ben asked.

  She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The gaping hole and the blood-soaked shirt said more than enough.

  Brunner was still breathing, but just barely. He was still bleeding, too.

  The hostage negotiators had been working the cell phone doubletime, trying to get the man with the gun to allow a medic in to treat Brunner. No luck. Ben remembered attending a seminar with Mike Morelli where he had learned about the FBI’s four touchstones for successful hostage negotiation: honesty, conciliation, containment, and resolution. Unfortunately, even after ten hours, these negotiators couldn’t get past honesty. Their standard scripts weren’t working. They were trained to deal with men who were desperate—but still fundamentally rational. With this crazed paranoid, the standard operating procedures were useless.

  More than once, Ben had managed to take a slow stroll behind the third tier of seats, glancing out the windows. He no longer saw the fleeting figures in green. But he was certain they were there. He thought he had heard a muffled drilling sound earlier; possibly they were poking a hole through one of the walls, making an opening for a fiber-optic camera, or even a high-powered rifle. Meanwhile, there were probably half a dozen sights trained on those rear windows, just waiting for the man to show himself. But the man with the shotgun stayed out of sight, safely tucked away on the lowest level of the classroom.

  The students" spirits were dwindling. The attack on Brunner had sucked the life out of the best of them. Several simply lay prostrate, not moving, waiting for the end they feared was inevitable. Others were praying, had been praying nonstop for hours. And a few still managed to maintain a stiff upper lip. But Ben knew that was just for show. They couldn’t last forever. None of them.

  Ben wiped his brow, then stared at the profuse sweat that dampened his hand. None of us, that is.

  “Damn you! Damn you all! You will give me what I want!”

  Ben watched in horror as their captor threw the cell phone across the room. It hit the wall, shattering into pieces. Apparently that wasn’t enough for him. He fired a shot after it, breaking the phone into still more pieces and leaving a sizable indentation in the wall.

  “I know what you think!” the man shouted, to no one in particular. “You think you can cheat me and get away with it. But you can’t. You can’t!”

  Another blast went into the ceiling, knocking out several panels and shattering a fluorescent light. Bits of glass and neon tubing flew across the room.

  That’s it, Ben thought, biting down on his lower lip. What little hope we had was on the other end of that cell phone. And now even that is gone.

  Ben walked down to the lowest level of the classroom, where Christina was huddled over Brunner’s agonized body. She had been nursing him since his injury, holding his hand, talking to him, trying to keep him alive.

  “I know you’re in pain,” Ben heard her whisper to him. “I know it must be excruciating. But you’ve got to hold on. Please. Help is on its way.”

  Ben placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “You’re worn out. Want me to spell you for a bit?”

  “No. I’m fine.” She tossed her head back, trying to knock the hair out of her eyes, but the hair was wet with sweat and stuck tenaciously to her forehead and cheeks.

  Ben reached down and brushed it back. “Don’t exhaust yourself.”

  If she heard him, she gave no indication of it. Her eyes were focused on Brunner. “Don’t give up. Please don’t give up.”

  But even as she said it, Brunner’s eyelids slowly closed.

  “No!” Christina cried. “Please, no!”

  Ben felt his teeth grinding together. This had gone on too long. He didn’t want anyone to get hurt—not even the man with the shotgun. But Brunner was fading fast—maybe gone already. If he didn’t get medical attention quickly, there would be no hope. And after Brunner, who would be next? One of the other students? Christina?

  Ben closed his eyes, forming his resolve. If he started this, he would have to stick with it to the end—no matter what the consequences.

  He made up his mind. “I’m leaving,” he said. His voice was oddly flat, but definitely audible.

  The man with the shotgun looked up abruptly. “What?”

  “I’m leaving.” Ben turned slowly and started toward the back of the classroom.

  “Ben?” Christina said. “What are you doing?” I’m leaving.

  Their captor raised his gun. “You’re not.”

  “I am.” Ben continued moving, with the same slow but steady pace. “I’m leaving.”

  “You’re not!” The man ran toward the first-tier table and cocked his shotgun. “I’ll stop you!”

  “You can kill me,” Ben whispered eerily. “But you can’t stop me.” He reached the third level of the classroom, then stood on the tabletop, his back facing the windows.

  “Don’t try to cheat me!” the man shouted. He jumped up on the first-tier table. “You can’t leave till I have what’s mine!”

  “I can. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

  “I will! I will stop you!” The man giant-stepped to the second-tier table-top. He and Ben were now barely three feet apart. “I’ll kill you!”

  “No, you won’t. You’re not a killer. You’re just a poor pathetic wretch. I don’t know what happened to you. I know you lost something you cared about very much. I don’t know what it was, but I know it was something important to you. So important you think you have to get it back. You can’t go on without it.” Ben paused. “But you won’t get it by killing me. That’s why you won’t do it.”

  “I will!” the man screamed, rushing forward. Ben grabbed the man’s free hand as soon as it came within reach and, heaving with all his strength, flipped the man backward. He thudded against the back wall, his head level with the back windows.

  Two seconds was all the sharpshooters outside needed to identify their target and take action. Six high-powered bullets crashed through the glass. All of them hit their mark. The man with the shotgun fell, half on a chair, half on the floor. His blood-soaked head hit the desktop with a
sickening thud.

  Barely a second later, people began swarming through the front door of the classroom, paramedics at the forefront. They carefully rolled Brunner onto a stretcher and carried him to an ambulance waiting outside. Other medics began talking with and helping the students, gingerly escorting them to freedom.

  After a few minutes had passed, a police sergeant approached Ben. “The man who held you hostage is dead.”

  Ben nodded silently. He wasn’t surprised.

  “Do you have any idea what it was he wanted?”

  “No. But I know who you should ask. The Tiger. Professor Canino. That’s who the man came to see.”

  The sergeant’s eyes widened slightly. “Haven’t you heard?” He shook his head. “No, of course you haven’t. You’ve been trapped in here for ten hours.”

  “What?” Christina appeared behind him, listening intently. “What is it?” The sergeant turned slightly toward her. “We’ve been looking for Professor Canino since that lunatic first mentioned him. We can’t find him. He’s not in his office, he’s not at home. He’s not anywhere. He’s vanished. Without a trace.”

  Six Years Before

  TONY MONTAGUE WATCHED THE gaily colored hexagons swirling above his head like a kaleidoscopic whirlwind. A breeze rippled across his face, a pleasant refreshment in the midst of this 102-degree Oklahoma heat. The cool air allowed his brain to settle into a more tranquil, reserved state, like the nirvana that usually followed the second shot of tequila, except without the booze. He found himself mesmerized, hypnotized even, by the multicolored pageant. The red, the blue, the yellow, the speed, the repetition, the endless cycle, over and over again—all of it made him …

  All of it made him sick, actually. Nauseated. Rarely had he managed to acquire motion sickness when he wasn’t moving, but that’s what was happening now.

  “Are you going up?” He felt a slap on his shoulder and realized it was Bobby Hendricks, chief supervising accountant for his division. “The line is short.”

  Tony shook his head. “I’m not much of one for Ferris wheels.”

  Bobby smirked. “Getting too old, huh?”

  “When I was six, I didn’t like Ferris wheels.”