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.
“Come with me.”
Rico stepped past the well-dressed woman and moved toward the door. Grunt grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and propelled him out the door.
“I’m sorry, I’ll do what you want,” Rico said.
Looking out, Jo had a limited view as Grunt pushed him down another hallway, and they disappeared inside the vault room. QB grabbed the duffel bag and headed after them. He paused by the vault door and tossed the bag inside. Douglas’s legs gave way. He sank to the floor and leaned back, his back thumping against the cabinets. With both hands, he made another futile wipe at his sweaty face.
“I don’t want to die.” It was the well-dressed woman, her voice so small it could’ve been a child’s.
Barbara was crying, and Sabrina put a hand over her stomach.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” she moaned.
“Everyone, stay calm,” Jo whispered. “Don’t argue with them, just do what they say.” She looked at the well-dressed woman. “What’s your name?”
“Darlene.”
The stocky man who’d been at the back of the bank spoke up. “I’m Ward.”
