including a small employee lounge to the thief’s left side.
When the tellers had dragged the cash-filled bags to the gunman’s feet, he motioned them back in line, yelling, “Now, everyone get your clothes off! Shoes off, too. Throw everything in a pile here,” he ordered, gesturing to the floor with the gun.
Pria heard a sharp intake of breath next to her that alarmed her more than removing her red dress, which was little more than a long tee shirt. She whipped the dress over her head and kicked her flip flops to the center of the floor. Down to her slip, she glanced at the girl, who was sliding a pair of cut offs down thin, tan legs. She wore a simple pink top with buttons and white cotton panties. Her fingers fluttered over the shirt’s buttons, unable to make herself undo them.
“Honey…” Pria whispered.
“I’m not wearing a bra,” the girl hissed, in a panicky voice.
“It’ll be okay. Keep the shirt on. Just don’t say a word, no matter what.”
In a moment, the thief’s eye came to rest on the girl, as the other hostages continued disrobing. He strode forward until he was inches of her face.
“Get your shirt off, bitch!” he screamed.
The girls squeezed her eyes closed as if to protect herself from his fury. She turned her head away, expecting to be hit.
Pria noted the thief’s hot breath and dirty, blond hair. His pale skin was specked with acne scarring. Spittle gathered at the corners of his thin lips.
Pria’s hand flew upward in front of the man’s face. “She won’t run,” she said firmly. “That’s why you want us to take our shoes and clothes off…so we won’t run for the door. She won’t run.”
The gunman looked down at Pria, as if aware of her for the first time.
Pria slipped an arm around the girl’s shoulders to pull her closer. It was a small glamour, but the most she could hope for given the thief’s almost-frenzied mental state. “She won’t run,” she repeated. “She knows you’re powerful…and strong. She doesn’t want to die, so she won’t run. You’re strong and powerful and you can allow her to keep the shirt on,” Pria insisted. “The shirt means nothing. She won’t run. Because you’re powerful”
In the thief’s mind, Pria’s voice had an odd lilting quality. It calmed him and somehow he felt her words to be truth. The girl wouldn’t run, he realized. She knew he’d kill her. Closing his eyes, he saw the girl running; saw himself shooting her in the back as she got closer to the bank’s glass doors.
“She will not run,” Pria repeated firmly.
Then, the thief knew she was right. No one would want to die with a bullet in the back. The shirt wasn’t important. He could allow her to keep it.
“Yeah… I don’t have time to fuck around with this,” he said under his breath and moved away.
The girl clutched Pria’s hand, like the lifeline it had become.
“Be still,” Pria whispered. “Don’t make a sound.”
“Everyone on the floor!” the thief bellowed, still waving the gun like a riding crop “Cells, purses, wallets…right here…at my feet!”
Purses, wallets and cell phones quickly became a small mound in front of the thief, who pulled a spool of thin wire from a back pocket. Moving quickly from hostage to hostage, he bound their hands in front of them with the wire, which was meant to hurt as much as restrain.
The next two events told Pria a teller had somehow managed to alert the police. First, the power went out, killing most of the lights, air conditioning and several computers, plunging the bank into an oddly quiet state. Within a few minutes, a phone on a corner desk began ringing. The sound brought a look of triumph to the thief’s face, as he shoved a teller to answer it.
The tiny, gray-haired teller, bright-eyed with fear, snatched at the phone, which seemed deafening. “It’s for you,” she said in a whispery croak, as if her vocal chords weren’t cooperating.
Pria felt genuine fear punch a hook into her stomach, as the thief snatched the phone’s receiver and grinned. Reports of this kind of thing were plentiful and news images often showed live hostages being taken away by cops after the fireworks were over. Until she’d seen the sick grin, she’d hoped the guy would take the cash and bolt. This wasn’t just a bank robber, but a psychotic, who was far more dangerous than someone looking for money. She also realized, with a horrible sense of dread, the bank robber hadn’t covered his face. Since everyone in the bank could easily identify him, Pria recognized their chances for getting out alive were dwindling. Although the thief kept his voice low on the phone, Pria had the sense that he was asking for someone named Joe.
“Yeah, you get Joe in here,” he said smugly, leaving Pria to wonder who Joe was.
The thief concluded the conversation quickly, slamming the phone’s receiver back into its cradle. Three long strides brought him to Pria, with her legs tucked under her on the floor. Grabbing a fistful of her long, dark hair, he pulled her upright.
“Do what you’re told, bitch,” he hissed, spinning her to face the door. “Understand?”
Grimacing, Pria nodded, causing him to yank her hair harder. “You will not hurt me,” she whispered. The glamour wouldn’t work, she realized. He was too wired and she couldn’t make eye contact with her back to his chest. With one hand still fisted in her hair, he pulled her forward with him, yanked the bar out of the door handles and dragged her back to the middle of the floor. He propped his other arm over her shoulder to point the gun at the bank’s front door.
Pria couldn’t see police or anything else through the glass doors, but within minutes, they parted and a tall, dark-haired guy stepped through. He was wearing a dark suit, a pale blue shirt and a Kevlar vest. A badge was clipped to his belt, but he didn’t appear to be armed. His face showed no emotion, as he spread his hands wide in front of him.
“Hi Marcus,” the cop said calmly. “You could’ve called or sent me a text if you’d wanted to talk.”
“Wasn’t sure you’d wanna’ talk, Joe,” Marcus Whitwater, thief, gunman and ex-con answered, grinning again. He was enormously pleased to see Joe Cafaris. In fact, he almost had to stifle a chuckle because this was the cop who’d taken his freedom more than ten years ago to put him in jail. In hell, actually, but today, Joe would be the one to walk him out the door with all the cash in the bank. The situation was a delicious irony to Whitwater, who had every intention of killing the cop after they were away from the bank and perhaps not too quickly.
Joe noted the presence and position of the woman Whitwater was hanging onto. Dark, red slip, lots of dark hair, no shoes and …breathing. Her position would make the sniper’s job tougher. Had to hurt, being held by the hair, but he prayed she’d remain still and not fucking lose it now.
“Well, we’re talking now,” Joe said evenly, beginning his approach to Whitwater and Pria. “You’ve got my undivided attention, but you need to let the woman go, Marcus. I’ll take her place. That’s what you want, right?” If Joe could keep the bastard’s attention focused on him, the hostages stood a decent chance of getting out alive. Well, some kind of chance, he thought, taking another step forward. From the corner of his eye, he saw the door to the employee lounge open a crack, but he kept his face toward
