(A/N: Language alert. Sandy stops being nice.)

Chapter 6

He almost didn't say anything, but he decided his back was to the door, and even if they were watching, they wouldn't know. He hoped. Besides, the young man had been so kind to him, earlier.

"Are you all right, son?"

A brown eye peeked out between the arms wrapped around his head. "They're gone?"

"Yes. We're not supposed to move."

"No problem." The young man did finally lower his arms, wrap them around his ribs, instead. He looked fully at him, and tried to smile. "I'm Charlie."

He found himself smiling back. "Pete."

The teenager suddenly spoke. "Betcha never drink milk again, man."

Charlie chuckled and grimaced, slowly pushed himself into a sitting position and leaned back against the wall where he was, not rejoining the kneeling group. He took a few breaths, looking down, before he looked at them again. "What happened to the clerk?"

The teenager answered. "He's behind the counter. Dead. Did everything they asked, but Elvis just blew a hole in him anyway. The other guy was really pissed."

Charlie's eyes lingered on the young boy next to his mother, clutching her hand. He looked back at him with round, solemn eyes. "What's your name?"

The boy looked at his mother, who nodded. "Jeremy. You've got funny hair."

"So I've been told, Jeremy. My Dad hates it. Wants me to cut it all the time."

"What about your Mom?"

Charlie smiled sadly. "She liked it. She used to tell my Dad she was taking me to the barber for a haircut. When we got there, she would only let him do the tiniest of trims, five minutes, tops. Then she and I would walk down the block to the ice cream store and have banana splits before we went home."

Jeremy and his mother both smiled. "That's funny. Your Dad didn't figure it out?"

Charlie shook the topic of discussion. "Nope. Kept telling my mom to find a better barber, though."

This time Jeremy laughed, and the teenager's girlfriend entered the conversation. "What are we going to do?"

After a moment of silence, the boy kneeling next to her spoke in a squeaky voice. "Don't worry, Laura. They won't really kill us."

Jeremy blinked at him rapidly a few times, and seemed to make a decision. "You don't have to pretend, for me. I watch television. I go to movies. And I'm smart. We know what they look like."

Pete tried to reassure and distract him. "Real life isn't always like the movies, it might be all right…I'm sure you're very smart. Do you enjoy school?"

Jeremy shrugged. "Some of it."

His mother squeezed his hand. "He gets excellent grades, in everything but math. He studies very hard, though, and tries his best. That's all his father and I ask."

"It's okay, kid," offered the teenager. "You'll never use all that stuff after school anyway. You won't need it in the real world."

Charlie, head leaning against the wall, laughed.

"Well, he won't!", the teenager sulked. "Not unless he goes to work in a bank, or something."

Charlie lowered his head and looked at him. "I'm sorry. I wasn't making fun of you. I was just imagining repeating this conversation to my students."

Jeremy brightened. "You're a teacher? What grade? What school do you teach at? I think I'd like to be a teacher. Or a baseball player."

The reminder of Don caused Charlie's eyes to darken, but he struggled to keep up his end of the conversation. "I teach in a university, Jeremy."

The boy's eyes widened. "Wow! Do you have to know everything?"

Charlie laughed. "I hope not. Teachers at universities usually only have classes in one or two subjects." He switched his attention to the teenager. "I happen to teach applied mathematics. You know, 'using math in the real world' kind-of stuff."

The teenager reddened when everyone else laughed, but saw that Charlie was smiling at him and eventually smiled himself. "Okay, smart guy," he said, tone more relaxed but letting Charlie see the fear still in his eyes. "So what are we going to do?"

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Lieutenant Richards waited until her SWAT team was in place, complete with night vision goggles, before she used the megaphone.

"Hello, in the store! This is Lieutenant Richards of the Los Angeles Police Department. We'd like to talk to you about what you want. We're going to telephone, again, in five minutes. Please reconnect the phone if you can."

Sandy looked at Elvis, then stood and put the extension back on the hook. He pushed open the cooler door. He was pleased to see that besides the trouble-maker sitting up, no-one had moved. He walked to the far wall and stood over Charlie.

"Dr. Charles Eppes. Cal Sci University." He leaned over until his face was inches from Charlie's. He spoke lowly, and the menace in his tone was unmistakable. The friendly Sandy was gone, now. 'On. Your. Fucking. Feet." Charlie tried not to tremble as he used his legs to push himself up the wall. He didn't break eye contact with Sandy, and he didn't speak.

Sandy had palmed the photograph, and now he turned his hand around and held it up to Charlie's face. "Who is 'Don'? And I don't want any more games. You make me believe you, or I will kill the boy, in front of his mother."

Charlie swallowed, saw the semi-auto out of the corner of his eye, in Sandy's other hand. "M- My brother."

Sandy raised an eyebrow. "'Help Dad, tell him I love him,'" he quoted from Charlie's original phone call. "You called Don."

Charlie nodded.

"Don is an FBI agent?"

Charlie nodded again.

"So after he got that call, he figured some stuff out. Now I've got the FBI out in the parking lot as well as LAPD."

"Prob…Probably."

"You're doing fine. One more question. Was that him on the phone, calling you back?"

Charlie wanted desperately to deny it, but he knew they'd probably checked the recent call list and seen Don's name already. "Yes."

Sandy again exhibited his exceptional memory, quoting from the second telephone conversation. "'I'll take two…can't store six…Elvis has left the building'. Dr. Eppes. You might have gotten away with it, except for that last one. And the picture helped, of course." Sandy suddenly brought a knee up hard into Charlie's groin, and the air left him as his knees buckled, and he hit the floor again at Sandy's feet.

The phone rang.

"Let me help you sit down," Sandy said, and kicked Charlie. He was aiming for the same place, but Charlie's hands were there, and the blow was deflected. Sandy would have been disappointed if he hadn't heart the bones crack.

The other hostages watched, for the most part silently, except for a soft "Stop!" from the old man, who was hushed quickly by the teenager. Sandy let it go and walked to the cooler entry again, plucked the receiver off the hook outside.

"Talk." The time for niceties was over.

"This is Lieutenant Richards. Who am I speaking with? What should I call you?"

"Bitch, you can call me anything, as long as it's not late for dinner."

She ignored that. "What can I get for you? You must be hungry. We can send in food."

Sandy laughed. "Damn, woman, I'm in a fuckin' grocery store! Don't try all that textbook shit with me. I only want to talk to one person. Get me Don Eppes. He's FBI. Probably even standin' right next to you."

Lieutenant Richards looked at Don, who had heard everything on the cruiser's radio system. He held out his hand. If Megan was right about this guy, he wasn't going to be part of sending him over the edge. Sounded like he was already standing on it.

She hesitated, then handed over the phone.

"This is Special Agent Eppes."

"Just as smart as your brother. Maybe smarter, since he's lying on the floor an odd shade of purple right now, and you're nice and safe in the parking lot."

"What did you do to him?"

"Listen, Baseball Boy, what I did to him is nothing compared to what I have in mind. You get me 5 mil, cash, unmarked, unsequential. None of those fancy ink bombs, either. A panel van, big enough for the eight of us, park it right outside the doors. Inches. Leave the sliding panel open, so we can just step right into the van from the store. Then everybody leaves. Everybody. We get a free ride. We see anybody behind us, in front of us or on top of us, we'll start throwing bodies out the back."

"I'll need some time to get that much cash."

"Shut up. Just shut the fuck up. It's L.A., pick a bank. You're FBI. You've got until dawn."

"That may not be enough time."

Sandy's voice grew more intimate. "Let me tell you what I'm going to do to him. I learned a lot of stuff in prison. I will make him beg for death before it's over. And I will enjoy it. He's just the type I like."

Don tried not to make any noise, just clutched the phone harder. He felt Megan's calming hand on his arm.

"And then…then when he doesn't even care, anymore…then I will just start sending pieces of him out to you. A finger. An ear. A testicle."

Don couldn't stand anymore. "No! Stop, you sick bas…"

Lieutenant Richards ripped the phone back out of his hand, using some effort. "We'll start on that," she said into the phone. "What can you give us?"

Sandy laughed coldly. "Not a damn thing, bitch. Don't bother me for at least an hour. I may get a little head start with the fine doctor."