Takeover - Lisa Black [23]
Bobby finished tie-wrapping the security guys to the grillwork, arms up, facing out. It looked uncomfortable, not to mention embarrassing, and Paul felt for them. It was now all up to him, as the last loose law-enforcement person in the room. Training mantras came back to him: Watch for an opening. Wait until they’re both distracted, then fire quickly. Take out whoever’s closest to the hostages first. Don’t risk a civilian.
He assumed that either the police or the Fed security force, probably both together, were planning a response. The door at the north end had been closed off, according to Bobby. That left the hallway behind them and the street entrance. The ceiling was out—too high, and no handy acoustic tiles to hide behind, only ornate artwork and gilt edges.
“Nineteen twenty-three,” the black guy in the uniform whispered when he noticed Paul’s gaze. “They’re the original paintings.”
“Beautiful,” Paul told him, though he would rather have had ugly white tile that SRT guys could creep through.
“Yeah.” The man sighed. “You should see the executive offices. One has a Picasso and a collection of Murano glass.”
The tall robber watched them over Missy’s shoulder but said nothing. Still, Paul piped down. No sense pressing his luck.
When the dog’s leash had been secured to the grating, Bobby returned to the southwest corner of the lobby, where sniper fire through either the Superior or East Sixth windows would require an impossibly sharp angle. “Okay, Lucas.”
Another name. Either these guys weren’t very good at this or they didn’t intend to leave witnesses.
Lucas ordered the rest of them to slide down toward the two women, and Paul inched across the floor. It felt good to let his arms down and even better when Lucas did not tell them to put them up again. Clamping his left arm to his side kept the blazer from opening and exposing his firearm.
He came to rest against a rounded reception desk of solid marble, standing alone before the employee lobby with the elevator bank. The three security guards were tied at least forty feet from Paul, making communication difficult, if not impossible. If Paul turned his head to their direction, he also faced Bobby, in his safe zone in front of the savings-bond teller cages.
“Sorry, Missy,” Lucas said to the quivering hostage. “I’m going to need you to stand in front of me for just another minute. You, the gentleman in the green.” He stared at the black man next to Paul, the one who knew how old the ceiling paintings were. “Where’s the money?”
The man swallowed hard but answered in a steady voice. “In the tellers’ drawers. The rest of this floor is an educational area now, classrooms and displays.”
Lucas cocked one eyebrow. “You think I’m doing all this to empty a few drawers?”
That didn’t clarify matters. “There’s cash in various areas all over this building. Is there some amount in particular that you mean?”
“I mean the really big pile of it.”
“Well—”
The phone rang.
“Missy,” Lucas said, “I’m going to need you to answer that, please.”
CHAPTER 7
9:40 A.M.
Theresa squinted at the screen, dimly aware that she still pinned Cavanaugh’s warm arm to the table. “Does that woman have a child with her?”
Everyone else looked, leaning toward the small television screen as if a magnetic force pulled them.
She could make out the woman’s light-colored hair and the outlines of the small person in her arms, but beyond that the image shaded into pixelated blobs of gray tones. “Frank, you don’t think—”
“Why the heck would she have a kid in there?” Jason asked of no one in particular.
“Do you have day care on the premises?” Cavanaugh said to Kessler.
“No.”
Theresa let go of Cavanaugh’s arm and patted Frank’s in agitation. “Our dead guy from this morning—could that be his wife and child in the lobby?”
Now Frank squinted, and Cavanaugh regarded the screen with new interest. “What makes you say that?”
“They match the description. We saw their photos this morning, and it could be them.”
Frank said, “You think she went there looking for her husband?”
“It would