Post by FoxTrott on Oct 12, 2010 21:41:24 GMT -5
The negotiator realized he was serious when the first shot was fired. Silence permeated the air on both sides of the line. On one, the silence of a man who could have prevented the shot; on the other, the silence of a teenage audience having witnessed a tragedy.
“Fifteen minutes,” and the call was ended.
Vince closed the garishly colored cell phone, and tossed it over his shoulder. It interrupted the silence by clattering to the floor. He turned to face his captives. One was in the process of staining the white tile red, while the remaining five showed helplessness plain on their faces. The only girl in the group snapped her gaze up from the cell phone to her captor. Suddenly, she didn’t mind the crack he had caused in the screen.
Vince took one step towards the quintet. Each unconsciously leaned back in horror. He stood there, putting his weight on the one foot as if he were going to make another step. He stayed in that position for a minute, watching their faces. The wide eyes and quivering mouths never changed. Vince turned back around, and walked to the door with a satisfied swagger. Terrified hostages didn’t try to escape.
A quick wiggle of the handle showed the door was still locked. The window placed at eye level gave a view of the entire hallway. The lack of lighting made it hard to see, but the locked set of double doors at the end was obvious. Nobody was getting out, and nobody was getting in. Just the way it should be.
The gun felt heavy in Vince’s hand. He lifted it to his face, causing one of the hostages to whimper. He shot them a glare before examining the firearm. It was a small handgun that anybody could purchase for self-defense. Its purpose was to wound, to defend life. It was only to take a life in the most extreme circumstances. This, Vince had long ago decided, was an extreme circumstance.
Vince walked to the desk at the front of the classroom, and sat on it, dwelling on the weapon he held. He stayed there for a long while, staring down at the gun. Not a word or a look was shared among the hostages; they simply watched Vince, hoping the man didn’t pull the trigger.
A dim buzz captured everyone’s attention. It was the cell phone with the cracked screen. Vince stepped over to it, and reached to pick it up. He allowed it to vibrate a few more times before grasping it and turning it on.
The gunman raised the phone to his ear. “Yes,” he said.
“We have the money.” It was the police negotiator. The emotionless voice was easy to remember. “We will send in an unarmed officer to give it to you. He should arrive within ten minutes.”
“How much.”
“Two hundred thousand, as we promised.”
“And the kids go free, as I promised. As long as you don’t pull anything.”
There was a brief silence. “All right,” the negotiator said, and hung up. Vince dropped the cell phone to the floor, and turned so that the teens couldn’t see his face. He was trembling. It wasn’t an angry quaking, or a happy twitch; it was a sobbing shudder. Vince reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a piece of paper, looking at it. A knock from the door interrupted his reverie.
“Open the door.” Vince looked at one of the captives.
“Wh—“
“OPEN IT.”
The gun pointed directly at the boy convinced him to scramble up and open the door, the muzzle following him all the way. He tentatively reached towards the door handle, and looked back at Vince for permission to continue. He angrily motioned with the gun. The boy swallowed, pulled on the door handle, and shouted in surprise.
Three police officers, obviously armed, barged in. Vince shot in panic, and the bullet found its way to the boy’s leg. He collapsed with a cry of pain. The other hostages jumped up and ran to the back of the classroom, away from the confrontation.
It seemed to take place in slow motion: one officer shot, hitting Vince in the shoulder. The gunman got off three rapid shots, hoping to distract them long enough to escape through a window. He dived for one, tearing the blinds away and desperately trying to open the lock. His eyes watered as the sunlight burned into them. Two more shots rang out. Vince fell against the window, eyes frozen wide open, two burning holes in the back of his jacket.
The paper he had been holding fell from his hand onto the reddening tile. It was an official-looking document, with a picture of a bald, pale girl at the top. The words ‘cancer,’ ‘leukemia,’ and ‘chemotherapy’ were scattered across the page. At the bottom was a total:
$200,000.
“Fifteen minutes,” and the call was ended.
Vince closed the garishly colored cell phone, and tossed it over his shoulder. It interrupted the silence by clattering to the floor. He turned to face his captives. One was in the process of staining the white tile red, while the remaining five showed helplessness plain on their faces. The only girl in the group snapped her gaze up from the cell phone to her captor. Suddenly, she didn’t mind the crack he had caused in the screen.
Vince took one step towards the quintet. Each unconsciously leaned back in horror. He stood there, putting his weight on the one foot as if he were going to make another step. He stayed in that position for a minute, watching their faces. The wide eyes and quivering mouths never changed. Vince turned back around, and walked to the door with a satisfied swagger. Terrified hostages didn’t try to escape.
A quick wiggle of the handle showed the door was still locked. The window placed at eye level gave a view of the entire hallway. The lack of lighting made it hard to see, but the locked set of double doors at the end was obvious. Nobody was getting out, and nobody was getting in. Just the way it should be.
The gun felt heavy in Vince’s hand. He lifted it to his face, causing one of the hostages to whimper. He shot them a glare before examining the firearm. It was a small handgun that anybody could purchase for self-defense. Its purpose was to wound, to defend life. It was only to take a life in the most extreme circumstances. This, Vince had long ago decided, was an extreme circumstance.
Vince walked to the desk at the front of the classroom, and sat on it, dwelling on the weapon he held. He stayed there for a long while, staring down at the gun. Not a word or a look was shared among the hostages; they simply watched Vince, hoping the man didn’t pull the trigger.
A dim buzz captured everyone’s attention. It was the cell phone with the cracked screen. Vince stepped over to it, and reached to pick it up. He allowed it to vibrate a few more times before grasping it and turning it on.
The gunman raised the phone to his ear. “Yes,” he said.
“We have the money.” It was the police negotiator. The emotionless voice was easy to remember. “We will send in an unarmed officer to give it to you. He should arrive within ten minutes.”
“How much.”
“Two hundred thousand, as we promised.”
“And the kids go free, as I promised. As long as you don’t pull anything.”
There was a brief silence. “All right,” the negotiator said, and hung up. Vince dropped the cell phone to the floor, and turned so that the teens couldn’t see his face. He was trembling. It wasn’t an angry quaking, or a happy twitch; it was a sobbing shudder. Vince reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a piece of paper, looking at it. A knock from the door interrupted his reverie.
“Open the door.” Vince looked at one of the captives.
“Wh—“
“OPEN IT.”
The gun pointed directly at the boy convinced him to scramble up and open the door, the muzzle following him all the way. He tentatively reached towards the door handle, and looked back at Vince for permission to continue. He angrily motioned with the gun. The boy swallowed, pulled on the door handle, and shouted in surprise.
Three police officers, obviously armed, barged in. Vince shot in panic, and the bullet found its way to the boy’s leg. He collapsed with a cry of pain. The other hostages jumped up and ran to the back of the classroom, away from the confrontation.
It seemed to take place in slow motion: one officer shot, hitting Vince in the shoulder. The gunman got off three rapid shots, hoping to distract them long enough to escape through a window. He dived for one, tearing the blinds away and desperately trying to open the lock. His eyes watered as the sunlight burned into them. Two more shots rang out. Vince fell against the window, eyes frozen wide open, two burning holes in the back of his jacket.
The paper he had been holding fell from his hand onto the reddening tile. It was an official-looking document, with a picture of a bald, pale girl at the top. The words ‘cancer,’ ‘leukemia,’ and ‘chemotherapy’ were scattered across the page. At the bottom was a total:
$200,000.
