Chapter 9
He almost didn't hear Ricky calling him. Didn't, in fact, until the teenager offered a frustrated "Millkman! What the hell are you doing?"
Charlie had been leaning his head against the wall, eyes closed, thinking. He must have been moving his lips unconsciously again, from the guarded looks he was receiving from his fellow hostages when he opened his eyes and saw them all staring at him.
He grinned. "Sorry. I do that, sometimes. I was just trying to figure out some things. Trying to envision the surrounding area outside, and where the snipers are most likely to be, and then calculate the trajectories and velocities…also, which points in the store will avail the cleanest shot, in conjunction with allowances for the trajectories required so that I could place the target satisfactorily to draw one of them into the line of sniper fire while eliminating the target at the precise moment…are those guns both 44 caliber? I don't know a lot about guns, but they seem a lot like my brother's service weapon."
Ricky gaped at him.
"Snipers? In the middle of the night?"
Charlie looked at Jeremy's mother and nodded. "They're out there. Night vision capabilities."
"I…I know a little about guns," offered Pete. "Enough to tell you those are both 44 caliber."
Charlie nodded again. "Good. Hopefully they don't pack their own ammunition; that could throw everything off. Even the name brands contain slight variations. I think it's safest to estimate a velocity of 1,700 fps."
Ricky finally found his voice. "Holy shit. Maybe you can use math somewhere besides a bank…but I gotta tell ya, I don't know what the hell you're saying."
Charlie smiled at him, hopefully with a lot more bravado than he felt. "Don't worry about it. I've got it all under control."
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Don sat in the back of the cruiser until the back door suddenly opened. A female LAPD officer made a noise of surprise and involuntarily stepped back, one hand restraining the young boy beside her, the other reaching for her service weapon.
Then she saw his flak jacket and ID badge. "Excuse me, Agent. I didn't realize anyone was in here. I'm transporting Jeremy to headquarters, to be debriefed and meet his father."
Don made a move to get out of the car. "Of course, Officer. I apologize — just taking a few minutes." He shrugged apologetically. "This was the only private place I could find."
Jeremy, hugging a blanket around his shoulders, stared at the large "FBI" emblazoned on Don's flak jacket. "Do you know Don Eppes? He works for the FBI."
Don, about to stand, settled back on the seat so that he could maintain eye contact with Jeremy.
"I'm Don Eppes. You must be Jeremy."
The boy nodded, solemn. "Charlie is your brother."
Don nodded, silent.
"I said good-bye, before I left," Jeremy continued. "I was just going to shake his hand, because that's what my Dad taught me to do with grown-ups, but he grabbed me behind the head and pulled me in to hug me. It scared me, a little."
Don tried to reassure him. "I'm sure…"
Jeremy stiffened. "I'm still talking."
The LAPD officer smiled a little as the FBI agent held up his hands in mock surrender. "Sorry. Rude of me."
"Anyway," Jeremy said, "he only did it so he could say something into my ear, and Sandy wouldn't see him."
Don looked at the boy intently. Charlie had found a way to send them one last message about what was happening inside. This was good. This was great. He knew his brother. He wouldn't waste this opportunity. He waited impatiently for Jeremy to give him the message.
"Charlie said, 'tell Donnie he made the right choice'", the boy recited, and continued to look at Don.
Don hung his head and blinked his eyes rapidly several times. He was a hardened, experienced FBI agent. He would not cry at a crime scene.
He thought of Charlie, who could have used that manufactured moment to send out some more information that might save his own life, choosing instead to reassure his brother. Damn. Damn. When he got Charlie out of there, he was going to slap him upside the head himself.
"I like Charlie." Jeremy was speaking again. "He said he'll come over and help me with my math."
Don raised his head again and smiled at the boy. "That'll be good. He's a good teacher. He still helps me with math, sometimes." This time he climbed out of the cruiser and watched the officer buckle Jeremy into his place. He knew he shouldn't put the kid in this position, but he had to know. "Is he hurt?"
Jeremy looked up at him. "A little. They kick him and stuff. He laid on the floor for a long time, once. But he's sitting up and talking again, now. I think he's planning something. He was talking about…about playing with them?" He saw the confusion on Don's face and tried to remember just how Charlie had put it. "Play with one, or make them play with each other, or something…" his voice trailed off.
"Play one against the other?" Don asked, and Jeremy brightened.
"Yeah, that sounds close! I hope it works. I want my Mom."
Don hadn't thought he could feel any worse, but he felt the screw in his chest tighten one more notch. Charlie was going to try, hurt, to mess with the minds of two armed assailants, at least one of whom was an all-out psychopath.
Charlie was going to get himself killed before the dawn deadline.
What the hell was he planning?
