you sure the phone’s right there in her classroom? We never had phones inside the rooms when I was in school. Maybe I should drag out the bullhorn.”
Lena stared at him, her gray eyes impatient and stormy as usual. “Wake up, Beck. This is the computer age. A lot of the classrooms have their own phones now. Besides that, the guys are already in place in the hallway and they can hear it ringing. It’s the right phone.”
“Maybe he took ’em somewhere else.”
“They’re there. A teacher saw the suspect grab a member of the school board who happened to be in the hall and drag her inside a classroom. She’s pretty sure she saw a gun, but isn’t positive. The responding officers didn’t even try to go in. They just called us.”
“How many are inside?”
“We don’t know yet. Another teacher was having a meeting with some of the students. Fourth graders. Their teacher’s name is Jennifer Barclay.”
He gripped the phone tightly. He’d faced countless calls like this one since he’d joined the team, but Beck never did it without nervousness sucker punching him in the gut, especially if there were kids involved. He knew too much, he thought all at once. When he was less experienced and more reckless, he hadn’t understood what was on the line.
Now he understood all too well.
He forced himself to focus. “Any background info yet?”
“Sarah’s working on it, but she hasn’t found a lot yet.”
Beck nodded. The only nontactical member of the team, Sarah Greenberg served as the information officer. She labored just as hard and was just as sharp as any of the other cops. Her job was to gather any details they might need to resolve a situation. Next to time, information was key.
“Who’s in there?”
Lena spoke as she brought a pair of high-powered binoculars to her eyes. “Cal and Jason are inside at one end of the hallway, and the rest of the gang’s at the other end. We don’t have much recon yet—can’t see inside. The perp pulled the shade on the window in the door and apparently they’re nowhere near 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.
