Amber Morn
when Brad did all the shooting. And Frank. She could hardly bear to think of him. Over and over in her head — the vision of him jerking back at the impact of the bullets, crumpling to the floor…
    Kent lifted his chin and gave her a hate-filled look.
    She focused on the monitor and clicked the comments. Still nothing.
    Down a few tables, a throat cleared.
Wilbur
. Bailey slid her gaze in his direction. He heaved an impatient sigh at Kent. “I have to use the bathroom.”
    Kent glared at him. “Too bad.”
    Wilbur mushed his lips and considered Kent as he would a cockroach on the counter. “You got a lot of people trapped in here, and we’re all going to need to go sooner or later. You make us all go in our pants, it ain’t gonna smell too good.”
    “Maybe you go when we tell you.” Mitch laughed.
    Kent ignored his son. “You Wilbur Hucks, ain’t you?”
    “That’s me.”
    He sniffed. “Think you own this place, huh? Mr. I-duh-ho shirt.”
    “Naw, he just owns this stool I’m sittin’ on.” Brad laughed.
    Wilbur’s eyes narrowed.
    Jared raised his hand. “I need to go too.”
    “Oh, for —” Kent spat a curse. He pushed off the table. “Fine, go. One at a time. Brad, take ’em.”
    Wilbur hauled himself to his feet. “Key’s on the counter.” He pointed. Brad picked up the key, walked over to Wibur, and pointed the gun at his chest. “Move.” He jerked his chin toward the hall. “Don’t forget I’m right behind you, old man.”
    The look Wilbur gave him could have withered cement. “I ain’t gonna forget you sat on my stool.”
    Mitch guffawed.
    Brad gestured with his head. “Go.”
    Bailey held her breath as they started down the hall.
Please, Wilbur, don’t —
    “Hey!” Kent aimed his gun at her. “Check the computer.”
    Bailey jumped, clicked on the comments. The box popped up.
    Nothing.
    She shook her head at Kent. He clenched his teeth and spewed back curses, calling her vile names. The words withered her spirit. From the corner of her eye, Bailey saw Ali’s posture crumble. She swayed over toward Carla. Brittany leaned in too. Carla let go of their hands, put her arms around both of their shoulders. The three huddled together, the girls’ heads buried on each side of her neck.
    Bailey’s eyes stung. Those girls were so young and vulnerable. And Carla so defiant in her protection. Then there was Wilbur and his indignation. Too many personalities here. Too much fear, way too much anger. The entire room was like one big, roiling cauldron, capable of boiling over any minute.
    Hurry up, Vince. Please, please hurry.

TWENTY-SIX
     
    Kent and Mitch Wicksell.
    Vince read the letter twice, questions and facts swirling in his mind.
    First, a detail: two men. John said he’d seen three. Who was the third? The letter was long — obviously written before the men ever reached Java Joint. At the last minute, someone had joined them.
    Second, the demand:
T.J. gets out of prison NOW
. Sure, and paint the sky green while you’re at it. What was he supposed to do, overturn the nation’s court system? Marya Whitbey’s murder had been heinous, an unprovoked attack on a twenty-three-year-old mother. The trial had been heavily covered — and Vince didn’t question the defendant’s guilt for a minute. Too much evidence proved he’d done it.
    But Vince could read between the lines of the letter. Kent Wicksell’s underlying demand was simply
Listen
. The man had used the word numerous times. Listening was something Vince could do. In fact, negotiation was all about active listening. Vince would have to gain Kent’s trust, prove he was willing to hear all Kent had to say about T.J.’s “innocence.”
    Third:
More people will die.
Emphasis on
more
. When Kent wrote those words, his takeover of Java Joint apparently had been planned out — right down to shooting at least one person upon entry. As it turned out, a cop in uniform had been the obvious target. Then there was the matter of

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