Cisco sighed. “You mean so much for my dinner.”
Welk snickered. “Of course, you’re thinking about your stomach instead of my—”
“Uh, uh,” Cisco cut Welk off with a hiss. “Mixed company.”
“That’s okay, LT,” one of Welk’s unit members, Moira Bliss, a sheriff with the Penobscot County Department, spoke up with a snort. “We all know what Welker thinks about all the time, and what he gets up to on his off time.”
Cisco found it amusing that it was always Moira who gave Welker shit. He wondered if there was anything between the pair, but quickly dismissed it. Welker, like Cisco, didn’t fraternize within the ranks. Not that it was forbidden, but once a relationship went south, it was often times damned uncomfortable to work when two people on a close-knit team were attempting to ignore each other, post coitus.
Mason’s voice clipped out over their mics. “The perp is asking for a television interview. He wants someone from the press with a camera to meet him outside the building where he’ll be holding the bank manager as his hostage, at gunpoint. He has a message for somebody.”
“Any ID on who he is yet, and who he’s trying to rattle?” Mike’s question followed.
“So far, nothing. The man’s been keeping to the back of the bank, out of our line of vision, even from our snipers’ scopes. Once he steps outside, we’ll have facial rec. But from the sounds of him, he’s probably a local. He’s calling the bank manager by name.”
Shit. Cisco hated when the perp was someone teammates from Bangor might know. It made taking the bad guy down that much more personal.
Mason continued. “Who wants to play reporter?”
“I’ll do it.” Cisco offered immediately.
He was tired of waiting, and chances were, with him being from Orono, the hostage-taker would be unfamiliar with his face. “You have any civvies that will fit me?”
“On the bus,” Mason grunted. “Come suit up.”
And by suit up, Mason would try to get him to wear a vest under his plain-clothes, but it being summer, any bank robber with a brain in their head would see the bulk, so Cisco was going to decline. All he needed was a camera…and an excuse to get near the guy.
Ten minutes later, dressed in a white, short-sleeve button down shirt and chinos, Cisco hefted the professional news camera Mason had procured from the local TV station, onto his shoulder.
He was ready to roll.
“Your press badge is just about ready to print,” Opal told him with an amused look on her face as she stood by their copier, retrieved the item hot off the press, then ran it through the laminator.
Cisco didn’t have to wait long to see why she was snickering under her breath. When she handed him the tag, he read it. Peter Parkour.
“Funny.” He rolled his eyes while her partner in crime, Nolan, chuckled. Mason simply snorted, then picked up his phone and dialed the line he had into the bank. A few seconds later, the boss was all business.
“We have a reporter from WABI who’s just arrived. He’s agreed to video you, live,” Mase lied. “But you have to promise that he and the bank manager will both be safe.”
Yeah. Like the guy wouldn’t simply just agree to get his own way. But Mase clearly felt compelled to say something because the manager’s life hung in the balance, and yes, Cisco had eschewed any safety equipment.
“Right,” Mason continued, clearly having been given an affirmative answer. For what it was worth. “He’ll wait until you’re out of the building, then he’ll come toward you, slowly, where he’ll give you your interview.”
Mason must have heard what he wanted, because he hung up with a grunt, then addressed Cisco. “During the first few minutes of engagement, Units C and K will breach the back door to rescue the remaining hostages inside.”
“I’ll give them five,” Cisco agreed.
“That’ll work.” Mason gave Cisco the nod, and Cisco responded with grin and a thumbs up.
Piece of cake.
They had a plan, and Cisco knew what to do.
CHAPTER EIGHT
To say that Hilly was annoyed was an understatement. The nurse she’d hired, Debbie Gorner, had made excuses again, this time by text, saying that something else had come up and she wouldn’t be at the camp until Sunday evening. That was two days later than their agreement specified, which made steam come out of Hilly’s ears.
If Monday wasn’t the first day of camp, she would have told the woman to stuff it, and found someone else. But there was no time. Hilly would, however, put out feelers within the community to see if anyone knew of an available, certified RN, just in case the woman further disappointed her after her tardy arrival.
Luckily, an old friend, Buffy Minton, would be rolling in on Sunday morning. Buffy was Hilly’s roommate from college. She’d graduated with her degree in psychotherapy, and thought it would be an awesome opportunity to hang out at a camp all summer and see to the mental needs of Hilly’s kids.
Not only was it a score to get the woman who lived in Boston, between jobs, but Hilly was really looking forward to spending time with one of her dearest friends.
But now…paperwork.
The bane of Hilly’s existence.
She’d always been an action kind of person, her degree and employment—in the off season since inheriting the camp—being in event planning for a huge law firm. Of course, she’d routinely had to suss out specific needs for certain clients, which required a lot of writing, but after the initial bits of sit-down-planning, Hilly was all about hands-on. She never slowed down after that. Her real rush for the job came from running around putting things together, orchestrating the perfect affair.
Now, she was faced with a slogging task she’d been putting off; that of making sure every camper’s parent or guardian had properly filled in and signed all the requisite forms. If they hadn’t, she’d have to make sure she waylaid them amidst the chaos of drop-off to remedy any oversights.
The only good thing about her pen-pushing task today was that the hour of paperwork coincided with the time of day she always watched the local weather. Hilly never depended solely on her phone or computer app for accuracy with atmospheric conditions. She was in charge of the well-being of one hundred campers, and she needed to be sure if and when bad weather was about to move in.
Thunderstorms predicted? No water or outside play. A degree-day over ninety? No long hikes until the heat-wave was broken.
She’d learned during her first year on the job, that multiple sources were needed to glean Mother Nature’s true intentions.
