The sliding glass door opened noiselessly and the figure stepped through
it, a momentary shiver passing through him at the rapid change of air temperature
between the house and the wooden deck. He took a few barefoot steps forward
and leaned on the waist-high cedar railing, bending slightly to rest his
weight on his elbows, cradling the mug of coffee he was holding between both
hands. The coffee was hot, the steam rising wraith-like into the cool air
in front of his face, tangling briefly with the chestnut almost-curls that
strayed over his forehead, before carrying the fragrant aroma of Costa Rican
coffee beans into the dawn.
It was early - very early, the sky tinged pink and silver, the trees stark
black silhouettes, every twig and leaf sharply defined against the pale backdrop.
There was no sound at all; he was standing in those few minutes of breathless
quiet just as dawn breaks, everything perfectly still and silent.
An empty stage waiting for the lights to go up, the performance to
begin.
A faint breath of breeze broke the moment, and he realised he had been
holding his breath. He inhaled - deeply, the chill morning air filling his
lungs. The air smelled damp and fresh - clean - as if the world had been
washed and brushed up overnight to emerge sparkling and revitalised for the
new day. How did Mother Nature do that, he wondered? How did she, every night,
take weary, grubby, tainted and tired yesterday, and perform some magic ritual
in the hours of darkness so that the same place, the same world, emerged
bright and freshly scrubbed the following morning? Yesterday's sins and hurts
forgotten, yesterday's slate cleaned, the new day bright, innocent and
optimistic.
The answer came to him in a flash.
Because Mother Nature had no memory - nothing to carry over from yesterday.
No thoughts, no images of what had gone before, no emotional turmoil to carry
through the night like an overfull cup that slipped and slopped its contents
all over this brand new morning, staining it and spoiling it before it had
hardly begun.
He was tired. The day hadn't even really begun yet and he was already
weary of it, wanting nothing more than to return to his dishevelled bed,
curl up between the crumpled sheets and wait for the blessed oblivion of
sleep. Except that Morpheus had seen fit not to bestow that particular blessing
on him last night and seemed no better disposed to doing so now. His tiredness
was bone-deep, aching, heavy and sore, yet his mind raced and his head throbbed
with the after-buzz of adrenaline that simply would not dissipate. A body
that craved sleep and a mind totally unwilling to allow it, resulting in
a futile battle within him that he no longer had the strength or will to
keep fighting.
He put the coffee mug down on the flat top of the handrail and, using
both hands, tightened the belt of the towelling robe he wore in an attempt
to ward off the slight chill in the air. He felt the tremor rippling up his
arms, the instinctive prickle of goose-flesh rising, and clenched his
teeth.
It was cold, that was all. Just cold.
The tremor gained force, growing in strength, spreading to his fingers,
trickling down his spine. He shuddered and closed his eyes, letting his body
ride out the unpleasant sensation with as little resistance as possible.
After a few seconds the shivering subsided, and he let out the breath
he had been holding from between gritted teeth.
It was the cold air, that was all.
He picked up the coffee mug again, wrapping its welcome warmth between
his clammy palms, and lifted the mug to his lips.
The coffee was hot, black and very strong, the fragrance and intense rush
of caffeine buzzing along his nerves as he took a mouthful. Screw it. If
he wasn't going to get any sleep, he was damn well going to be properly
awake.
His green eyes caught sight of the knuckles on his right hand as he lowered
the mug again, and he froze in mid-action. The flesh was red, slightly swollen,
with a faint purplish tinge across the back of his hand. A tiny scratch,
almost invisible, ran across the base of his index finger - little more than
a hairsbreadth wide. Almost insignificant blemishes - certainly not substantial
enough to be classed as 'injuries', yet the sight of them caused his breath
to freeze in his throat and his pulse rate to increase so rapidly that his
head spun.
Just as if someone had thrown a switch, a horrible succession of images
began flickering through his brain, like a movie playing to audience of one
in his head, overwhelming him. He closed his eyes, trying to fend off the
scenes filling his mind's eye. He began to shake again, tremors juddering
along his muscles, uncontrollable, unstoppable.
Dark blue eyes silently screaming at him for help.
Fear burning along his nerves, nausea rocketing up his throat as he tried
to quell the suffocating panic in his chest.
Blood trickling through a dark moustache and dripping in a steady rhythm
onto the front of a blue shirt.
A grimy finger curled around a metal trigger, the muscles closing,
contracting.
The gun pointing slightly downwards, aiming straight .
NO!!!!
The coffee mug shook violently, the black liquid slopping over its rim,
falling unseen and unfelt onto the back of his hand, down the front of the
robe and onto the wooden decking, staining the bright new morning with dark
drops of yesterday.
7~7~7~7~7~7~7
Brilliant sunlight winked between the buildings as Ezra Standish's sleek
Jaguar cruised slowly along the road that led to Buck Wilmington's home.
The flashes of light strobed uncomfortably in the corner of his left eye,
making him blink rapidly and forcing him to concentrate harder on driving.
He turned left onto Buck's street and pulled to a smooth halt beside the
curb outside the familiar house. He was about to sound the horn to inform
Buck of his presence, but thought better of it for a moment and simply sat,
hands resting comfortably on the steering wheel, staring out of the windshield
at nothing in particular.
Get it together, Ezra, he told himself. Concentrate.
His head throbbed a little, nowhere near enough to be deemed a hangover but
enough to warn him to focus carefully before he saw Buck this morning. Especially
after last night. He raised his eyes to the rear-view mirror.
"You almost blew it last night, Standish, you know that, don't you?" he said
to the slightly bleary-eyed reflection.
It had been close. Too damn close. A long breath escaped him and he almost
groaned.
It had all started out so normally, so innocently. The team had met, as usual,
for a drink at Inez's Saloon. Ezra had been slightly delayed, following a
small celebration held by Team 9 for a successful bust that he had been part
of. He hadn't really contributed anything much, save some small snippets
of information that he had gleaned whilst undercover some months previously,
but the team had invited him to their "post-bust bash" and he had gone along
to be sociable. A couple of glasses of wine, three at the most, was all he
had consumed before making his excuses and leaving the jubilant members of
Team 9 to their well-deserved party. By the time he had arrived at Inez's,
the other members of Team 7 were all there and two drinks were waiting for
him on the table before the one remaining unoccupied chair at their usual
table.
The one empty chair.
Next to Buck.
His instinctive "undercover" face had slammed down like a guillotine blade
and Ezra had sunk into the chair, his heart thumping too loudly in his chest
and a silent incantation of gratitude whispering in his mind for the fact
he did not possess the gene that made one blush.
Buck had been regaling the others with yet another of his countless stories,
his expressive hand gestures and mobile eyebrows making everyone laugh.
Ezra had sat down and tried to concentrate on the story.
The two, or had it been three, glasses of wine had conspired with his empty
stomach however, and instead of listening to Buck's words, he had found himself
watching the midnight eyes dance with laughter and listening to the voice
that seemed to seep through him like warm honey, pooling in the centre of
his chest, hot and soft, making his heart beat faster. He had allowed himself
the guilty pleasure of just feeling for a few minutes, allowing the
sensations to slip beneath his carefully constructed persona of casual
indifference, fill his senses. The effect had been all the more powerful
because it was, in Ezra's mind at least, so totally forbidden. He had breathed
in, the familiar scent of Buck's spicy aftershave swimming around in his
head. He had watched the expressions and emotions register on that dark,
handsome face, watched the long limbs effortlessly and unconsciously punctuating
the words spoken by that hypnotic voice, and allowed his imagination to run
riot. His nerves were reverberating with tension, he fancied that even through
two jacket sleeves he could feel the heat radiating off the body next to
him. He luxuriated in it.
You okay, Ez? Vin Tanner's voice had shattered his guilty enjoyment,
spearing into his conscious mind like a bucket of iced water tipped over
him, making him jump.
Yes, of course! He had answered quickly, a little too quickly
- he had seen the consternation register on Vin's face, the creasing of the
forehead as Vin's shrewd blue eyes looked at him. Why on earth shouldn't
I be?
Vin had shrugged. Ya looked a li'l strange.
Goddamn Vin Tanner and those sharp eyes of his! Vin had caught him! The only
saving grace was that Vin was unaware of precisely what he had caught. He
continued to regard Ezra with a slightly quizzical expression, as if trying
to work out what it was Ezra was lying about, and why. Ezra had had to
concentrate hard to prevent himself from squirming with discomfort and
embarrassment.
Too close. Much too close. He was going to have to be more careful. No, he
silently commanded himself in the mirror, not more careful, he was going
to have to stop . It was futile anyway, he told himself, this ridiculous
imagining he allowed himself to indulge in - and far, far too risky. For
perhaps the first time in his life he was, almost, content - he had a job
he enjoyed and was good at, colleagues who were reliable, loyal and who,
wonders would never cease, actually trusted him. For the first time in his
life he had. friends.
There was too much at stake here, too much to lose.
To put that at risk for the vagaries of a totally unvoiced and unrequited
physical attraction was at best completely stupid, and at worst incredibly
dangerous.
Buck Wilmington had never shown the slightest inclination in that direction.
Indeed, his reputation as the Don Juan of Denver was notorious and an image
he appeared to revel in, regaling them at every opportunity with colourful
and, frankly, at times unbelievable, tales of his "encounters". Oh, but that
man could tell a tale, Ezra smiled. He had a voice that could charm the birds
out of the trees, a laugh that was more infectious than a common cold, and
a way with words that had to be heard to be believed. Team those with a pair
of devastating dark blue eyes and a smile that could render any female within
sight utterly helpless, and there you had Buck.
Ezra had already lectured himself on the inappropriateness and downright
stupidity of physical attraction. The dangers of obeying one's body instead
of one's mind. That road was clearly marked "catastrophe" and was to be avoided
at all costs. Particularly when the individual was one of the few people
he had ever been able to call a friend.
But that didn't stop him wanting.
He just had to work harder at hiding it. No matter; hiding the truth of who
he was, what he felt, came naturally to him. It was part of his job after
all, and he was damn good at it.
The sudden banging of the front door of the townhouse bought Ezra sharply
back into the present. He watched as the long, lithe form loped easily down
the steps, grinning warmly, his jacket hooked by one finger over his left
shoulder.
"Mornin', Slick!" Wilmington grinned, opening the passenger door of the Jag
and folding his long frame easily into the seat beside Ezra.
"Good morning, Mr Wilmington, and my name is Ezra."
Buck winked at him. "No kiddin'! Well, when you stop calling me 'Mr Wilmington',
I'll stop calling you 'Slick' - okay?"
"I should have let you walk to work."
Buck beamed. "But ya didn't, did ya?" He clapped a hand on Ezra's shoulder.
"The generous side of your nature got the better of you!"
Ezra felt the warmth of Buck's grip through his summer weight jacket and
shirt, the warmth that felt as if it were burning his skin, and tried to
ignore the skip in his pulse.
"I do not have a 'generous' side to my nature and, please be assured, even
if I did, I would most certainly never allow it to get the better of me,"
he said, raising his eyebrows at Buck's broadly smiling face.
"Can't fool me, Slick," Buck said with another wink, "I can see straight
through that cool exterior of yours. I know all your secrets!"
Ezra shook his head, smiling at the lanky agent. Thank God you don't, he
thought silently. "I will drop you off at the office first, then I have some
business to attend to at the bank. I have informed Mr Larabee, but it shouldn't
take me more than half an hour at the most, so I doubt I will be late," Ezra
said as the car pulled away.
Buck frowned. "Hell, Ezra, you should have said you were busy this mornin'.
I could've bummed a ride off one of the others."
"No need, you're on my way into the city anyway."
"But if you drop me off first, you'll be going out of your way," Buck said
thoughtfully. "Tell you what! I'll come with you to the bank. That way you
won't have to go to the office twice!"
"I don't mind. It's no trouble."
Buck shook his head. "Nope, it's stupid to fight your way through the traffic
when there's no need. I'll just wait for you to do whatever you need to do
at the bank, then we'll go in together. How's that sound?"
Ezra nodded. "As you wish. It really shouldn't take long. I simply have to
check some dates on some of Mother's stock certificates at the bank. It only
requires a few moments checking through the safety deposit box."
"That where you stash all your ill-gotten gains then? In a safety deposit
box?"
"No, but it's where Mother 'stashes' hers. I simply use it to store my smuggled
firearms and gold bullion," Standish replied with a flash of a gold-toothed
smile.
7~7~7~7~7~7~7
The Denver branch of the TransContinental Bank was busy, the first rush of
customers trying to transact their business and still get to their offices
on time, as Buck and Ezra stepped through the wide glass doors into the banking
hall.
Nearly all the tellers' positions were open, and other customers were standing
at the waist high writing tables that surrounded the imposing marble pillars
of the establishment, filling in credit slips or checking papers.
Ezra made a bee-line for a small office at the rear of the cavernous banking
hall. "I'll try not to be too long," he said. "I suppose it will depend how
swiftly they can get the box up here."
Buck waved him off. "Don't worry," he said, settling into one of the waiting
chairs, "I'll just sit here and watch the world go by." He winked, indicating
a pretty blonde teller who would be directly in his line of sight, and Ezra
rolled his eyes.
"Try not to get into any trouble."
Buck looked affronted. "Me? What kind of trouble could I possibly
get into sitting in a chair?"
"The permutations of that suggestion leave me almost breathless," Ezra said
as he strode off towards the closed office door.
Neil Sleeman's grey eyes watched Ezra and Buck walk through the banking hall
on the closed circuit tv monitor mounted high on the wall in the corner of
his office. He rose from his chair, a tall, imposing figure swathed in a
charcoal suit and pale blue shirt and tie. Timing his walk across the carpeted
floor, he opened the door when Ezra was precisely two strides from it.
"Agent Standish!" Sleeman said with a broad, ingratiating grin as he extended
a hand. "How nice to see you again."
Ezra returned the slightly damp, slightly hot handshake with a completely
counterfeit smile. He didn't care for Neil Sleeman in the least. In Standish's
eyes the man was a typical banker-type, weak, watery and faintly repugnant,
covered with a veneer of slightly insolent superiority. Ezra had often mused
that Sleeman should have added a 'z' to his name between the 'e's' - 'Slezeman'
would have fit the man like a well made suit.
"Mr. Sleeman," Ezra returned the greeting, "I trust you received my message?"
"Of course, Agent Standish. And how is your charming mother?"
Capable of eating you whole and spitting out your bones, Ezra wanted
to say, but heard his own voice replying, "Quite well, thank you."
Sleeman returned to the far side of his desk. "Please, take a seat for a
moment," he said, indicating the visitor's chair in front of the desk as
he picked up the phone, "I'll have the box brought up directly."
Ezra sat, watching Sleeman punch in numbers on the phone keypad.
What's wrong with this picture? The words formed in Ezra's brain.
Something.
His acute sense of his surroundings, an almost unconscious ability he seemed
to have been born with that gave him his own "radar", was telling him that
there was something about this that didn't feel right. It was
instinctive, almost animalistic, this intuition that had saved his hide on
more than one occasion. Like a sixth sense that set off silent alarm bells
almost at the edge of his consciousness.
He could hear them now, though.
What was it?
What had set off his intuitive warning system?
The almost silent background hum of the air conditioning registered in his
brain and reminded him, almost comically, of wheels turning in his head.
Sleeman was saying something into the phone - the words did not register.
Ezra looked at him.
Expensive shirt somewhat degraded by a cheap suit.
Blond hair, receding at the front, in need of a trim over his collar. Pallid
skin, blotched here and there with faint red patches, dark circles smudging
his cheekbones beneath pale grey eyes. Sweat beading his forehead, glistening
on the thinner skin where his hair had once been.
A long finger hooked over the knot in his tie as he talked, easing the shirt
collar away from his neck as if he were choking.
The shirt did not look too tight. His whole demeanour looked uncomfortable.
Ezra frowned.
Sleeman replaced the telephone. "The box is on its way up, Agent Standish."
He indicated an ante- room to the left of the main office door, "I can offer
you a private, secure room here for your business."
Ezra nodded in agreement. "Thank you," he said, rising from the chair and
following Sleeman to the small security office, "I should not be long. A
few minutes at most. I simply need some confirmation of a few details."
Sleeman shook his head. "Please feel free to take as long as you wish."
The security room was small, windowless, but comfortable. Furnished with
a large polished wood table and three chairs and supplied with a tray of
the bank's stationery, pens and a calculator, it was functional rather than
aesthetic, the plain walls and wooden door betraying nothing of their concealed
strengthened interiors of metal rods and reinforced concrete. A plush safe.
Ezra pushed aside the vague sense of claustrophobia he experienced on entering
- windowless rooms always made him feel faintly breathless and constricted.
He would only need a few minutes to check the dates on the stock certificates,
then he could get out of here and get on with the day.
A knock on the main office door heralded the arrival of a securities clerk,
accompanied by a guard, carrying the slim, rectangular metal box. Sleeman
placed the box on the table in front of Ezra, handed Ezra the key to the
room, then retreated back into his own office, closing the door behind him.
Ezra locked the door to the security room and retrieved the safety deposit
box key from the bunch in his jacket pocket before sitting down.
High on the wall behind him, another closed circuit security monitor showed
the banking hall and the front entrance to the bank.
As Ezra moved his hand to unlock and open the lid of the box, his nose wrinkled
in distaste at the large, sweaty handprint Sleeman had left on the metal.
Unseen by Ezra, the monitor showed a dark vehicle pulling to a halt directly
outside the doors. In stark black and white, like a scene from a movie, five
figures exited the car and walked briskly in through the doors.
Ezra removed several sheets of paper from the box; the windowless, soundproofed
room rendering him oblivious to events in the banking hall.
The five figures fanned out in a wide arc as they entered the building. They
were all wearing long coats and Halloween masks, and carrying guns.
7~7~7~7~7~7~7
Buck was relaxing in the visitor's chair, amusing himself by making eyes
at the blond teller who was pretending she hadn't noticed, but her furiously
blushing fair cheeks told him otherwise.
He was relaxed, calm and vaguely bored. Banks were not the most exciting
places to observe humanity and he found himself hoping Ezra wouldn't take
too long.
He didn't see the car pull up outside. He didn't even notice the figures
striding in through the glass doors.
It was the shouting that got his attention.
"Good morning, everybody!"
"Lock those doors - NOW!"
"Listen up, people!"
"Everyone on the floor - NOW!"
Then all hell broke loose.
With speed and assurance that spoke of hours of rehearsal, the gang of robbers
split up and positioned themselves at strategic points throughout the large
room.
"No heroes now. Everyone do exactly as they're told and you'll all have a
story to tell your grandchildren!"
Loud, authoritative voices without a hint of panic in them.
Adrenaline roared through Buck's system, flooding his brain with a clarity
that seemed to reduce everything to a painful slow-motion. Years of training
had schooled his instinctive reactions into a defined pattern and, without
any conscious thought on his own part, his eyes and ears began taking everything
in and processing the information with lightning speed.
He became aware of a lot of things all happening at once. Several of the
women screamed. One of the robbers, wearing a long dark coat and a vampire
mask, jumped onto the counter and raised the gun, swivelling around in a
tight circle to demonstrate he could cover the entire room.
Buck realised instantly that these guys were no opportunistic amateurs. In
what seemed like a split second, they had secured and covered everyone in
the room with a skill that hinted strongly at military or government training.
In different circumstances, he could easily imagine his own team using similar
tactics to control a room.
"Everyone down! Flat on the floor!! NOW!!" A white mackintosh and a ghost
mask, positioned towards the front door, left the bank's customers in no
doubt as to who was in charge here.
Two of the gang, ghost and a shorter man wearing a grotesque clown mask,
watched the customers, most of whom were attempting to comply with the
instruction.
Another gang member in a Frankenstein mask was aiming carefully at the line
of tellers, his gun panning evenly from one to the next.
A tall, very slim one wearing a witch mask had vaulted the counter and was
cramming a holdall with the contents of the teller's cash drawers, ramming
the cash into the canvas bag with amazing speed and dexterity.
The last gang member - Vampire - was still standing on top of the counter,
overseeing the whole operation.
As he lowered himself to the floor, Buck considered his options.
There were not too many to choose from.
There was no way he could draw his weapon without being seen. He and the
bank security guards, most of whom were rent-a-cops with poor training at
best, were the only people in the room he was sure were armed. His eyes flicked
around, trying to see how many guards were in the banking hall. One by the
door - they had passed him on the way in. At least one, maybe two, in the
hall itself. One federal agent and two or three security guards whose abilities
and training were unknown to him was not a particularly attractive option.
More like suicide.
Ezra was in an office at the rear of the banking hall, probably oblivious
to all of this.
Without a doubt the bank would have a discreet alarm system which, hopefully,
had been triggered by now. That meant the cavalry would be screaming in shortly
- a fact that Buck was certain the robbers were aware of.
As if by telepathy, Vampire shouted, "Time, Casper??"
"One-oh-nine," the ghost shouted back immediately.
Buck's mind was whirling. These guys were timing their operation down to
the second. They were going to be out and gone before the cops arrived.
Realising that any attempt at foiling the robbery was futile, and would make
an already potentially dangerous situation lethal, Buck opted for close
observation of the gang, studying their sizes, shapes, hand movements - anything
that might help put together a profile of these men. Fear makes fools out
of people, and Buck knew most of the customers' recollections would be hazy
and inaccurate when it came to witness statements. A body's natural instinct
is self- preservation, a brain shuts down all non- essential systems when
threatened and shocked. Buck's training had transformed that fear and shock
into useful, focused attention. He may not be able to stop them, but he could
sure as hell study them.
Five of them. Vampire, witch, clown, ghost and Frankenstein.
The full head masks and long coats made physical characteristics impossible
to determine, but he could see clearly that Vampire had grimy hands, ingrained
with what could be motor oil or grease - something normal washing obviously
couldn't remove. He wasn't particularly tall, and wore old athletic shoes
and Levi's under the long coat. Broad shouldered with a loud voice. A mechanic,
maybe, or an engineer?
The witch who was emptying the cash drawers was half-hidden from Buck's field
of view by the counter and the fact that Wilmington was laying on the floor,
but Buck would have bet a month's wages that the guy was wearing gloves -
he had vaulted over the counter and this gang were too well organised to
go leaving anything as useful as a hand-print around. Much taller and slimmer
than Vampire, Buck's gut feeling was that this guy was younger.
By turning his head slightly, he could see the feet of the ghost, nearest
to him, one of the two gang members guarding the bank's customers. The feet
told him little. Jeans and store-bought Nike trainers, looked new, no helpful
stains or other clues.
Clown was behind him, out of his field of vision. That left Frankenstein,
whose role appeared to be threatening the bank staff. From his semi-prone
position, Buck had a reasonable view of him - albeit mostly from the back
- but Wilmington could clearly see the ends of a long ponytail hanging out
from under the back edge of the mask. The hair was dark - very dark, and
straight as an arrow. The guy was fairly short, and even swathed in the disguise,
obviously slim and slightly built. Latin, maybe? Buck made a fast mental
note to try and catch the guy's accent if he spoke again.
Without drawing attention to himself, Buck tried to change his position to
get a view of the one gang member he could not see. He had begun to turn
to the right, twisting his long body slowly on the tiled floor so as not
to attract attention, when he caught sight of something else. The bank security
guard positioned by the front entrance was trying to draw his weapon.
Buck wanted to scream at him - NO!!! It was an impossible position to fire
from - the guard had no cover, and was unsighted for at least two of the
gang members. It was suicide. Before Buck could respond or react, the guard
moved with surprising speed up onto his knees, raised his weapon and fired
at Frankenstein, catching him in the right shoulder and spinning him around.
That single shot drew three in response, the first, from Vampire, hitting
the guard in the centre of his chest and throwing him backwards, the next
two, fired in rapid succession from gang members Buck could not identify
fast enough, thudded into the guard only inches away from the first, blood
blossoming on the front of his blue shirt like a macabre flower. The guard
was dead before his body stopped sliding down the wall, leaving a ghastly
trail of vertical red smears in its wake.
Muffled screams and sobs could be heard from the terrified customers, and
Buck realised with a renewed surge of adrenaline that the whole situation
had changed in a split second. A chill crept through his stomach like cold
water.
An already dangerous situation had become lethal.
The bank robbers were now murderers.
7~7~7~7~7~7~7
The soundproofing in the security room was sufficient to subdue most of the
noise from outside, but the decibel rating of four shots speared into Ezra's
consciousness like a pin through a balloon.
Instantly alert, Ezra reacted in the same instinctive manner that Buck had,
his head swivelling, right hand drawing his weapon, his body coiling into
a low crouch as he moved to the other side of the table. His eyes caught
the security monitor and he took in the stark, monochrome scene. He could
not see the tellers, but he could see the front section of the banking hall
and the entrance. He could also see the body of the security guard slumped
against the wall and several customers huddled together as they lay on the
floor. With a sharp twinge of fear, he realised he could not see Buck; the
chair where he had left his friend was outside the view field of the camera.
He could see a figure wearing a clown mask and aiming a gun at something
off to the left of the camera; another figure, wearing what appeared to be
a Frankenstein mask, was scrambling to his feet, pawing at his right shoulder
awkwardly with a left arm that still held a gun. The dark stain spreading
on his coat clearly indicated that he had been injured. Two of them? More?
Almost certainly more, Ezra decided swiftly. There had been four shots, but
the only obvious casualties were the body slumped against the wall near the
entrance and the gunman with the injured shoulder.
He had to get out there. He had to know where Buck was.
Ignoring the light-headedness of the adrenaline rush, Ezra slipped easily
and with no conscious effort into the behaviour of years of training. Silently
praying that his cell phone would work inside this concrete tomb, he swiftly
keyed in the emergency response number. He knew that no-one would answer,
but the ATF would know that they had an agent in trouble - the rest they
would have to work out for themselves.
Switching the gun to his left hand, he retrieved the key to the door of the
security room from the table top and edged closer to the locked door. He
listened carefully, but could not detect any sounds from Sleeman's office.
He pushed the key into the lock, frowning when he realised it would not fit.
He knew it was the right key - it was the same one he had locked the door
with only a few minutes previously.
Squatting down to peer into the keyhole, Ezra realised that the reason his
key would not fit was that another key had been placed in the lock from the
other side - effectively blocking the keyhole.
Who? Why?
Suddenly, like the final piece of the jigsaw clicking into place, the nagging
something that had been edging at the corners of his mind came into
clear, vivid focus. The series of seemingly unconnected flashes of disturbed
thought suddenly clicked together to make coherent, and frightening, sense.
Sleeman.
The air conditioning in his office had been working efficiently, yet the
man had been sweating - his face red, his hand working at the collar of his
shirt.
Fear makes you sweat, Ezra knew that to be true, and Sleeman had been sweating
enough to leave a wet handprint on the security box. His whole attitude,
everything about him, had screamed of being nervous, tense and anxious, and
now he had locked a man he knew to be a federal agent in a security room
whilst his bank was being robbed. Standish would have bet a year's salary
that these things were not unconnected.
Ezra had no way of knowing whether or not Sleeman was still in his office
on the other side of the door, but either way he had to get out of this room.
He glanced again at the security monitor - the picture was almost unchanged,
but he knew he didn't have much time.
Grabbing a paper clip and a sheet of the bank's notepaper from the table,
he knelt down behind the door and began pulling at the strip of draught excluder
attached to the bottom edge of the wood. The material had been glued into
place and needed all of the strength in Ezra's fingers to prise it clear
of the wood, but once he got some leverage behind it he had soon detached
enough to slide the paper under the door, collecting a few scratches and
a splinter along the way. Refashioning the paper clip into a crude lockpick,
he inserted it into the keyhole and gave it a sharp twist, trying to get
the key on the other side into a position where he could push it backwards,
out of the lock. It took several attempts, but finally he felt the metal
key move. Withdrawing the paper clip, he pushed his key into the lock, feeling
a surge of satisfaction as the barrel finally slid all the way in. He bent
down and pulled at the notepaper, smiling as it emerged from under the door
with the other key laying neatly on it. Unlocking the door with his key,
he pocketed them both before carefully opening the door just a crack, his
weapon drawn.
Sleeman's office was deserted.
Keeping his back to the wall and moving swiftly and silently, Ezra made for
the door to the banking hall.
Hang on, Buck, I'm coming.
