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?
She looked back at the hostage-taker. “You don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
She let the words come out slow, bringing the pitch of her voice down, leaving no signs of threat as she talked. In her years in Civil Affairs, where she’d worked with several secretive Special Operations units, she’d not only been an expert markswoman who was fluent in several languages, she’d also had to gather human intelligence in dangerous countries. She knew how to make people feel comfortable, and she could use that to her advantage now.
“No talking,” their captor repeated.
“It’s just—”
“Be. Quiet.” He pointed the Beretta at her for emphasis.
For the moment, Jo kept her mouth shut. She didn’t think he’d shoot her. Their abductors had taken hostages for a reason, and killing any of them would make their crime much worse. She might have another opportunity for negotiation later.
In the meantime, Jo continued to evaluate. She had a good internal clock, and by her estimate, it had taken no more than two or three minutes for the men to take over the bank and get everyone into the storage room. If an emergency call had gone out, which seemed likely given the circumstances, law enforcement would be at the bank by now. The responding officers would assess the scene, knowing a robbery was in progress, and would likely have figured out the situation inside the bank.
She hadn’t heard any shots, so she assumed the officers were staying back and calling for more help. A hostage rescue team would be on its way, and the HRT would have a negotiator, someone to talk to the men. It would take a little time to get a direct line to the bank, and she wasn’t sure if she’d hear a phone ringing from back here. Once the negotiator got in contact with one of the three men, the situation would progress.
One thing worried Jo, though. Manpower. Budget cuts had left many police departments short on officers and resources. That could delay the entire timeline running through her mind. She glanced around the room. No matter what was happening on the other side of the storage room walls, the little group would have to be careful. They probably didn’t have long before the hostage-takers went to their next move.
Grunt returned, holding a license in his hand, the duffel bag still on the floor of the hallway. His gaze settled on the man two down from Jo. “Rico Ortega?”
The Hispanic employee looked up and cleared his throat. “Yes?” His voice warbled.
“You have access to the safety deposit boxes?”
“There’s a key to the room.” A noncommittal reply. He wore a white shirt, and he was nervously smoothing the dark tie he wore over it.
“Take me to the safe deposit boxes,” Grunt said.
Rico was an inch or two taller than Jo, at least five ten, and he was muscular, clearly worked out. But he wasn’t agile, not light on his feet. Not a fighter. He hesitated. “I can’t get in that room.”
Grunt gestured with his pistol. “Stand up.”
Rico rose to his feet with care. “Even if I could unlock the room, you need two keys to get into the safety deposit boxes.”
Jo gritted her teeth. Rico was trying to bargain with their captor. A big mistake. These men knew what they were doing. And the bank employees would’ve been told not to resist, not to argue. Nothing—no money or valuables—was worth their lives. She glanced up, trying to make eye contact with Rico, but he was looking at Grunt.
The man tossed the license into the hallway, then pulled others from his pocket and shuffled through them. He looked at the gray-haired man in the suit. “Douglas Lovato?”
Douglas looked up. “Yes?” He wiped perspiration off his brow, then rested his hands back on his knees.
“Stand up,” Grunt said.
“What do you want?”
“Stand up!”
Douglas shifted to his side and pushed himself to his feet, grabbing one of the shelves to help. His face was wet with sweat, and his lip trembled as if he were on the verge of crying. Grunt pointed the Beretta at Douglas, but his eyes remained on Rico. A few gasps sounded through the tension in the room, and Sabrina whimpered again.
“Please,” Douglas said. “I have a wife and kids.”
“You have a key to the room where the safety deposit boxes are,” Grunt said to Rico.
“Rico,” Douglas pleaded, his voice shaking. “What’re you doing?”
Grunt bolted forward and pressed the Beretta against Douglas’s temple. Everyone else but Jo recoiled, horror taking over their faces. Rico suddenly held up his hands.
“Don’t do anything to him,” he said. “I can get the key.”
He kept the pistol on Douglas, whose whole body rippled with a violent shudder. Finally, the Beretta lowered, and Grunt backed up to the doorway, then flicked a finger at Rico.
