The Negotiator. Kay DavidЧитать онлайн книгу.
the only window in the classroom. I’ve got the floor plans to the school and the guys have those already. Randy’s across the street.”
“Where?”
She nodded toward the row of the small frame houses opposite the school. “There, the fifth one down with the green shutters, the two-story with the oleanders in front. The owners are gone. Neighbor had a key and she let us in the back door.” She handed Beck the glasses. “He’s in the upstairs corner window.”
Beck stared through the lenses and the head of Randy Tamirisa, the team’s countersniper, leapt into focus. He was lying motionless behind his weapon, the sight trained on the school. Beck couldn’t see his face, but he didn’t need to. Black hair and even blacker eyes, Randy was an enigma to Beck, the exact opposite of most snipers. They’d never gotten along; hotheaded and heavy-handed, Randy didn’t have the discipline Beck felt was necessary to be on the team, but Lena disagreed and she was the boss. Randy’s perfect shooting range score didn’t hurt, either.
“Where’s Chase?”
Beside him Lena sighed.
“I know, I know—” He spoke before she could answer him. “Chase is not a member of my cell, and Randy is good, and what’s my problem?” He lowered the glasses and looked at the woman beside him.
“And the answer is?” she said dryly.
“I don’t trust Randy,” he said bluntly, bringing the glasses back to his face. “He’s not a team player. He’s a hot dog.”
“C’mon, Beck. He’s been with us a year and he scores one hundred percent every time he’s on the range. He’s inexperienced but he’s done nothing wrong.”
“He’s done nothing period.”
“Give the guy a chance. You were young once, too, you know.”
“I was never that young.” Without waiting for her reply, he picked up the phone and hit the redial button. It began to ring in his ear as he looked down at his boss. “I don’t trust him,” he repeated darkly, “and neither should you.”
“LET ME ANSWER the phone, Howard, please.” His arm was so tightly pressed against her throat, Jennifer could hardly speak. “P-please. I-it could be important.”
“Who is it?” he asked illogically.
“I—I don’t know.” She put her fingers against his sleeve and gently tugged, trying for a little more air. He had on an orange jumpsuit, the uniform of the maintenance people. It smelled like diesel and fear. “Please, Howard.”
They stood together in the center of the room. When the phone stopped ringing, the thick tension seemed to hold the vibrations. A moment later, the sound started all over just as it had for the past hour.
“Let me answer it,” she whispered. “It might be a parent. Whoever it is won’t give up.”
“All right…but don’t tell ’em anything. Don’t tell ’em ’bout me.”
They stumbled together toward the telephone, which hung on the wall beside the door. Jennifer’s voice was breathless as she answered, and she prayed someone she knew was on the other end. Someone who could tell something was wrong with her even if she couldn’t get the words out. “H-hello?”
“This is Officer Beck Winters with the Emerald Coast SWAT team. Who am I speaking with, please?”
Jennifer’s heart knocked against her ribs in surprise, then she pulled herself together, fear, shock and relief combining inside her in a crazy mix. “Th-this is Jennifer Barclay.”
“Who is it?”
“Is everyone okay in there?”
Howard’s voice was harsh in her left ear, the policeman’s cool tones were in her right. She answered the policeman and ignored Howard. “W-we’re fine.”
Howard jerked his arm and Jennifer gasped automatically. “Who is it?” His voice dropped and menace filled it. “You tell me who that is. Right now!”
Jennifer turned slightly and looked into his face. Their eyes were inches apart, and she’d never noticed until this moment that one of his irises was lighter than the other. For some unexplained reason, those mismatched eyes sparked a moment of fear. She spoke quickly. “It’s the police. They want to know if everyone’s okay.”
His reaction was the last one she expected. He stiffened, dropped his arm from her neck and slowly began to back up, shaking his head. The rifle stayed pointed at her.
“Miss Barclay? Jennifer? Talk to me. I need to know what’s going on.”
Her mind drifting strangely, she imagined what the cop must look like—he had to be a big man, tall and barrel-chested, judging from the depth of his voice. Dark hair, she decided, and a pleasant face, rounded and caring.
“What does he want?” Howard asked again.
Apparently hearing the question, the cop spoke, still composed, still collected. He could have been asking to speak to his own brother. “I need to talk with Mr. French, please, Jennifer. Put him on the line.”
Jennifer held the phone out. “He wants to talk with you.”
Howard shook his head rapidly, his eyes huge. “No! No way. I’m not talking to them. Uh-uh.” He waved the rifle at her and she had to swallow a gasp. “You talk to ’em.”
She slowly brought the phone back to her ear. “He doesn’t want to speak with you.”
“Okay, okay. That’s all right for now, but eventually, I’ll need to talk to him. If he changes his mind and wants to speak to me, all you have to do is pick up the phone. It’s been reprogrammed to ring me automatically. Understand?”
His voice was so reassuring and confident Jennifer felt her shoulders ease just a tad. Here was help, she thought. She added a pair of warm brown eyes to the image of the officer she’d made in her mind. “Y-yes. I—I understand,” she answered.
“Good. Now answer my questions and don’t say anything else. We don’t want to upset him any more than he already is. How many people are there, including you and Howard French? Does he have a weapon? Is anyone hurt? Where are the kids?”
Jennifer glanced at the terrified students, then spoke. “Fifteen. Yes. No. At the back of the room.”
“All right.” She could hear him writing something down, a pen scratching on paper, then the sound stopped. “I’m going to ask you some more questions but first, no matter what happens, keep those kids where they are, okay? We have to know they’re in the same location and staying there. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Now, does he have a gun?”
“Yes.”
“A rifle or pistol?”
“The first.” She licked her suddenly dry lips. “A .22.”
A second passed, as if he were surprised by her recognition of the weapon. She found herself wishing she didn’t know.
“Is he calm?”
“For the moment.”
“Scared?”
“Yes.”
“Violent?”
“No, absolutely not.” She dropped her voice. “Howard isn’t like that at all. You don’t understand. Something must have happened to upset him. Something really bad—”
“Yes, ma’am, something bad happened. He’s come into your classroom, taken hostages and has a weapon.” He didn’t give her time to reply. “Our first priority is you and those children, though. We want everyone in there to come out alive and that’s our main goal. We want Mr. French to stay cool. We’ve got nothing