Free Ransom River by Meg Gardiner

skill, luck, and a discipline Reagan and Nixon had so far failed to show. She figured she had a better chance of capturing Bigfoot.
    Nixon shouted out the main doors: “You just got a reprieve. If you fail to carry through on your promises, that stay of execution will be lifted.”
    He beckoned Reagan. With his index finger he drew a diagram on the palm of one hand. To Rory it looked like he was drawing their exit plan. She would lay money that it involved surrounding themselves with the hostages. And she was taller than both of them. Anybody who wanted to reach them would have to go through her. Nixon and Reagan wouldn’t even have to duck.
    She didn’t want to go anywhere with these two, not even past Go on a Monopoly board. An itch in the back of her brain told her it would be equally dangerous outside, with a battery of heavily armed cops facing off against men who seemed jumpy enough to shoot at dust motes and lint. And once they got outside, Nixon and Reagan would know she’d been bluffing about the helicopter.
    Nixon waved at the chosen three and snapped his gloved fingers, a dull, muffled sound. “Come on.”
    Red Check and prosecutor Cary Oberlin walked toward him, looking uncertain and alarmed. Rory remained at the window, her hands touching the warm glass, because it had become familiar, and sturdy, even though it could burst in an instant.
    “No,” she said.
    Nixon did a double take. “What did you just say?”
    She was gambling. Coin toss on her life. She was convinced they wanted her—and they wanted her alive.
    “What if I refuse to go?” she said.
    At that, people roused. A woman cried, “Shut up!” A man on the floor called out, “Be quiet. You’ve been chosen.”
    She stared at Nixon. If her refusal drove him to threaten somebody else,she could still accede. But she was calculating that he wouldn’t do that. Besides, letting others decide what happens to you is never a good choice. Fight it if you can.
    Nixon stared back. Beneath the balaclava, the skin around his eyes was pale. Below his left eye was a scar. It was deep and ran vertically, like a tear track. One that had dried into gnarled white tissue, dead and hard.
    The man on the floor reacted badly to Rory ignoring him. “They picked you. You have to go. If you resist they’ll just choose somebody else instead.”
    She barely heard him; heard mostly the whine and panic in his voice.
Not fair.
She felt loose at the knees and forced herself to stand still.
    Nixon’s lips parted. His aftershave wafted in the air. “No back talk. You’re going.”
    “Why?”
    She tried to put a demand into her voice. Nixon almost seemed to shake himself, to verify he wasn’t imagining her obstinacy. Reagan was across the room, headed toward the door to the judge’s chambers.
    It was perfectly possible for him to grab somebody else, somebody more pliable, somebody as tall and fast, somebody who would shield them as they escaped, without asking questions. But she didn’t think that was going to happen.
    “Why?” she said, stronger.
    Beneath the balaclava, Nixon’s eyes were flat. He crossed the space between them in three strides.
    He grabbed her arm and yanked her away from the window. He pulled her against him. He was hot, sweaty, his body odor mixing with the cologne. He grimaced. His teeth were chipped.
    “Why? Because—”
    The mist and dust and
crack
landed all at once. Nixon’s head snapped to one side and he dropped in front of her.
    The air in front of Rory was all at once empty—she could see straight across the room to the main doors—and blurred with something hot and sticky.
    People screamed. She looked down. Nixon had collapsed in a heap. The side of his balaclava had shredded. His skull had shredded. A pool of dark blood spread across the stone floor. He had been shot in the head.
    She backed up a step. People screamed and crawled away from Nixon, leaving an empty circle around her. She raised her hands. They were clean, but she