Chapter 1
Jules walked stiffly into her kitchen and opened the refrigerator. She contemplated the almost empty interior: a bottle of mineral water, some mayonnaise and a roll of cookie dough. Not exactly what she had in mind for lunch. Some guardian angel had kindly cleaned it out while she was in hospital, emptied her trash and watered her pot plant. She suspected Sam. A whole stack of get well soon cards stood along the windowsill. Although she was feeling a lot better she knew it would be at least another six weeks till she would be able to go back to work. Work! Sam! She couldn't bear to think about it so she pushed the thoughts away as she closed the fridge door. There was nothing for it. Despite the fatigue of having only just got out of hospital, she had to go grocery shopping.
She crossed the room to get her purse when the doorbell rang. Jules headed for the door and looked through the spyhole. She felt herself smile as she pulled back the chain and opened the door.
"JULES!"
The bubbly, dark-skinned woman with a mass of impossible curls grinned broadly at her over the top of the enormous grocery bag. She barged her way into the apartment. "A little birdie told me you were back! I've got you groceries … loads of healthy food." She turned back with a frown. "Shouldn't you be in bed or at least sitting down?" She didn't stop for an answer. " You should sit down. I'm cooking you lunch. You look pale. I bet that hospital food was simply awful. Why they don't provide patients with proper food is beyond me! How on earth do they expect people to get better with the slop they serve?" She jiggled from foot to foot as she kicked off her shoes and shrugged out of her coat which she let drop on the floor. "I'm going to do Chicken Tah...jine. I got the recipe off the internet," she called as she headed to the kitchen leaving Jules to close the door, pick up the abandoned coat and roll her eyes at the thought of being guinea pig for yet another of her best friend's internet culinary experiments. "And I've got cheesecake from that awesome little deli on the corner and movies. Becca would have come too but she has to work. She's got … ANOTHER … job! Heaven knows how long this one will last. She quit the last one after only four weeks." She dumped the bag on the counter and turned to face Jules studying her carefully. "You are okay aren't you? Are you sure that they should have let you leave the hospital? You have seen your own doctor haven't you?"
"I'm fine Carmen," Jules interjected, desperate to interrupt the constant flow.
Carmen's curls bounced up and down irritably. "How can you possibly be fine? You've been shot Jules! Anyway, sit down, put your feet up. I am going to spoil you rotten all weekend. This recipe should be awesome. It got five stars. You're going to love it." She pulled out a bottle of wine from the bag. "Permitted?" Jules nodded unable to prevent a smile at her friend's concern. "Awesome! We're going to have a blast!"
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In the back of the command truck Greg stood with his hands on his hips as Kira transferred the call. Donna looked askingly at Ed who whispered, "That's gotta be a first. Hostage-taker calls us instead of the other way round." Spike pulled a face in agreement and began typing the transcript.
Greg took a deep breath. "This is Sergeant Gregory Parker of the Strategic Response Unit."
The comm's link crackled. The all listened carefully to the voice which was male, clipped and confident. "Good morning, Sergeant Parker. My name is Captain Ahab. I am currently standing behind Jean Watson, Head of Communications and Public affairs with a gun pointed at her head. Isn't that so?" A female voice answered in the affirmative,sounding remarkably calm and collected. "My colleagues are keeping our other guests in a similar manner. They are at present unharmed and will remain so provided you comply with our requests. I should warn you that any attempt by your unit to storm the building will be met with extreme force. The third floor has been wired with twenty pounds of Semtex ..." Alarmed, Greg grabbed for a paper and pen scrawling 'Semtex – source?'. Spike nodded to indicate he was on it. "... and we will not hesitate to blow up this building and the hostages unless our demands are met."
"I understand. May I ask what your demands are?"
"Please do not interrupt! Firstly, we want all charges to be dropped against the five protesters who were arrested and their arrest records cleared. Secondly, we want all personnel made redundant as part of the recent cost-cutting programme to be paid one year's salary as a severance package and to be provided with the services of an employment agency until they have found new jobs. Lastly we want a television news crew to be brought here by midday for a press conference that will be broadcast live and repeated on the hourly news broadcasts for the rest of the day. Those are our demands and they are non-negotiable. We will contact you in one hour."
Greg opened his mouth to speak but the line went dead. Spike looked at Ed who appeared to be as baffled as he was. "That went well," he muttered to himself.
Greg changed channel. "Kira can you get him back?"
"No. He's taken the phone off the hook."
"Okay. Keep trying. Sierra One? Talk to me Sam!"
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The moment they had arrived Sam could feel the hairs on his neck stand on edge. It was as though all colour had been leached from the place. The iron-grey sky was reflected in the choppy waters of the lake. A lone osprey circled overhead emitting a series of sharp calls sending a shudder through him. Sam studied the lay of the land. The location that the hostage-takers had chosen was near-perfect. The administration building was bound on one side by the lake. The rest was wide open-space so there was no cover for a stealthy approach, the port lands being largely abandoned from the days of heavy industry. The only operating facilities left were the energy generating plant and the waste incinerator plant some distance to the north. A cloud of smoke billowed into the air above the plant's smoke stack before being blown at an angle towards the city making it look like an accusatory pointing finger.
Sam scanned the building's façade. The hostage-takers had taken a manageable number of hostages and chosen a high position. The only structure of a similar height was the old crane that stood at the water's edge. Once Greg had given his go-ahead, Sam had hefted his gear onto his shoulder, circumnavigated the Portakabins, climbed the short incline that formed part of the breakwater and jogged the short distance to the crane. Standing some seventy feet high it was tiny compared to the modern tower cranes that Sam could see on the horizon to the south. It was surrounded by a series of stone pillars linked by painted black chains. Two gigantic ships anchors had been positioned on either side as decorations. Sam climbed over the chain, the gravel crunching under his feet and glanced down at the brass heritage plaque set into a stone. He caught the date 1882 but didn't have time to take in the rest. He just hoped that it wasn't the date the crane had been built. Now he was close he could see the rust on the girders. He could feel the spray from the water on his face, the cuts on his cheek stinging from the cold air. He settled his pack on his back, tested the ladder that ran up one side and started his climb.
Somehow he had expected the ladder to wobble but it seemed solidly built. As he climbed he heard Greg start negotiations or rather the other way round. It took only a few minutes for him to reach the level where the jib and counter-weights were positioned. Judging by the amount of rust and paint it hadn't been operated in years. He emerged onto a small platform where he pulled off his bag and set it on the beaten metal sheet that formed part of the narrow walkway. The banner that was hung from the top edge of the jib slapped gently against the iron framework. He crouched down behind it, glad of the slight respite it provided from the wind. He crawled along the jib, the struts on either side hemming him in, until he reached the end of the banner and looked around. The harbour management authority's administration building lay some ninety yards away. There appeared to be people moving around on the upper floor. Perfect! Sam pulled his Remington sniper rifle from it's bag, rapidly assembled it and laid it on the grill that formed the surface he was kneeling on. Shivering as the cold penetrated his pants, he stretched himself out using the bag as a support for his elbows and as a cushion from the cold metal beneath him. He jammed one foot against the iron girder grateful that he was wearing thermals under his dark grey uniform. He lifted the scope to his eye and adjusted the sights.
He carefully swung the rifle from east to west and back, taking in every detail while simultaneously listening to the Sarge's conversation with the man calling himself Captain Ahab.
"Okay. Keep trying. Sierra One? Talk to me Sam!"
"One gunman in the conference room with two hostages, a red-headed woman in her late thirties and a black man with tight cropped hair ..."
"Okay hold on ..." Sam could hear the Sarge talking to Spike. "Okay that has to be Jean Watson who's in charge of Communications and Public affairs, and James Mills who's the Assistant Financial Director. Go on Sam."
"Both hostages are sat at the conference table." Sam squinted through the scope. "They appear to be arguing."
"With the gunman?" Sam could hear the surprise in Greg's voice.
"No with each other. The gunman looks like he's trying to intervene. They're looking through some papers. The woman is shaking her head as though she doesn't like what she's seeing. The gunman is pointing something out to her in one of the documents. The other guy, Mills, he looks … well to be honest … shocked!"
"What about the other hostages?" Ed, this time.
Sam swung the scope right. "Negative. There's someone in the south-east corner office but the blinds are down. Wait! There are two shadows pacing the room. No movement in the other offices."
"Sam? The gunman in the conference room? Do you have the solution?"
Sam swung his scope back. The three people hadn't moved. They were still studying the documents, the two harbour management employees seated at the conference table, the gunman still standing behind them gesturing at the documents. His gun was held loosely over one shoulder and was pointed at the floor. In fact, if it hadn't been for that, the hat and the hoodie, he could have been a senior manager advising two colleagues. "There is no immediate threat but I have the solution."
"Okay Sam hold your position. Tell me immediately if anything changes."
"Copy that." Sam concentrated on the events taking place in the conference room but swept his sights across the entire façade every few minutes. He ignored the discomfort of the hard surface he was lying on, the cold that was beginning to penetrate his layers of clothing and the stinging from the scratches on his face and arm. If he had learnt one thing in the army it was patience and the ability to blend into his surroundings. Partially hidden by the large banner and wearing a uniform similar to the colour of the crane, only a person looking directly up at jib would spot the barrel of his gun sticking out. He could remain there for hours if need be.
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