Terms of Surrender Read online

  It was useless to replay her conversations with the HT in her mind, questioning whether she could have done anything differently. The subject had set this whole thing in motion once he’d walked into that bank. The one thing she was sure of was that somehow Tyler was part of this final act, as well.

  The first explosion rocked the ground beneath her and had her slapping a hand to the NOC unit for support. The second and third battered her eardrums, coupled with the sound of shattering glass from the bank. A trio of fireballs rose like blazing rockets toward the dusky sky.

  CHAPTER 4

  “We believe at least three remote-activated explosive devices were placed in the area behind the bank. Possibly housed in magnetic boxes attached to the light poles here, here and here.” Special Agent in Charge Fenholt indicated the spots on a hand-drawn map hanging on the whiteboard, showing the back of the building. “They could have been placed there when the HT was scouting the location or even as early as this morning before he headed inside. A driver in an armored car used the distraction caused by the detonations to crash through barricades here—” she pointed at the corner on the street in back of the bank “—traveling at a high rate of speed. One local officer was hit and injured by the vehicle. Three others, including one of our agents, were killed in the blasts.”

  There was a grim silence in the conference room following this piece of news. Dace stretched his legs out under the table, taking care not to brush Jolie seated beside him. The debriefing promised to last well into the night, and like the past several hours of the incident, the feds were running the show. He doubted he was the only one in the room braced for the inevitable blame game to ensue.

  Extra tables and chairs had to be brought in to accommodate all the personnel in the room. The local SWAT/HNT unit was accounted for, as well as the FBI’s SWAT squad and Fenholt’s team.

  “What’s the total casualty and injury count?” Metro City Police Chief Carl Sanders sat at the conference table flanked by his deputy chief, Robert Grey. The chief had an aging football player’s still-solid physique, fading gingery hair and a shrewd blue gaze that stripped through all defenses.

  Fenholt walked back to her chair and consulted some notes bundled together on the table before her. “Forty-seven were taken to local hospitals for treatment, including the hostages inside the bank. They all suffered various lacerations from the flying glass when the windows blew out. Suffice to say, as a distraction, the explosives served admirably. Under the circumstances, the casualties were contained.”

  Dace gave an incredulous snort. Picking up a remote, Fenholt turned on a large TV mounted in one corner of the room. “We’ve obtained this footage from KCHM, shot from their helicopter.” Silently, they all watched the HT exit the back door of the bank, with Tyler Mills on his shoulders. He wore a red backpack and was carrying bank bags. All eyes and weapons would have been on the man as he headed to the station wagon. With hindsight it was easy to see the subject duck at the last moment, seeking shelter behind the vehicle’s bumper just seconds before the explosions and the resulting pandemonium.

  The video went grainy as the helicopter must have sought safety from a different position. Moments later the recording resumed, showing the armored truck barreling onto the scene. The HT was running toward it, and as the front passenger door swung open, bullets sprayed out of the back window at the law enforcement officers, who were returning fire. Dace watched as the gunman neared the moving vehicle, tossing the bags inside before reaching a hand to grasp the door handle. Then in the next moment he jerked as one leg crumpled, then the other. His grasp on the handle never loosened, but the vehicle was dragging him now, and Tyler rolled off his shoulders. A flak-vest-clad agent crawled over to grab the boy, pulling him to safety.

  “We left the local SWAT snipers up there for additional coverage, and one had a better vantage point than our guys when this went down.”

  “Nice shot, Carter,” Lewis said, satisfaction lacing his tone. Dace shot Ava a look of approval, and she inclined her head, her long dark hair swinging slightly. He felt a vicious stab of satisfaction that the only damn thing that had gone right in those few seconds could be attributed to their team.

  He watched the TV screen as the rest of the drama unfolded. More shots were fired, and at least some of them hit their mark, before the HT was dragged into the vehicle as it sped away. A masked gunman leaned out the window and appeared to be shooting skyward, and the screen abruptly went blank.

  “They ensured the media copter wouldn’t follow them,” observed Sanders.

  “What about the boy? Tyler Mills.”

  Dace stilled at the sound of Jolie’s voice. Details of the final minutes of the bank incident had succeeded in diverting his attention from the presence of the woman next to him, but his focus ricocheted back. Although he didn’t look in her direction, he was supremely aware of the strain in her voice.

  “He was taken to the hospital with lacerations and a concussion, but he should make a full recovery,” Agent Dawson answered, speaking for the first time. “His mother was treated and released.”

  Dace sensed the tension creeping from her and moved his shoulders, impatient with himself. It was as if he were hyperaware around her, attuned to the slightest shift in her moods. Which was a joke, since he’d failed miserably at reading her during the last months they’d been together. Or maybe he’d been turned too inward to try. Hell, he didn’t know. But he’d be damned if he’d allow her to walk back into his life and wield this kind of power the day she reentered it. The shock of seeing her again had knocked him off balance. He needed to regain his distance, fast.

  “You’ve got the hospitals covered?” he asked. Not that he expected the HT’s accomplices to risk having him treated in a hospital. As well prepared as they appeared to have been, they’d certainly know that medical professionals were required to report gunshot wounds.

  “Of course. And from the amount of blood left behind, the gunman appears to be seriously wounded, so we got lucky there.”

  Luck hadn’t had a damn thing to do with it. Ava Carter hadn’t earned the call sign “Cold Shot” by chance.

  “So including the HT, that brings the total team to at least three,” Mendel surmised. “The driver, the shooter in the backseat and the hostage taker in the bank.” Any one of them could have planned to pick up the explosive devices later, had they not been needed.

  Fenholt used the remote to turn off the television. “Probably four or five,” she said. “Even though an alert was on the airwaves within seconds of the truck pulling away, it was only spotted momentarily before we lost it for good. Since it’s hard to miss an armored vehicle, and one hasn’t been found abandoned, we suspect they had a semi waiting nearby. The truck drove into its back, the semi pulled out.” Almost as an afterthought she added, “But that’s only a theory. We’re also checking out all the buildings in a two-mile area surrounding the last sighting to be sure it isn’t housed in a garage or warehouse.”

  Fenholt looked at Dr. Ryder, sitting a couple chairs down from Dace. “In the meantime, we need to focus on the conversations with the HT. What can we glean from them?”

  “You’ve got the transcribed notes of the exchanges,” he began.

  “It’s not enough.” There was a snap in her voice, barely discernible, but there. The unflappable SAC was showing signs of stress. Dace wondered how much crap was raining down on her over this mess. “I want observations compiled from you and from the local HNT negotiators. Each of you will need to look over the transcript to see if it’s complete before we turn it over to a forensic psychologist. In the meantime, is there anything that struck you about this guy that will help us in the short term?”

  Meaning, of course, that what they had to offer was only valuable until her own people could support or dispute it. God save him from feds. Dace rubbed his jaw, faintly surprised by the scrape of beard against his palm. It was late and guaranteed to be later still before this was over. “He was educated.” The
ir observations had been meticulously recorded and would have been included with the transcripts of the conversations. “A native English speaker. It seemed clear from the beginning that this wasn’t about righting an imagined slight. He was there for the money.”

  “Obviously,” Agent Hart put in from across the room. A few in the room chuckled tiredly.

  “I mean we never got the impression that this was a disgruntled former customer or employee with a grievance that we could help resolve. And it’s pretty clear from the preparation involved that these guys aren’t amateurs. Especially if they’re the same ones who have been hitting banks all over the state.”

  “That connection hasn’t been established,” Fenholt said flatly.

  He gave her a sardonic smile. Whether it had been or not, this group wouldn’t hear about it. The feds would wring the locals dry of every drop of relevant information and throw them crumbs in return. He was familiar with the way the game was played. “If there are two different crews working banks in the area, you’ve got a bigger problem than I thought.”

  “Like you say,” put in Special Agent Truman, “it’s our problem.” His dislike for the man had nothing to do with his tone. That emotion had been instantaneous from the first time he’d shown up at the NOC unit.

  “He’s a loner.” Dr. Ryder’s matter-of-fact tone diffused some of the tension in the room. “He has trouble with authority figures, and with routine workdays in general. He may have a history of short-lived employment, possibly ending in altercations with his employers. Doesn’t trust anyone except family.”

  “There was something in the notes about that.” Fenholt tapped short-nailed fingers on the table as her gaze traveled around the table to land on Jolie. “The HT said something about ‘seeing him soon.’ But you didn’t follow up on that line. Why is that? It seemed the opportune time, as you were discussing family.”

  The hint of censure in her voice elicited a familiar feeling in Dace, one that alarmed him enough to have him backpedaling wildly. He was long past the point when he should be feeling protective about Jolie. What she’d told the HT was true enough. She’d been orphaned as a child and had had only her grandmother growing up. Once the woman had died, Jolie had been on her own. And if there had been a time when he’d thought the three of them—he, Jolie and Sammy—were a family, well, that was in the distant past.

  Something still compelled him to answer before Jolie had to. “You should have also read in the notes that the next contact with him was devoted to the preparations he was making with the hostages. From his remarks it was clear he was aware that your involvement meant limited time was left for negotiation. If we’d had more time to follow up—”

  Agent Dawson interrupted him. “It’s apparent from the well-orchestrated rescue attempt that the gunman was merely biding his time. The end result was a given as soon as a police response arrived at the bank. He wouldn’t have been aware of any tactical preparations we were making. He was completely cut off from all outside communication other than the throw phone.”

  Looking at the faces of the other local law enforcement in the room, Dace realized he wasn’t the only one who saw the flaw in the man’s reasoning. “His accomplices were well aware of how things were progressing, though. Someone had to be close enough to monitor the situation and signal him somehow that things were about to go down.” From the closed expressions of the agents in the room, it was clear that he wasn’t going to get any response to that statement. Catching Chief Sanders’s eye, he scowled, but sat back in his seat, saying nothing further. He’d never acquired a taste for jumping through the fed’s hoops.

  “Our interest in your observations is limited to your conversations with the HT.” Fenholt pulled the bound notes toward her and took a pair of bifocals from her jacket pocket, settling them on her nose. Flipping to the first page, she studied it for a moment before looking up. “You indicated you didn’t notice an accent. What about word choice?”

  Once again Jolie answered, as if not trusting what response Dace would make. Maybe that meant she was as attuned to him as he was to her. He had a few choice words for Fenholt and her team, although he knew better than to utter them.

  Like what were the chances they could have learned more—a lot more—if the feds hadn’t rushed the response along to a tactical conclusion? Could those three lives have been saved? It wasn’t a question that seemed to dog Fenholt. But he knew it would haunt him for a long time to come.

  * * *

  It was after midnight when Jolie wearily pulled her car to a stop in a parking space in front of her rented condo unit. The darkness was kinder to the condominium complex than daylight was, hiding the blistered paint, sagging eaves and loose porch railing. It was the best she’d been able to find on such short notice. She’d resigned her job with the LAPD, sought reinstatement with the Metro City PD and then moved, all within a matter of weeks.

  In the intervening time she’d had plenty of opportunity to regret her decision, but none more so than today.

  She opened the glove compartment and stashed her wallet and cell phone inside, locking it before getting out of her car, securing the door with the remote. It wasn’t that she hadn’t expected to run into Dace at some point. Although she had planned to avoid the hangouts they’d frequented with friends from the department, it would have been only a matter of time before she would have encountered him.

  Trudging up the steps, she fit her key into the dead bolt of her door. But somehow she’d expected to have more time to prepare herself. More time to make sure her defenses were firmly in place.

  And, honesty forced her to admit, she’d hoped that the time they’d spent apart had suffocated any feelings she might have once had for him. God knew she’d done everything she could to stomp out those lingering emotions.

  There had been men in the intervening time, of course. First to fill that painful void inside her, and when that failed, enough of them to assure herself that she’d regained her former famous detachment. And it had worked admirably. None of them had made her feel a thing.

  Yet it had taken only the sound of Dace’s voice, the sight of him again, to summon that familiar tangle of emotion that still tightened her chest, strangled her breathing and caused all the pulses in her body to throb.

  It was the stress of seeing him for the first time, coupled with the strain from today’s incident and debriefing. She told herself that and almost believed it. There would be no reason for that to recur, as she’d be requesting a reassignment to the other HNT squad as soon as possible.

  A pang shot through her. It was highly probable that another assignment wouldn’t be available. But she couldn’t worry about that. She agreed with Dace on one thing—she was no more eager to see him at every incident than he was her.

  Pushing the door open, she stepped inside, mentally steeling herself. The apartment was dark. Quiet. But the scent of cigarettes stung the air. Anxiety was already prickling her skin when a familiar querulous voice split the shadows.

  “Where you been? I could starve around here. I’m supposed to be getting regular meals. Not that you care.”

  Anxiety melted away and old defenses slammed into place. “If you haven’t eaten, it’s your own fault. I’ve got a tab set up for you at the restaurant around the corner. You know that.”

  “Well, they don’t got Mexican, do they? I was in the mood for enchiladas all day. You leave me here without two cents to rub together like I was some kind of slave or something.”

  Jolie snapped on a lamp to reveal her mother sitting in the armchair she favored in the corner of the room. It used to face a TV, but that had disappeared the first day Jolie had reported for work with the MCPD, along with the microwave and stereo equipment. She had wised up quickly. Everything else of value had been put in storage so Trixie couldn’t sell or trade it for something to get her high.

  “Unlike slaves, you’re free to leave anytime.” Aware of the edge in her tone, she made an effort to soften it. “I’ll mak
e something to eat. Didn’t you get the message I left on the answering machine? I had to respond to an incident today and I never had a chance to—”

  “The least you could do is to buy some decent groceries.” Trixie stabbed out the cigarette she wasn’t supposed to be smoking in an ashtray. “All that green stuff gives me the trots.”

  Jolie’s temples began to throb. “Vegetables are especially good for your condition. Dr. Baxter said—”

  “He’s a quack.” Trixie tapped the cigarette package against the table, selected another cigarette. Since Jolie made sure Trixie never had any money of her own, she could only assume that her mother had shoplifted them. Another of her endearing habits. “I ain’t going back to him no more anyway.”

  “Your choice.” Jolie would never be sure what had made her overcome a lifetime of distrust and ambivalence to rescue her mother from her own excesses. Whatever it was, it didn’t extend to false sympathy. “You know your options as well as I do.”

  Dodging the smoke ring floating her way, she unstrapped her weapon and locked it in the gun safe. Then she headed toward the kitchen. Since she needed fuel, she’d cook something and Trixie could eat or not, as she wished. It was useless to try to argue with her. The woman had spent her life avoiding responsibility for anything or anyone, including herself. It was hard to work up empathy now that Trixie’s past had caught up with her.

  Without a microwave it took twice as much time as it should have taken to thaw chicken breasts and put a simple meal together. Serving up the dinner on two plates, she took one to the sullen older woman and sat it on the end table next to her, going back to eat at the countertop island.

  “My mother teach you to cook like this? Good thing I let you stay with her some. Learned something useful.” Trixie sawed at the meat and popped a piece into her mouth, chewing vigorously with her remaining teeth.