Chapter 20
Six Days, Eight Hours, Twenty-Six Minutes
"One false move," the thug – his face hidden by a ski mask – threatened, his voice guttural, grating, intimidating, "and everyone in here is dead."
Craig Donovan felt the cold steel circle of the bank robber's muzzle at the back of his neck. When it was clear that a robbery was underway, he had tried to intervene politely: the bank clerk – a young woman probably in her early twenties – had immediately panicked, despite her training, and stepped three feet away from the counter, causing the criminal to step all the way forward to the counter. The man waved the gun at her, gesturing at the open cash drawer to the right, and he barked several obscene commands to the trembling lady. Near the bank's entrance, another gunman – his face also hidden underneath a mask – yelled for the 'bitch' to hurry up, to get the money in the bag, to do it now, now, now! That's when Donovan couldn't stand idly by any longer. Casually, he took a step closer to the counter, and, in a gentle voice, he whispered, "Easy, man. She's just a kid." Startled, the robber turned his head, giving the former Navy Seal a look that Donovan had seen one too many times. Enraged, the criminal lifted his free hand, grabbed the black man by the back of his head, and slammed Donovan's forehead to the counter. His vision exploded in a burst of painful white light, the surroundings suddenly spinning, and he took a few deep breaths, allowing for the vertigo to dissipate. Before he knew what was happening, the man had lowered his 9 millimeter Beretta, choosing to shove the muzzle at his new captive's neck. The woman yelped, but the crook said, "If you so much as think about disobeying any order I give you, you'll be wiping this idiot's brain off your dress."
His senses back to normal, ignoring the pain, Donovan pressed his face to the cold marble counter and sensed a trickle of blood from the gash the criminal had inflicted. Keeping completely still, his face against the smooth finish, a vise-like grip on his shoulder, and the cold muzzle reminding him how fragile life was, he tried again: "Easy, man. Just take it easy. You'll get your money, and you'll get out of here. No one has to get hurt."
The crook snickered. "You're already hurt."
"That's okay," Donovan replied. "Better me ... better one person ... than everyone in here."
"Shut up."
"You hurt everyone in here, and you can bet every dollar this clerk gives you that the police will never let you get away."
"I told you to shut up."
"All right," he tried smoothly, trying to control the situation. "All right. This is your show. I'm just a regular customer."
"Then shut it."
Donovan took a deep breath. He felt his center of balance, realizing that, if needed, he could shift quickly, carefully, and the gunman would slide forward. In that solitary moment, the gun might come free, but it was a gamble. The risk was too great. There were too many innocent people already fearing for their lives, shivering on the floor, waiting for these endless moments to finally be completely over. He wouldn't risk it.
Moving his eyes slowly, Donovan glanced up at the female bank clerk. "What's your name?"
"You don't need to know her name," the thug cautioned.
"Easy, man," he tried. "I'm only trying to help." Fixing his eyes on her, Donovan repeated, "What's your name?"
"Jaime," she finally answered, her voice trembling.
"Jaime," Donovan began, "now, let me tell you something. You're in charge. I know you don't think you are. I know you probably have a boss you report to, and I know he's probably watching you right now. Even he knows what I'm about to tell you, and I'm doing this, remember, at the risk of my own life. This man here? This guy holding my head to the counter? He has a gun, but that doesn't make him in charge. He knows it just as much as I do. You're in charge, and what you need to do now is get it under control. You need to take that sack he placed in front of you. You need to take that money from the cash drawer. You need to put everything you have in there, and, then, you need to give it to this man. That's all it takes, sweetheart. It's that simple." Donovan tried to soften his voice a bit more. "Remember. You're in charge. Now, go ahead and do what you know has to be done. There's no one here who's going to blame you for anything. There's no one who's going to think you made a mistake. Right now, the only mistake you can make is not accepting the fact that if you don't take charge there are a whole lot of people who might not see their friends and family."
"You're damn right they won't see any of their family," the crook threatened.
"Easy," Donovan repeated, tilted his eyes upward in the direction of the muffled voice. "Let her do her job, man. She knows what to do. Just let her do it."
Slowly, Jaime stepped forward. She reached out, took the sack from the counter, and flipped it open.
"That's good work, Jaime," Donovan praised her. "You're doing just fine."
"Yeah, that's really good work," the crook said. "Now, put all the money in the bag."
"Do as he says," Donovan quickly interrupted, not wanting to lose what fragile control he had over the situation while he still could. "Go on, now. Put the money in the bag."
"HURRY UP!" the gunman screamed from the door.
The former Navy Seal felt the cold ring shift a bit. He guessed that his captor had turned to glance at the door.
"Shut up!" his attacker snapped. "She's doing it right now! She's putting the money in the bag!"
"THEN YOU TELL HER TO DO IT FASTER OR I'M GONNA PUT A BULLET IN HER HEAD!"
"I said, she's doing it!"
Good, Donovan thought. It was a classic scenario: a two-man job where the trigger happy one insisted on guarding the door, staying as far away from the security cameras as possible. He didn't want to enter the bank too far out of fear of being trapped, cornered. As a matter of fact, Donovan knew that – unless the circumstances warranted it – the doorman wouldn't move inside without first considered making a run for it.
It was the classic scenario.
"See, Jaime?" Donovan said. "Like I said, you're in charge. You just keep putting that money in that bag."
Weakly, she glanced down at him, and she smiled. Behind her weakness, he knew that she was trusting in him to get her through this, and he would.
In fact, he had just about had enough of it.
"See?" he repeated. "Everything is okay."
"Damn right," his captor said, his grip loosening a bit, "and let's keep it that way. Hurry it up, girl."
"Man, she's moving as fast as she can," Donovan cautioned the robber. "There's no need for that. Let her do what's she's doing. You just stand there with that gun to my head and do your job."
"What?"
"You heard me," he continued. "Let her get your money together, and then you and your pal there can get out."
Uncertain as to what to say next, the criminal shut his mouth.
"You're doing a good job, Jaime."
Holding back tears, she replied. "Thank you."
"You're doing real good."
She grimaced and nodded. A single tear rolled down her face. "Thank you," she offered her sincere appreciation once more.
"You're doing exactly as you're told, and you're staying in charge," Donovan remarked, shifting his feet slightly for what was about to come next. "That's a good job. I can tell that you're a good worker. I can tell, by the way you're handling yourself, that you always do what you're told."
She continued stuffing money into the bag. "I do," she whispered, her emotions cracking through the tough exterior she had long tried to keep. "I really do."
"That's good. That's really good."
"Thank you," she said.
"And Jaime?"
"Yes?"
"DUCK!"
Donovan brought his free hand up, catching his captor off guard, and he grabbed the man's wrist, forcing the muzzle away.
CRACK! CRACK!
Instinctively, the thug pulled the trigger, and Donovan listened as the bullets whistled as they sliced the air alongside his head. He closed his eyes as they tore into the marble countertop, ripping chunks of rock free and exploding them into dust and fragments. Standing against the brute force on his shoulder, Donovan yanked the gun arm out to the side and twisted hard enough until the man screamed, losing his balance, and took one step backward.
"HEY!" the thug near the door yelled, finally realizing that his partner was under attack. "HEY!"
It was a classic scenario, Donovan realized, as the doorman suddenly took a step forward ... exactly as he had predicted.
Moving at lightning speed, the former Seal ducked under his captive's extended arm and brought the man's elbow to rest on his shoulder. The man yelped as Donovan cracked the joint, pulling down on the wrist and practically snapping the arm in two. Again, the gunman's motor reflexes kicked into gear. He squeezed the trigger, but, without the use of his arm, he couldn't aim ...
... but Donovan could.
Quickly, he forced the gun in the direction of the door, and, before he could do anything, two bullets rocketed from the mouth of the gun, fired blindly but with enough simple precision to catch the doorman square in the chest. The man's body twitched, his mouth flung open wordlessly, and he crashed backward through the thick plate glass and out of sight.
Now in complete control, Donovan lowered his balance even lowered, and he pulled. Off balance, the robber screamed in pain as he was lifted off the floor, rolled over his aggressor's back, and slammed into the hard, cold, marble floor. The man grimaced, but Donovan wasn't done. Crouching over the man, Donovan focused all of his weight into his knee and dropped onto the man's broken arm. He heard the second crunch of bone splintering into uselessness, and he listened to the clap-clap-clap of the would-be robber's finger endlessly pulling the trigger to an already emptied pistol.
Stretching out his leg, Donovan kicked the pistol away.
Moaning, slowly lifting his head, the robber spat, "You sonuvabitch ..."
Grimacing, Donovan rocked all of his effort into one punch to the man's forehead. The blow snapped the crook's head backward, smacking it once more into the marble, and the thug painfully faded off into the land of the unconscious.
With a smile, the former Seal spat, "I've been called worse."
Outside, several squad cars were parked, and the D.C. area police were busy taking statements from the bank patrons and employees.
"Do you want to tell me what the hell happened in there?" Detective Martin Guerrero asked.
"Not really, Marty."
Tilting his head in an expression of incredulity, the officer stated, "I'm not sure you have that option."
Donovan shrugged. "Why don't you take it up with the NSA?"
"I will."
Smiling, the man started to walk away from the bank. He wasn't needed here any longer, and, from what he could remember, he had a full day ahead of him.
"Don't give me that crap," the detective tried, taking up step beside him.
"It isn't any crap, Marty."
"You know as well as I do, Donovan. If I call the NSA, I'm going to given the polite brush off. The political 'no comment' speech. You know this damn town. I've got two injured bank robbers heading into intensive care, and I'm going to have to give my boss some answers as to how they got that way."
"That's not my problem."
"No," the man agreed, "but this crime scene is."
"Not any more."
Donovan felt the detective's hand on his shoulder, and he stopped.
"Look," the officer tried, desperately wanting cooperation, "I know that you've been on administrative leave for ... well ... hell, how long has it been."
"A while," the man agreed.
"You give new meaning to the word 'vague,' Donovan. It's been quite some time since you were in the saddle."
Growing uncomfortable with the conversation, Donovan shook his head. "I'm working."
"You're rogue," Guerrero corrected. "You and I both know that the NSA has you classified as a rogue agent. You're what they call an 'orphan' in intelligence circles. You don't really have a father or a mother, but you report in all the same. It makes it easier for the NSA to conduct what appear to be non-government sanctioned investigations while having them handled by an agent who has every government resource available to him." He took his hand away. "Donovan, I have no problem with any of that. I understand you have your reasons, and I'm perfectly fine cleaning up your messes. All I'm asking is that you do me the courtesy of staying away from my crime scenes. Is that too much to ask?"
"I don't go looking for trouble, Marty," the dark-skinned man said as he turned to leave. "As luck would have it, trouble just happens to always find me."
End of Chapter 20
Six Days, Eight Hours, Twenty-Six Minutes
"One false move," the thug – his face hidden by a ski mask – threatened, his voice guttural, grating, intimidating, "and everyone in here is dead."
Craig Donovan felt the cold steel circle of the bank robber's muzzle at the back of his neck. When it was clear that a robbery was underway, he had tried to intervene politely: the bank clerk – a young woman probably in her early twenties – had immediately panicked, despite her training, and stepped three feet away from the counter, causing the criminal to step all the way forward to the counter. The man waved the gun at her, gesturing at the open cash drawer to the right, and he barked several obscene commands to the trembling lady. Near the bank's entrance, another gunman – his face also hidden underneath a mask – yelled for the 'bitch' to hurry up, to get the money in the bag, to do it now, now, now! That's when Donovan couldn't stand idly by any longer. Casually, he took a step closer to the counter, and, in a gentle voice, he whispered, "Easy, man. She's just a kid." Startled, the robber turned his head, giving the former Navy Seal a look that Donovan had seen one too many times. Enraged, the criminal lifted his free hand, grabbed the black man by the back of his head, and slammed Donovan's forehead to the counter. His vision exploded in a burst of painful white light, the surroundings suddenly spinning, and he took a few deep breaths, allowing for the vertigo to dissipate. Before he knew what was happening, the man had lowered his 9 millimeter Beretta, choosing to shove the muzzle at his new captive's neck. The woman yelped, but the crook said, "If you so much as think about disobeying any order I give you, you'll be wiping this idiot's brain off your dress."
His senses back to normal, ignoring the pain, Donovan pressed his face to the cold marble counter and sensed a trickle of blood from the gash the criminal had inflicted. Keeping completely still, his face against the smooth finish, a vise-like grip on his shoulder, and the cold muzzle reminding him how fragile life was, he tried again: "Easy, man. Just take it easy. You'll get your money, and you'll get out of here. No one has to get hurt."
The crook snickered. "You're already hurt."
"That's okay," Donovan replied. "Better me ... better one person ... than everyone in here."
"Shut up."
"You hurt everyone in here, and you can bet every dollar this clerk gives you that the police will never let you get away."
"I told you to shut up."
"All right," he tried smoothly, trying to control the situation. "All right. This is your show. I'm just a regular customer."
"Then shut it."
Donovan took a deep breath. He felt his center of balance, realizing that, if needed, he could shift quickly, carefully, and the gunman would slide forward. In that solitary moment, the gun might come free, but it was a gamble. The risk was too great. There were too many innocent people already fearing for their lives, shivering on the floor, waiting for these endless moments to finally be completely over. He wouldn't risk it.
Moving his eyes slowly, Donovan glanced up at the female bank clerk. "What's your name?"
"You don't need to know her name," the thug cautioned.
"Easy, man," he tried. "I'm only trying to help." Fixing his eyes on her, Donovan repeated, "What's your name?"
"Jaime," she finally answered, her voice trembling.
"Jaime," Donovan began, "now, let me tell you something. You're in charge. I know you don't think you are. I know you probably have a boss you report to, and I know he's probably watching you right now. Even he knows what I'm about to tell you, and I'm doing this, remember, at the risk of my own life. This man here? This guy holding my head to the counter? He has a gun, but that doesn't make him in charge. He knows it just as much as I do. You're in charge, and what you need to do now is get it under control. You need to take that sack he placed in front of you. You need to take that money from the cash drawer. You need to put everything you have in there, and, then, you need to give it to this man. That's all it takes, sweetheart. It's that simple." Donovan tried to soften his voice a bit more. "Remember. You're in charge. Now, go ahead and do what you know has to be done. There's no one here who's going to blame you for anything. There's no one who's going to think you made a mistake. Right now, the only mistake you can make is not accepting the fact that if you don't take charge there are a whole lot of people who might not see their friends and family."
"You're damn right they won't see any of their family," the crook threatened.
"Easy," Donovan repeated, tilted his eyes upward in the direction of the muffled voice. "Let her do her job, man. She knows what to do. Just let her do it."
Slowly, Jaime stepped forward. She reached out, took the sack from the counter, and flipped it open.
"That's good work, Jaime," Donovan praised her. "You're doing just fine."
"Yeah, that's really good work," the crook said. "Now, put all the money in the bag."
"Do as he says," Donovan quickly interrupted, not wanting to lose what fragile control he had over the situation while he still could. "Go on, now. Put the money in the bag."
"HURRY UP!" the gunman screamed from the door.
The former Navy Seal felt the cold ring shift a bit. He guessed that his captor had turned to glance at the door.
"Shut up!" his attacker snapped. "She's doing it right now! She's putting the money in the bag!"
"THEN YOU TELL HER TO DO IT FASTER OR I'M GONNA PUT A BULLET IN HER HEAD!"
"I said, she's doing it!"
Good, Donovan thought. It was a classic scenario: a two-man job where the trigger happy one insisted on guarding the door, staying as far away from the security cameras as possible. He didn't want to enter the bank too far out of fear of being trapped, cornered. As a matter of fact, Donovan knew that – unless the circumstances warranted it – the doorman wouldn't move inside without first considered making a run for it.
It was the classic scenario.
"See, Jaime?" Donovan said. "Like I said, you're in charge. You just keep putting that money in that bag."
Weakly, she glanced down at him, and she smiled. Behind her weakness, he knew that she was trusting in him to get her through this, and he would.
In fact, he had just about had enough of it.
"See?" he repeated. "Everything is okay."
"Damn right," his captor said, his grip loosening a bit, "and let's keep it that way. Hurry it up, girl."
"Man, she's moving as fast as she can," Donovan cautioned the robber. "There's no need for that. Let her do what's she's doing. You just stand there with that gun to my head and do your job."
"What?"
"You heard me," he continued. "Let her get your money together, and then you and your pal there can get out."
Uncertain as to what to say next, the criminal shut his mouth.
"You're doing a good job, Jaime."
Holding back tears, she replied. "Thank you."
"You're doing real good."
She grimaced and nodded. A single tear rolled down her face. "Thank you," she offered her sincere appreciation once more.
"You're doing exactly as you're told, and you're staying in charge," Donovan remarked, shifting his feet slightly for what was about to come next. "That's a good job. I can tell that you're a good worker. I can tell, by the way you're handling yourself, that you always do what you're told."
She continued stuffing money into the bag. "I do," she whispered, her emotions cracking through the tough exterior she had long tried to keep. "I really do."
"That's good. That's really good."
"Thank you," she said.
"And Jaime?"
"Yes?"
"DUCK!"
Donovan brought his free hand up, catching his captor off guard, and he grabbed the man's wrist, forcing the muzzle away.
CRACK! CRACK!
Instinctively, the thug pulled the trigger, and Donovan listened as the bullets whistled as they sliced the air alongside his head. He closed his eyes as they tore into the marble countertop, ripping chunks of rock free and exploding them into dust and fragments. Standing against the brute force on his shoulder, Donovan yanked the gun arm out to the side and twisted hard enough until the man screamed, losing his balance, and took one step backward.
"HEY!" the thug near the door yelled, finally realizing that his partner was under attack. "HEY!"
It was a classic scenario, Donovan realized, as the doorman suddenly took a step forward ... exactly as he had predicted.
Moving at lightning speed, the former Seal ducked under his captive's extended arm and brought the man's elbow to rest on his shoulder. The man yelped as Donovan cracked the joint, pulling down on the wrist and practically snapping the arm in two. Again, the gunman's motor reflexes kicked into gear. He squeezed the trigger, but, without the use of his arm, he couldn't aim ...
... but Donovan could.
Quickly, he forced the gun in the direction of the door, and, before he could do anything, two bullets rocketed from the mouth of the gun, fired blindly but with enough simple precision to catch the doorman square in the chest. The man's body twitched, his mouth flung open wordlessly, and he crashed backward through the thick plate glass and out of sight.
Now in complete control, Donovan lowered his balance even lowered, and he pulled. Off balance, the robber screamed in pain as he was lifted off the floor, rolled over his aggressor's back, and slammed into the hard, cold, marble floor. The man grimaced, but Donovan wasn't done. Crouching over the man, Donovan focused all of his weight into his knee and dropped onto the man's broken arm. He heard the second crunch of bone splintering into uselessness, and he listened to the clap-clap-clap of the would-be robber's finger endlessly pulling the trigger to an already emptied pistol.
Stretching out his leg, Donovan kicked the pistol away.
Moaning, slowly lifting his head, the robber spat, "You sonuvabitch ..."
Grimacing, Donovan rocked all of his effort into one punch to the man's forehead. The blow snapped the crook's head backward, smacking it once more into the marble, and the thug painfully faded off into the land of the unconscious.
With a smile, the former Seal spat, "I've been called worse."
Outside, several squad cars were parked, and the D.C. area police were busy taking statements from the bank patrons and employees.
"Do you want to tell me what the hell happened in there?" Detective Martin Guerrero asked.
"Not really, Marty."
Tilting his head in an expression of incredulity, the officer stated, "I'm not sure you have that option."
Donovan shrugged. "Why don't you take it up with the NSA?"
"I will."
Smiling, the man started to walk away from the bank. He wasn't needed here any longer, and, from what he could remember, he had a full day ahead of him.
"Don't give me that crap," the detective tried, taking up step beside him.
"It isn't any crap, Marty."
"You know as well as I do, Donovan. If I call the NSA, I'm going to given the polite brush off. The political 'no comment' speech. You know this damn town. I've got two injured bank robbers heading into intensive care, and I'm going to have to give my boss some answers as to how they got that way."
"That's not my problem."
"No," the man agreed, "but this crime scene is."
"Not any more."
Donovan felt the detective's hand on his shoulder, and he stopped.
"Look," the officer tried, desperately wanting cooperation, "I know that you've been on administrative leave for ... well ... hell, how long has it been."
"A while," the man agreed.
"You give new meaning to the word 'vague,' Donovan. It's been quite some time since you were in the saddle."
Growing uncomfortable with the conversation, Donovan shook his head. "I'm working."
"You're rogue," Guerrero corrected. "You and I both know that the NSA has you classified as a rogue agent. You're what they call an 'orphan' in intelligence circles. You don't really have a father or a mother, but you report in all the same. It makes it easier for the NSA to conduct what appear to be non-government sanctioned investigations while having them handled by an agent who has every government resource available to him." He took his hand away. "Donovan, I have no problem with any of that. I understand you have your reasons, and I'm perfectly fine cleaning up your messes. All I'm asking is that you do me the courtesy of staying away from my crime scenes. Is that too much to ask?"
"I don't go looking for trouble, Marty," the dark-skinned man said as he turned to leave. "As luck would have it, trouble just happens to always find me."
End of Chapter 20