“That’s very thoughtful of you, Aaron. Very thoughtful. And the answer is: hell, no. Do you know why?”
After a moment of silence, X-Files turns to me. “Miss Riley Vasquez, answer my question.”
I blink. “What?”
“Wrong answer. Come on, girl. You’re a cop’s daughter. And, yes, I know exactly who we have with us tonight. Miss Riley here is quite the local celebrity. Her dearly departed daddy was a detective, formerly a member of the local SWAT team, which, with any luck, is pulling up out front as we speak. Tell me, Miss Riley, why will I not let you all leave?”
“Because you’re a tosser?” Max says, and I shoot him a glare.
“You need backup hostages,” I say. “It’s not about the money. You …” My heart thumps so hard I can’t get the rest out. And I don’t want to. I don’t want to be the one to put it into words.
“Come on, Miss Riley.” X-Files moves forward, waving the gun, and my gaze locks on that.
My blood rushes in my ears, voices coming as if from a mile away, barely penetrating, and Aaron’s telling him to stop, leave me alone, and X-Files makes some mocking reply and then Max says, “You can’t kill Aaron.”
“What’s that, Maximus?” X-Files swings the gun from me and a hand squeezes my arm and I jump to see Maria there, giving me a strained smile.
“You can’t let us go,” Max says, “because you need someone you can kill. It can’t be Aaron. So we’re cannon fodder.”
“What the hell?” Gideon scrambles to his feet and looks ready to go after Max until Aaron grabs his arm. Gideon throws Aaron off and says, “Did you hear what he said? You’re trying to get us out of this, and he’s trying to get us killed. Giving them ideas.”
Max rolls his eyes. “Yeah, mate. I’m giving them ideas, because that’s not what they’re thinking at all.”
“Max is right,” I say as I rise. “They need us to be the stick and the carrot. If things go well, they can release one of us.”
“And if they don’t, we shoot you,” X-Files says. “Well done, Maximus and Miss Riley. At least we have two kids with brains. Which is more than I can say for Mr. Highgate, but that’s what one expects of rich brats, isn’t it?”
As we sit, I whisper to Aaron, “Thank you. For trying.”
He frowns as if the suggestion that we be released was so obvious it doesn’t require comment. It does, though. He offered to take this all on himself—let eight strangers leave him to bear the brunt of the kidnappers’ wrath and frustration if their plan doesn’t go well. It’s not what I expected from him.
“The next thing—” X-Files begins. Then his cell phone rings. He takes it out and smiles at the screen. “Well, well, it seems we’ve made first contact.” He clicks the speaker button and answers the phone with “Good evening. To whom am I speaking?”
“Agent William Salas,” a deep voice says. “I’ll be working with you to resolve this matter.”
“Ooh, I score the hostage negotiator from the first call. Excellent. That will save us some time. I’m the party host tonight, and that’s all you need to know about me. My guests are far more important. Let’s get them to say hi. We’ll start with you.” He points to Maria. “State your name for the nice policeman.”
“Maria Lawrence,” she says, and we continue across the room.
CHAPTER 5
Everything’s going fine. At least, as fine as one might expect from a hostage negotiation. Outwardly, I think I seem calm enough. Inwardly, everything’s equally quiet … if you don’t count that little girl at the back of my brain, running in circles, shouting, “We’re all going to die! Die!”
I’m a little concerned about how well I’m ignoring that girl. Just like I’ve been concerned about how well I handled the Porters’ deaths. I suppose the fact that I’m spending the weekend in therapy camp suggests I’m not handling it well at all, but I think I’d feel more normal if I spent my days huddled in bed, sobbing and seeing their bloodied bodies every time I close my eyes. This emptiness feels callous. The anxiety and the depression feels selfish, as if a horrible tragedy befell Darla and her parents and all I can think is “me, me, me.” I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I jump at every noise. It’s all about me.
Now, having been kidnapped, I should be a wreck. Instead, after I managed to rouse myself a couple of times, I only feel more numb than ever. As if tragedy is my new life. As if it’s all I can expect. The temptation to giggle at that is almost overwhelming. First my father gets shot in the line of duty. Then I’m in the house when my babysitting clients are shot to death. Finally I get taken captive—by armed men—in the therapy camp that’s supposed to help me deal with all that trauma. Ironic, huh? Not piss-my-pants terrifying. Not even but-it-isn’t-fair self-centered. Just ironic.
As for the others, all I know is that they’ve gone quiet, and with nothing to break through my numbness, I don’t rouse myself enough to look around. They’re in shock or they’re silent with terror or they’re calmly waiting for the next step, because that’s all they can do, all anyone can do. At least they aren’t causing trouble anymore. That’s what counts.
The hostage negotiator is asking questions. X-Files takes the phone off speaker and walks out of the room. Before he goes, he says, “You kids get a little more comfy. Talk about cute boys and cool movies and hot music and whatever else teens natter on about these days. Just don’t let the word ‘escape’ leave your mouths. My guys have good ears and itchy trigger fingers.”