Takeover - Lisa Black [9]
Polished marble tiles on the floor reflected the occupants like a mirror, from the trembling receptionist huddled next to him to the pacing robber with the automatic rifle. A tall, wiry, light-skinned black, he paused directly before Paul.
Right in front of the clear window. If you’re out there, he thought to the police snipers, take the shot. But of course they wouldn’t, not while the second robber kept himself tucked farther down the lobby, protected by the opaque windows and invisible from the hallway. That one had blue eyes and blond hair, a faded tattoo on the side of his neck, and a sun-roughened complexion. He also had the husky build of a high-school football star gone slightly to seed, and he kept a black M4 carbine trained on the row of frightened humans.
Both suspects wore dark T-shirts and lightweight Windbreakers, the latter a suspicious garment in the summer heat. The taller one had a navy jacket over jeans, while the stockier blond wore a maroon zip-up with black trim and khaki pants.
The black one removed his sunglasses to look Paul over. “Who’re you?”
He had been waiting for this question. “I’m an examiner. I work on the third floor.” It seemed a more prudent answer than the truth, and Paul could only hope that if examiners did not work on the third floor, this man wouldn’t know that. Meanwhile he clenched the corner of his gray blazer between his thighs, to keep it from falling open to reveal his badge. The gun sat far enough back on his right hip to stay hidden, provided he didn’t move much.
His fellow hostages stared at him but said nothing. They could not look any more startled than they already did, so their expressions didn’t give him away. They didn’t know he was a cop—only the security guards knew that—but they had to know he didn’t work there. The security guards were at the end of the line, and the man with the gun did not look at them.
“Can you get into that vault?”
Paul didn’t have to fake a stammer in his response, since he had no idea what vault the man referred to. There didn’t not seem to be one within sight. “No—it’s not part of my job.”
Brown eyes studied him, but only briefly. Then the guy moved away, and the older black man next to Paul let out a relieved breath.
So far, so good. Stay calm and stay alive.
Of course, if they found out he was a cop, staying calm would not save him. Armed robbers didn’t like surprises, and they’d already had a number that morning. They must have expected the Fed to be like a neighborhood bank, with the cash at the forefront, physically present for the grabbing. Paul couldn’t blame them for their mistake; he also wondered why there’d been no one working at the antique teller windows. Instead the robbers were greeted with a handful of employees and no fewer than four armed guards in fatigues, one with a dog.
Paul had reached the bank at a few minutes past eight, left the car at a meter around the corner, and entered the lobby directly behind an older black man in a green uniform, the man now seated on his right. He had immediately explained himself to the security guard in order to get through the metal detector, then headed for the receptionist’s desk. Before he could reach it, the black robber had led his partner into the bank, firing a shot into the ceiling to get everyone’s attention, nearly deafening them all. Paul had felt someone’s hands on his back even before he could turn toward the noise.
His neck still burned where the gun’s barrel had pressed into the flesh. The slightest twitch of a fingertip, depending on what sensitivity the trigger pull had been set to, and a round would rip though his arteries and spine so thoroughly that he’d be dead before he hit the floor. He didn’t dare breathe.
Paul had a solid body and good muscle form; he was not, he would have flattered himself, a man easily subdued. But he had not moved—he had only to shift his weight and the guy might feel the gun at Paul’s hip. The guards