Takeover - Lisa Black [42]
“Take it easy. Follow your son’s example and just chill out,” Lucas told her before moving on. “You, Talking Tina. What do you do here?”
“My name’s Cherise.” About thirty years of age, the slender woman eyed Lucas with more anger than fear. Paul felt that this could not be wise.
“Thanks for sharing, but I don’t recall asking your name. I asked what it is you do here.”
Bobby had been pacing along the teller cages like a hyena before feeding time, but now he stopped, perhaps sensing something in his partner’s voice. They’re too far apart, Paul thought—I can’t hit them both, not before one gets me.
“I’m a savings-bond teller.”
“What are those?”
“Savings bonds? They’re a promissory note guaranteed by the government. They’re also tax-exempt, so they’re a secure way to save. The bonds are bought and cashed in at those windows.” She ducked her head to indicate the teller cages behind him, on the East Sixth side of the lobby. “The ones you tied these guys to are empty, just there for show.”
“So there’s cash money in those cages? How much?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
The M4 carbine came up slowly, as if this were only a random movement and not connected to the sudden tension in his frame. “I’m beginning to not like you, Cherise. I’m beginning to doubt your concern for your coworkers. Jessie, you might want to block your baby’s ears.”
The young mother gasped.
“So how much, Cherise?”
“Three to five hundred thousand.”
“Hmm.” Lucas lowered the submachine gun, reached into his oversize duffel, and pulled out a red nylon backpack. He tossed it to her. “Fill this up.”
Cherise didn’t move. “What?”
“You work in those teller cages, right? You must know where the money is.”
“Well, yeah—but I only have keys to my drawers, the ones assigned to me. I’ll have about—”
Before she could complete her mental calculations, Lucas reached into the duffel bag again and pulled out an eight-inch-long Craftsman screwdriver. “That’s all right. I have this. It might screw up the locks a little, but then again, I don’t really care.”
She still did not move.
“Do you want to sit in this lobby until two this afternoon?”
She stood up slowly, never taking her eyes off the barrel of his gun.
“Good job, Cherise. We’re going to walk a wide path around these friends of yours from security and their puppy. Don’t forget I have twenty-nine rounds of .223 shells pointed at your back, and all it would take is one twitch of my finger to let them all fly into you. Keep an eye on the rest of them, Bobby.” He had to shout over the K-9 unit’s dog, barking at their passage.
“I’ve got ’em,” his partner said, raising his own carbine to his shoulder. He sighted down the barrel in Paul’s direction, and Paul felt the ooze of sweat along his spine grow to a trickle. Lucas’s words made him think the robber had military training. A civilian would probably call the rounds “.22s.”
Lucas and his captive dipped past Bobby and disappeared, only to reappear behind the antique grillwork of the first teller window.
The conversation, if it could be so called, between Lucas and the querulous Cherise bounced off the eighty-six-year-old marble walls and curved along the elaborate ceiling frescoes. Paul could make out most of it, once the dog piped down, as they moved in and out of sight behind the wall.
“How much is that?”
“Thirty-eight thousand, four hundred.”
“Okay. Next drawer. Fit the screwdriver into the lock.”
“It won’t move.”
“Pry it. Get the tip into the crack there and twist.”
“Tell you what.” Paul heard Cherise’s words as clearly as if she stood next to him, though he could not see either of them. “Why don’t you try it? I’ll hold your gun.”
“She’s always like that,” Thompkins muttered, and shook his head.
“Quiet,” Bobby told him, including the rest of the row in his glance. “And stop fidgeting.”
From the stress in his voice, it seemed that some of Lucas’s cool had evaporated. “Do it!”
Cherise said a few words Paul couldn’t make out. Then “No!”
The gunshots echoed through the lobby. The sound seemed to gather strength with every rebound off the polished