Earlier this year I read an interview with JE, where she seemed pretty happy to get rid of the number centered book naming thing. It made me wonder about coming up with 27 number themed titles, and then pairing up story ideas with them. In the end, I came up with 31 story ideas (more, if you count the multiple ideas for several of the numbers), and The Number Series was born. Some stories are longer one-shots, some are short, and some developed into multi-chapter offerings. All have the title somewhere in the story. I have no set posting schedule for them.
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All recognizable characters belong to Janet Evanovich, I'm just playing.
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Sixteen Seconds
SPOV
My eyes close in frustration as I barely move another inch forward. The ATM machine outside Trenton First Federal Credit Union had a big, unhappy Out of Order sign on it, necessitating this trip inside and my stay in the never-ending teller line. If I didn't want to make sure that these checks were deposited today, guaranteeing they were there for rent check time in a couple days, I'd turn around and leave. At the very least, I should think about moving to a bank that had multiple locations or didn't charge for using a different ATM, but I've been an account holder here since my first Tasty Pastry check when dad brought me down to open a savings account.
I finally move an entire foot forward, trying not to groan at the site of seven people still in line in front of me. Marjorie Pyzouski is the only teller on duty, and I swear she hasn't changed in twenty years. Same polyester skirt and top separates, pearl necklace, bouffant, and reading glasses perched on the end of her upturned nose. If there's any change, it's that she's slower now. When I stop to think about it, she's probably in her eighties.
Clutching my checks, I wonder what it would be like to have the same job for, shit, forty years? She's been here at least that long. I bounced around after college, eventually spending six years at EE Martin, staying more for the steady paycheck and the benefits than the enjoyment of being there. I've been doing the bounty hunting thing for 5 years now, with nary a steady paycheck or benefits in sight. Some days I like it, some days I wish I was doing anything else.
For the next forty-five minutes, I let a flight of fancy take over, imaging myself in different jobs. I keep coming back to the parts of bounty hunting I like: the mystery, the searching, the sense of accomplishment of closing out a file, and getting the really bad guys back in the system. The messes and gossip I could really do without. I'm finally next in line; a glance behind me shows that the line is even worse than when I got here, with at least a dozen people waiting.
"Next!"
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Pyzouski. How are you?"
See? The manners my mother drilled into me are still there. The last thing I want is another Stephanie did something wrong story getting back to her or Joe. Things are relatively calm lately, and by that, I mean Joe and I have been too busy to get together for more than a night here or there and have mainly communicated by text. Since there's been no blow-up of her phone telling her about us breaking up again, mom is happy as a clam assuming we're happily together.
Mrs. Pyzouski grumbles out a greeting, frowning at Vinnie's name on the checks. I wouldn't even need to be here if the system at the bond's office wasn't down, and my skip fees could be auto-deposited. Connie suspects Vinnie is trying to hide something from Harry the Hammer; whatever. As long as my checks clear, Vinnie can do whatever he wants.
Her motions are slow and methodical, but eventually Mrs. Pyzouski gets all my checks entered and deposited. She holds the receipt out to me and just as I reach for it, a man jumps up on the desk closest to the door and yells, "No one moves! We're just here for the money!"
Well, crap.
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RPOV
Signing off on another residential contract, I add it to the growing pile in my outbox. An unfortunate spate of home invasions and commercial burglaries have brought new clients in in droves, necessitating a personnel transfer from the Boston office while we hire more boots on the ground to handle the patrol shifts and response teams. The pile is a reminder that I need to talk to Steph about coming in and running some searches for me to speed that up.
There's a clench in my gut at the thought of Steph. One of the home invasions was at an older apartment complex like the one that she lives in. No security on the outer doors, so the shitbags strolled right in, catching one of the elderly residents just as they were heading into their apartment with groceries. The man was left bound and gagged on his couch while they quickly ransacked his apartment, making off with the social security check he had just cashed, a coin collection, and a couple small electronics. From there, they hit five other apartments in less than an hour. Their last victim was pistol-whipped and suffered a concussion.
In a perfect world, I could convince her to work here in the office, even as a contractor, which would allow her to afford a better place to live. Too many things have happened in the rattrap she still calls home. Even better would be convincing her to move to Haywood, but I don't see that happening any time soon. There are no empty apartments on four, and I wouldn't want the cop to have access to my building, anyway. Seven would always be an option, but Morelli really wouldn't be welcome there and Steph's not at a point in her life that she can walk away from him, and I've started to accept that she never will be. I've tried to drop hints that I'm ready for more, but I need it to be her choice, need to know it's what she really wants.
Raised voices in the control room catch my attention and even though I'm not the shift supervisor, I make my way out there. Murmurs are flying around the room as I step behind Koz and Ramon on monitors. "Report!"
"Sir, a silent alarm was just tripped at Trenton First Federal Credit Union."
"Has Trenton PD requested our assistance?"
"No, Sir."
"Then what seems to be the issue?"
Ramon swallows roughly before hesitantly telling me, "Bomber's car is parked down the street and her latest purse tracker puts her in the building for the last hour." Anything else he says is lost to me as I take off down the stairs.
Babe.
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SPOV
It's been nearly thirty minutes since four men stormed the bank, zip tied the crash bar handles of the doors together to keep them from being opened and herded us into small groups scattered around the main area. Employees were collected from offices and mixed in with the patrons. Mrs. Pyzouski was knocked to the floor when she didn't move fast enough, and we've all been on edge since then.
The guy that had jumped up on the desk didn't seem to be the one in charge, just the one with the most energy. He spent a lot of time pacing around the room, randomly pointing his gun at people until he got the reaction he wanted. The three others seemed calmer, but not by much. This is so not good.
My group consists of me, a mom and her small son, and a businessman who has alternated between bitching about his suit getting dirty and grumbling about not having time for this. Dude, ain't nobody got time for being a hostage. The little boy is becoming increasingly agitated, despite his mom's attempts to calm him down with toys from her bag.
The phone in the lobby rings, startling all of us. I know that it's likely someone from the police calling to establish a connection with the robbers in an effort to get us all out of here alive. I know that Joe has had to work a few hostage situations when homicide has been called in and I seriously hope that won't be the case today. The way one of the robbers glares at the phone makes me wonder just how bad it's going to get.
Just when I think he's going to completely ignore it, he stalks over and snatches up the receiver, barking out, "What?" He listens but says little beyond yes and no. The other robbers continue to circle the lobby, stopping only to grab one of the female employees and drag her to the teller desk and force her to empty the cash drawers. It's in the back of my mind to wonder why all the drawers had a cash tray if only one line was open. Funny, the random things that pop into your head when you're waiting to see if you're going to get shot because the ATM was broken.
One of the robbers has been eyeing me and I'm starting to worry that he recognizes me. With stocking caps over the faces, I'm at a disadvantage and I hope to hell that me being here doesn't make things worse. Rangeman gets a lot of requests to help the police; if we're lucky, they're outside now, coming up with a plan. The idea of Ranger being in charge settles me and my breathing evens out a little. He'll get me out of here, I know he will.
The little boy whimpers and arches his back, trying to get away from his mother. It draws the attention of the first robber, who I've come to think of as Blue Shoes, based on his footwear. He storms over to us, gun aimed at the kid as he breaks away from his mother and huddles under a desk. Without thought, I scramble over and position myself in front of the desk, shielding the boy. Blue Shoes responds by holding his gun to my head.
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RPOV
We're posted up outside the bank, stuck outside the police line despite offering our assistance. Hector was able to work his magic and loop us into the bank's security feed. The SWAT team leader was a little more willing to at least invite us into the circle, and we huddle around a couple laptops watching four douchebags walk around and point their guns at the terrified patrons.
I was holding out hope that Steph wasn't here, despite her POS being parked down the block. My eyes searched the feed for her, finally finding her in one of the groups on the left side of the room. She looks unhurt, and I mentally urge her to just sit tight and wait for us to come up with a plan. A little boy sitting near her is drawing the attention of the gunmen and that could be a problem. The mom looks to be trying to do what she can to calm him down, but it's definitely shaping up to be something the insertion team will have to keep an eye on.
I've offered up some of my men, but the head of SWAT is of the same mind as Morelli; that we're lose canons that think we're above the law. Not true, but we do generally have a little more leeway than they do. Speaking of the cop, he's here, pacing and grumbling about Steph finding herself in the middle of another mess. Every time he mutters her name, my men stiffen, and I have to wave them off. As much as it galls me, how he treats her isn't our fight if she's not willing to fight it, too.
There's a massive intake of breath as we watch the little boy bolt and dive under a desk. One of the gunmen stalks over and everyone freezes. Everyone outside, anyway. On the screen we watch Steph put herself between the kid and the man and my heart stops as he raises the gun and holds it against her forehead. We don't have sound, leaving us in the dark as to what is really happening inside.
Out of habit, my eye drops to the clock in the corner of the screen, anything to avoid the sight of Steph with a gun to her head. It's one of my worst nightmares, playing out right in front of me and there's absolutely nothing I can do about it. I'm helpless, left standing out in the cold, waiting to see if her light is extinguished from my life. The thought of it is nearly unbearable, and I know that I'm standing on the precipice of before and after; the hope and goodness before she was taken from me, and the bleak and grey that will come after. I can fool myself about a lot of things, but the effect of not having her alive and whole and in my life is not one of them. I want more time with her.
The image on the screen burns itself into my brain, and I hold my breath, waiting. If it weren't for the subtle movements of the mom just at the edge of the screen, I would wonder if the feed had frozen. The gunman pushes the barrel harder against her skin, all but insuring she'll have a bruise, but a bruise will be preferable to a bullet hole. Steph still hasn't moved, and I'm thankful as fuck that it's one of the few times since I've known her that she's been able to sit still. Finally, the gunman backs off, tapping the gun against her cheek before stepping away. Every cop and Rangeman watching the feed take a collective breath. Morelli blurts out a drawn-out "fuuuccckk." My eyes unconsciously find the clock again. It felt like an eternity, but in reality, it was only sixteen seconds.
My mind flits over all the times I hedged my bets and gave only bits of the truth. I could lose her today without her ever knowing exactly what I feel and what I want. Those sixteen seconds when I waited to see if my world irrevocably changed will haunt me if she doesn't make it out alive.
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SPOV
Dragging in a slow breath, it's hard not to show weakness and slump to the floor. Moving to protect the kid was instinctive; I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I hadn't tried to do something. I move forward on my knees a little bit, allowing the mom to crawl over and cradle her son. Under the desk is probably the best place for them if shit hits the fan, anyway.
Slowly sitting down in front of them, my heart rate is erratic and it's not until I hear Ranger in my head, urging me to count, that it starts to calm. The businessman in our group is shaking his head at me, like he can't believe I would put myself between a stranger and a gun pointed at them.
Around the room, people are fidgeting. The robbers continue to stalk around the room. The whole sequence of events is strange; why lock the doors before they have the money? Why not take the money and run? What's their game?
It's likely I'll never get the answers. The way the man that held the gun to my head moves around the room and laughs while threatening people suggests that he doesn't really care about a plan. I've no sooner had the thought than a woman who'd look more at home in a boardroom than anywhere speaks to the man that answered the phone. "Just let us go. You got the money; surely you had a plan to get out—"
The man doesn't hesitate to lift his gun, shooting her. She looks startled for a minute, blood trickling from the whole in her forehead before she slumps the rest of the way to the ground. There is absolute shock and silence for five seconds until everyone starts screaming. One of the gunmen hops up on a desk, yelling, "Silence!" There is immediate compliance, followed only by the whimpers of a few of the patrons.
Watching the blood pool around her blond hair, it hits me for the first time that I might not make it out of here.
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RPOV
The tenseness among us ramps up as we watch the woman slump to the ground. To my right, Morelli grounds out, "Jesus Christ, Cupcake. Whatever you do, keep your fucking mouth shut and your ass planted this time!" I want to beat the shit out of him on principal alone, even if I agree with his sentiment. Come on, Babe. Play it smart. Don't' draw any more attention to yourself.
The incident commander has no choice but to act now. My offer of Rangeman assistance in any capacity is once again declined. I'd stand here and argue, but that would just take up precious time he doesn't have. Putting her safety in the hands of someone other than me or my men doesn't sit well with me.
As the seconds tick by, I'm struggling to lock it down and set emotion aside. With nothing to focus on, all the things I wish I could go back and change flash before my eyes. Making the deal, telling her to fix her relationship with the cop, parsing out words that could be taken in more than one way. I wish I could tell her what she and her friendship mean to me and loving her in my own way is the only way I knew how: completely and irrevocably.
Without moving my head, I watch the SWAT team gear up to scale the building, knowing they're going for an overhead insertion. They only have a short window to get it right and I'm willing to use any goodwill I have in the universe to hope that today isn't the day that all the black marks against me come calling to collect.
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SPOV
I'd like to say I've lived my life without regrets, but that would be a lie. I regret not putting more effort into college and getting a degree I could actually do something with. I regret marrying Dickie. Boy, do I regret that one. I regret not taking Ranger up on his repeated offers for training; not only would it have made my ability to pay the rent easier, but more than likely it made it hard for him to even consider me as a potential partner in life. I regret that I can't make things work with Joe, no matter how hard I try and convince myself that it's the best choice for me. But most of all, I regret that I didn't fight harder for what I did want.
I know this standoff has to end sooner rather than later. Once the robbers shot the woman, there's no way that the PD could put off making a move. I know Ranger's probably out there figuring out a way to end this with the least amount of bloodshed possible. I have to believe that he's going to get me out of here.
The little boy is starting to get agitated again and his mom does her best to calm him down. Blue Shoes aims another glare at him and starts to stalk toward him when we're all rocked of three successive small explosions and plenty of smoke. Scared, the little boy jumps to his feet, prepared to run. On impulse, I dive forward and tackle him and scoot over to the mom. Together we keep him covered while she sings to him in a soft cadence.
My heart is racing, and I start to count silently to myself in an effort to bring it down. One Mississippi. The boy is still fussing, but her consistent calm is helping him and reminds me a little bit of Ranger. Two Mississippi. He's always so calm and in control. I could use a quiet Babe about now. Three Mississippi. I hear shouting over the screams of the hostages, and I strain, hoping to hear him now. Four Mississippi. A little foot kicks me hard in the thigh, and in my head, I see Ranger shake his head at the bruise I'm going to get, the only you part of the conversation just as silent as the rest.
Five Mississippi. Shots are fired from close enough to us that it's deafening. Six Mississippi. The woman with the stupid Santa sweater starts to recite the Lord's Prayer. Seven Mississippi. I'm back to cataloging my regrets, not confident that I'm going to make it out of here. Eight Mississippi. Why was I so complacent when he told me to go fix things with Joe? Why did I go back?
Nine Mississippi. Was he bluffing, all the times he said I'd have to leave his bed eventually? Ten Mississippi. When he asked if I was proposing to him, why didn't I push it and see what his answer was? Eleven Mississippi. I love you, in my own way. I've never asked what that meant, and now I might never get to. Twelve Mississippi.
There are all kinds of love, and as a bullet splinters the edge of the desk above us, I regret not asking for more, asking exactly what we were. Thirteen Mississippi. I regret not telling him that I love him, angry at myself for all the times I chickened out. Fourteen Mississippi. I wish I could see him one more time, to make sure he knew what he means to me. Fifteen Mississippi. I wish I had a way to make sure he knew that if it came to it, it was always going to be him. It's frightening how much I wish he knew that. Sixteen Mississippi.
"Clear!"
After the second-longest sixteen seconds of my life, I'm verging toward hyperventilating when that blessed word starts to ring around the room. The smoke is still heavy in the air, choking us even as we dare not move. In the silence that remains, we hear boots shuffling along the floor. I'm startled when a radio squawks above me as a message is relayed. "Base, we're clear and will be moving hostages out in groups. Stand by to receive. Over."
Still, no one moves until the same disembodied voice in the smoke tells us to slowly sit up. I never thought time could move slower than it did when Ranger walked into my apartment to face Scrog and it turns out that I was right. It doesn't seem like that long of time, but when life hangs in the balance, sixteen seconds is a lifetime. The only difference was this time, I knew he was safe.
The little boy is calmer now, even as he fights a coughing fit. As the smoke begins to settle, we can start making out the sights from around the room. All four of the robbers are down and unmoving. The mom turns the boy toward her chest to shield him from the carnage. Looking around, I spy the damage to the desk barely a foot above where our bodies were piled together. It takes everything in me not to give in to the nausea bubbling up. So close; we came so close to possibly not walking out of here.
It's finally clear enough that I can see one of the SWAT officers motioning for four of the hostages to head toward the door, cautioning them to keep their hands up at shoulder height until they clear the barricade. We're lumped in batches of four, bank employees mixed in with patrons, and we watch as each group is escorted to the door and allowed to leave. It's down to just the four of us; the boy and his mom locked together as she carries him, the businessman who didn't have time to be a hostage, and me. Even though we're unlikely to meet again, we played a part in each other's life on this nightmare day, and there's a weird kinship between us as relief sets in and we share a smile as we get our all clear.
As we approach the front of the bank, I can see both Joe and Ranger standing not far from each other. Joe is on this side of the sawhorses, looking annoyed, and I realize that other than to acknowledge that he was probably outside, he hadn't crossed my mind in any tangible way. Ranger, behind the line, though…he's standing strong and silent like always, but there is a tenseness in his rigid posture; his fists are clenched at his sides, and I want nothing more than to kiss away his stress. If I hadn't already made up my mind, that would have done it for me.
The businessman has his hands up at shoulder height and uses his hips to open the door for us. Looking past him, I lock eyes with Ranger and see Joe take a step toward me out of my peripheral vison.
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RPOV
The shaped charges meant to distract the targets and allow the insertion team entry through the ceiling go off and we all hold our breath. This is the worst part of the rescue when you're not on the team; the waiting is brutal and without a visual from the now compromised feed, Rangeman is standing here dumb and blind. I'm not used to sitting on the sideline when Steph's safety is on the line and I'm not handling it well. Since Lester and Bobby have both clapped my back and told me she'll be fine, I'd say I'm not even doing a good job of hiding it, either.
Morelli shifts his weight, telegraphing that he, too, is on edge. He finally stopped talking shit, but you can tell he's not happy that Steph's involved in this. I'm not happy either, but it's not like she planned her day around being a hostage.
The longer it takes to get the all-clear, the tenser we all get. If you know your guns, you can tell that it's not just the cops firing their weapons. Beside me, Ram tenses. He hears it, too. By the time we hear SWAT radio in that the situation is contained, we're ready to throw the barricades to the side and get in there.
It takes several minutes, but the groups of hostages start coming out. With each wave, I strain to see her, to get a visual and know that she's ok. No paramedics were called in, so in theory I know she's fine, but I need to see her.
Just when I'd give up on her coming out, I see her through the glass and there's a spark in my chest as I confirm she is indeed, fine. The door to the bank is opened by a disheveled man wearing a business suit and as soon as she's clear, Steph locks her gaze onto mine. From the corner of my eye, I see Morelli moving to intercept her and I look away while pushing down a sigh. As long as she's ok, I can live with her choosing him.
A gasp from Lester beside me has me looking back at Steph as she skirts right past the cop's outstretched hand and heads straight for me. It's shocking enough that I barely have time to brace myself as she launches herself into my arms, trusting me to catch her. Her hug is tight, and I return it. I wasn't expecting to be able to hold her like this, but I'm not going to squander the opportunity.
Morelli is pissed, and in his position, I would be, too. His girl just rejected him in front of both his co-workers and my men. That's a move that's going to sting and I can practically hear the shouting match that will occur when she let's go of me.
Except, she doesn't let go. Instead, she holds on a little tighter and moves us forehead to forehead and doesn't bother to lower her voice. "I know you don't want me the way I want you, but I need you to know that it's always going to be you. When it mattered, it only took me sixteen seconds to figure out that you knowing you had my heart was the single most important thing to me. No matter what happens, even if you walk away from me, I just want you to know that I love you."
The cop had moved closer to us and heard every bit. His "What the actual fuck, Cupcake!" is lost in the haze as her words register. While her actions have told me she had feelings for me, I've waited a long time to hear the words. I honestly never expected to, not when I've said shit that made her doubt what she means to me.
"Babe."
The fact that she jumped, here in front of everyone, without knowing if I was on the same page tells me she's making a choice and is committed to it. There are so many things that I could say, that I want to say, but judging from the smile I get, she seems to understand that I mean thank fuck, I love you, too, and now you're stuck with me. I'll have to make sure to tell her all that later, but right now our lips have fused together, sealing the deal.
"You have got to be fucking kidding me, Manoso. Let her the fuck go; she doesn't belong to you!"
Actually, she does now; I'm just not dumb enough to phrase it like that. But his words are enough to throw a cold blanket over us and we lean back from each other even if we don't let go of each other. Morelli makes the mistake of trying to grab her arm, and she leans more fully into me as Les and Hal step from either side of me to shield her.
"Christ, I'm not going to hurt her. She's my freaking girlfriend!"
Neither of my men move, and Steph sighs. I guess I'm about to find out what "No matter what happens" means.
"Joe, don't do this here—"
"Do what? You were just fucking kissing someone else right in front of me!"
She bites her lip, but still makes no move away from me. "Yeah. I was. I should say I'm sorry, but it wouldn't be the whole truth. I am sorry that this is so public, but I think we both know that you'd be fine with us breaking up if it were done in private."
"So now we're breaking up? We're not even fighting."
He goes off on her from there, but she ignores him and instead chooses to burrow tighter into my chest. The way he's tearing her down, questioning her intelligence, loyalty, and even her character, makes me want to pound him into the ground. Curiously, it seems to have no effect on her. She turns her back to him, asking me, "Can you take me home after I give my statement?"
"I'll be taking you home, Stephanie." Morellis words are low, his anger burning out almost as fast as it flared.
Steph turns to him. "That's my choice to make, Joe. Not so long ago, you told me I was going to have to finally make some decisions. I just did. We're over. I'm done pretending that settling down is what I want. We've never been in the same place at the same time, and I doubt we ever will be."
"Cupcake—"
"Joe, don't. I know how the rumors are going to go, and I'm prepared for it. For the first time in my life, I don't care what the Burg says about me. It could just as easily have been me dead on the floor in there. I don't want to spend any more time looking back or thinking about regrets. I want us both to be happy, and neither one of us wants what we're supposed to have had by now. I'm calling it."
His jaw, and fists, are clenched in an effort to control his temper. "Be sure, Stephanie. There's no taking this back."
"I've never been more sure about anything in my life."
He gives her one last look before shoving his way through the crowd. I get the feeling the relationship between Rangeman and the PD is about to get rocky, but we'll weather the storm. Steph holds on a little tighter and my men form a wall around us until the police are ready to take her statement. She doesn't let go of my hand as she gives a clear and concise timeline of events, points out oddities, and downplays her role in saving the boy.
When she's finally free, I sling an arm over her shoulder and say, "Let's go home." She kisses my neck and snuggles in before saying, "I'm already there."