Amber Morn by Brandilyn Collins Page B

something for me.
     
    Roger stuck his head in the door. “I’ve got some calls in to Google. Waiting to hear back. Meantime, Jim says Frank’s in surgery. He’s going to be in there awhile — there’s a lot to repair. But he might make it.”
    Vince soaked in the news. “Oh, that’s wonderful! I didn’t think he had much of a chance.”
    “I know. It’s still touch and go, but…” Roger winced. “Also, Sarah’s had the bullet removed from her arm. She’s sedated but okay. Her husband’s with her.”
    “Okay, good.” A thought struck Vince. “Did somebody alert Frank’s parents?”
    “Did that first thing. Just called them back with this news. They’re already on their way to the airport.”
    Frank had grown up in the area, but his parents had recently moved to Seattle because of a transfer in his father’s employment.
    Vince shook his head. “Glad you remembered. I should have.”
    A shrug. “You got enough on your mind.” Roger rapped the threshold with his fingers and withdrew.
    Vince checked the comments box.
>> What makes you think you’re in a position to ask for ANYTHING?
     
    Vince stared at the words. If Wicksell didn’t start showing a willingness to negotiate, the situation could go south in a hurry.
>> Kent, you want me to help get the story out about T.J. I said I would. But you’ve got to work with me. Also, you need to be mindful of something. While you are telling the nation about your son’s innocence, the media are already putting out word that you’ve taken a dozen people hostage and shot a police officer. Can you see how this makes it hard for people to believe you? It would help a lot if they can see you’re working with me as I try to help you.
     
    Vince read over his words twice. Clicked
submit
.
    He waited for a reply, muscles tense.
Come on, Wicksell, give me something.
    What if the man flat out wouldn’t listen to logic? He already refused to believe the truth about his son.
    Vince refreshed the comments box. No answer.
    Tried fifteen seconds later. Nothing.
    A minute ticked by. He kept trying.
    Two minutes.
    Three.
    Maybe they weren’t checking comments. Maybe Bailey was typing T.J.’s story.
    Maybe not.
    Vince broke out in fresh sweat.

THIRTY-TWO
     
    Bailey’s heart flailed against her chest like the wings of a trapped bird.
    She sat at the computer, eyes glued to the monitor, hands clutched in her lap. Kent stalked back and forth along the tables shoved against the right wall, kicking at one, shoving a chair at another. He clutched his gun in his left hand. Fear of being trapped in his own game rolled off him in waves.
    This man was deadly enough in control. But if he felt cornered, saw no way to get what he wanted, Bailey
knew
he’d gun down every hostage in that room. It was in the way he moved, every expression on his face.
    Bailey sensed the rising tension of the other hostages. Brittany and Ali muffled sobs, Leslie shifted in her chair, someone farther down coughed. Mitch and Brad pointed their high-powered guns at the group with intensity, as if itching to pull the triggers.
    Brad stood before Wilbur’s stool, feet planted firmly apart, his expression crimped with anger. “
Don’t
do it; don’t give in to anything! He’ll just —”
    Kent threw his gun down on a table, picked up a chair, and flung it across the floor. It landed with a loud clatter and slid within three feet of his oldest son.
    Mitch cursed and jumped sideways. His face flushed. “Good, Dad, hit me next time.”
    Kent stomped toward him, finger raised and shaking. “I don’t want to hear nothin’ else out of either of you!” He glowered at Brad. “Just keep your opinions to yourself and let me
think
!”
    Brad and Mitch fell into a sullen silence. Minutes strained by. Kent stomped around, heels hard against the floor. Bailey stole a glance at her friends. Angie clutched her palms together in a sign of prayer. Brad saw her and laughed with derision.
    Kent whipped toward him,