The young man with the ponytail nodded. “One more.”
The two remaining customers were paralyzed, fear etched on their faces. The tall man rushed around the lobby, reaching up and closing blinds, leaving a shaft of light shining through the glass entrance door. His long arms stretched out as he leapt deftly over the counter. He moved past the terrified tellers and disappeared through a side door. Jo knew he’d be carefully checking the rest of the premises. Jo presumed there would be other bank employees.
The second robber turned to her. She stood her ground, staring into his blue eyes.
“Go,” he snarled. He jerked his head toward a door to the right of the teller counter.
Jo did so warily, assessing whether she could take him down. Grunt—as she now thought of him—stood several feet away. She could dive at him and probably disable him, but she didn’t know if he’d pull the trigger. She might be hit—or worse, someone else. Better to do as he said, for the moment.
As those thoughts raced through her mind, the broad-shouldered man hustled the people who’d been sitting at the desks past her. The three employees had their hands up, and their eyes were wide. They paused at the side door with Jo. In the meantime, Stretch had reappeared behind the teller counter with a stocky man whose mouth moved, but no words came out.
“Clear,” the robber called out.
Jo was correct. The stocky man was the only other person at the back of the bank.
Stretch stood with pistol at the ready, covering that man and the tellers. Grunt was ordering the two customers at the counter toward the side door. The well-dressed woman was shaking, and Jo thought the elderly one might faint. As she approached, Jo murmured at her.
“It’s okay.” The woman nodded, tears welling in her eyes.
“What’s your name?” Jo whispered, trying to get the woman to focus on something other than her fear.
“Barbara McCarthy.”
Jo smiled at her, and she momentarily relaxed. As the group stood there, Grunt approached Jo’s group. He pointed to the side door.
“Who can open that?”
The employees shifted nervously, and the gray-haired man who’d been at his desk when they stormed in raised his hand.
“I can.”
“Do it,” Grunt said.
The man approached the door on wobbly legs, took a keycard from his pocket, and opened the door. As Grunt held it open and covered the group, and the man with the athletic build—QB in her mind—roughly searched each of them, emptying their pockets and throwing their belongings across the lobby. When he got to Jo, he pulled out her phone, her credit card and driver’s license, some cash, and a small military knife. She traveled light, with only a few changes of clothes at her hotel, a mile away. He didn’t say anything when he saw the knife, just threw it with the other stuff. Then he shoved her out of the way. At the same time, Stretch told the two tellers and the stocky man to carefully empty their pockets and throw their belongings over the counter.
QB motioned for the hostages to go through the door. “Do anything stupid, you’re dead,” he said to them.
At the same time, Stretch gestured with his pistol to the side door. “Through there,” he ordered the tellers and the stocky man.
The plump woman turned and went through the teller door first, followed by the man with the ponytail and the stocky man. As Jo followed her group, she kept assessing the situation. All three robbers wore the same tactical pants, lightweight nylon black jackets, black gloves, and the combat-style black boots. Their ski masks were high-tech, with breathable material that covered everything, even their eyes. Each carried a Beretta. They were coordinated, in sync; they knew what they were doing. Very efficient. Even their movements didn’t allow much to distinguish them from one another.
Jo passed the door to the teller area and glanced inside. The tall one wasn’t trying to get cash out of any drawers or a cash dispenser. He was nowhere in sight, and she couldn’t hear him either. At the end of a hallway, Grunt gestured to an open door on the left. He’d dropped the duffel bag on the floor.
“In there,” he said, then stood back, Beretta raised.
The tellers and the other employees went in first, followed by the two women, and finally Jo. The storage room had metal shelves and a long counter with cabinets. No windows, no pictures on the walls. The two bank customers leaned against the shelves, along with the man in the suit and the stocky man from the back of the bank. The two tellers and the Hispanic man stood to Jo’s left, the black-haired woman on her right.
“Sit on the floor, backs to the wall or cabinets,” Grunt ordered. They all did as they were told. “Put your hands on your knees where I can see them,” he said.
They all complied once more as he stood in the hallway, the pistol still on them.
“We good?” QB called out from down the hall.
“Yes,” Grunt replied.
Jo listened for Stretch’s voice, but she didn’t hear anything. The big-handed man appeared, standing in the hall. They stood with pistols ready, waiting. Jo glanced around. There were nine people, including her, all crammed into the storage room—waiting to see what happened next.
CHAPTER TWO
Afew sounds broke the silence in the storage room. Barbara wheezed hard through her mouth, and the woman with the long black hair who’d been sitting at one of the desks whimpered softly. The Hispanic employee cleared his throat. The room carried a faint vanilla and metallic odor, the smell of paper and ink, but also a release of sweat, the presence of fear. That was familiar to Jo. She’d been on enough dangerous missions where she and her teammates hadn’t known what might be coming. None in this little group had any idea if they would get out alive. The two hostage-takers—Jo now thought of them that way—remained in the doorway, pistols up. They didn’t say a word, just stood there, looking lethal. Behind them was another hallway with a closed door at the end. Then Stretch’s voice carried down the hall, and Grunt moved out of view. QB remained, staring in at them. Jo studied the door. It was heavy and sturdy. The knob locked from the outside with a key.
The black-haired woman put a hand to her chest. “Oh, I don’t think I can breathe.”
Jo spoke to her softly. “Relax your shoulders and breathe through your nose for a couple of seconds. Then exhale slowly through a small gap between your lips. Keep doing that.”
The woman looked at Jo with frightened eyes but did as she’d said.
“What’s your name?” Jo murmured.
“Sabrina.”
“Hey! No talking,” the robber snapped, glaring at Jo.
She gestured toward Sabrina. “She’s having trouble breathing. She may need help.”
He shook his head. “She’ll be fine.”
Jo glanced at the others. They were holding up as well as could be expected, though the man in the suit was sweating profusely, the collar of his shirt already soaked. Was it solely fear, or was he on the verge of some kind medical situation?
