Free Ransom River by Meg Gardiner Page A

felt wetness on her face. She touched her cheek. Her fingers came away stippled with blood.
    The screams got louder. The blood pool spread toward her, as if drawn magnetically. She stumbled back another step. In the window a fractured hole had blossomed at eye level, surrounded by cracks and white crazed lines. A bullet hole, exactly where she’d been standing.
    Nixon’s head had been twelve inches from hers. They’d shot him, long range, right past her. She put a hand to her mouth and gagged.
    Reagan stared at the sight of Nixon dead on the floor. He was framed against the door to the judge’s chambers, gun in his hands, mouth open. He gaped at Nixon and, slowly, at the window.
    He was still staring at the window when the door behind him burst open.
    The door to chambers shattered, wood splitting. Behind it was darkness, but Rory saw shadowed forms and a battering ram in their arms. Then she heard a clatter and saw a small cylindrical object roll into the courtroom.
    Before she could do anything, it blew.
    The noise, the flat, overwhelming
bang,
filled her ears, her head, deafened her. The light ignited everything, white. She found herself smacked back against the wall.
    Her ears rang. She didn’t hear the next shots.

12

    T he room seemed to billow and shake. A high-pitched whine filled Rory’s ears. Through fizzing white smoke she saw the thread-line light of red lasers. They sliced past her and lit on Reagan.
    His jacket flayed, a burst of fabric and blood. His head jerked back and he dropped.
    SWAT surged into the courtroom.
    Figures in black tactical gear flowed through the smoke, guns drawn. Through the bathtub dullness in her ears, Rory heard voices.
    “
Police! Don’t move.
”
    A SWAT officer in a helmet and goggles and body armor came toward her, rifle raised, finger on the trigger. “
On your knees. Hands behind your head.
”
    She went down and stayed there like a penitent.
    “Officer,” she said.
    He turned. She nodded with her chin.
    “Judge Wieland’s been shot.”
    The officer glanced across the room. Got on his radio.
    One by one the other hostages dropped back to the floor. Across the room, Frankie Ortega knelt, coughing. Lucy Elmendorf sat on the floor hugging her husband.
    A SWAT officer checked Nixon for signs of life. Drew a slash mark across his throat with his thumb. Pulled off Nixon’s balaclava. The darkpool of blood beneath the gunman’s head seemed to crown him. Looked like his thoughts poured out, gone.
    No back talk. You’re going. Because…
    His face was rough. A man in his forties, his features worn and creased. His eyes stared sightlessly. Rory looked away.
    By Judge Wieland’s side an officer knelt on one knee. He was holding the judge’s hand and talking into a radio. Rory began to shake. Her vision blurred. She realized she was crying.
    A cop shouted for the hostages to stand up. He told them to lock their hands behind their heads and walk out single file. By the time they got to the Department of Corrections buses outside, they’d been searched and cuffed with zip ties. The sun seemed too bright. Rory’s knees felt like Silly Putty.
    Helen Ellis tried to climb aboard the bus but wobbled. A cop gestured to the steps and said, “Please keep moving, ma’am.”
    Helen looked ready to crumble. “But we’re not criminals.”
    “It’s just procedure. Take care but get on board, please.”
    Rory said, “Procedure doesn’t have to be spelled
asshole.
”
    The cop eyed her coolly. “You’ve been restrained for your own safety. This will all be over soon.”
    Not soon enough. Not by a long, rocky mile. She helped Helen up the stairs.

    The door to the interrogation room finally opened at 7:42 p.m. Rory checked her watch. They’d let her keep the watch. They’d even let her keep her belt. In this room she couldn’t have killed herself for fun or money. If she’d taken off her boots and tried to beat herself to death with them, the cops behind the two-way mirror