Chapter 12
He almost didn't have time to say anything during the brief conversation Elvis had with the negotiatiator, after he killed Sandy. He only managed a quick, "I've got to get to the counter", still looking at Pete, before Elvis was back in the cooler with them.
Elvis immediately began to pace the room restlessly. "Don't have to worry about him, anymore. Never shoulda hooked up with him again on the outside. Always making me the patsy. Sent me to solitary twice. Don't know why I ever…" Abruptly he stopped pacing and slid down to the floor near the door, glared at the silent group before him.
"Shut-up," he said, and they exchanged looks. No-one had made a sound.
Charlie tried to shift again very quietly. If he pressed his back against the wall, it helped his back, but hurt his ribs. If he slumped a little, his ribs felt better but his back began to ache. His hand was throbbing along with the beat of his heart. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes.
He may have faded out, for a while. It was so quiet, the sound of breathing lulling him under…then he heard someone moving, and opened his eyes again to see Elvis get to his feet and start pacing again.
"I need a cigarette. Somebody give me a cigarette."
Charlie saw Pete lift a hand from the knee he was rubbing, hesitate and lower it again. "Sorry," the old man said. "I forgot. Quit again." Charlie saw the telltale rectangular shape in his sweater pocket, noted the nicotine-stained fingers, and wondered sleepily what he was doing. Then Pete looked at him, and Charlie woke up.
"Behind the counter," he offered. "All kinds of cigarettes behind the counter." He felt all of them looking at him now, but he just looked at Elvis.
Elvis seemed to think for a moment, and Charlie thought about telling him not to hurt himself, then thought better of it. Elvis waved his gun at him. "You get 'em. Gotta cross the window."
Charlie didn't want to appear too eager. Then Ricky scared him to death.
"He's hurt, man. I'll go," said the teenager. Charlie held his breath.
"Don't argue with me!" Elvis growled. "That guy is not out of my sight. I don't trust him. As for the rest of you, I'll be able to watch the door of the cooler. Nobody in here moves." He waved his gun at all of them, even though Pete and Charlie were the only ones who could see him. "I'll empty this into the first person who so much as sneezes." He looked at Charlie again. "You getting' up, or do I have to come over there and convince you?"
Charlie pushed himself up the wall, and wincing, holding his hand tightly against himself, walked slowly toward the door of the cooler. He hadn't moved in hours, and it hurt.
He hoped he could do this.
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The radio in the tech van crackled as they listened to the sniper's report.
"Repeat, movement inside the store. It is not either suspect."
Two snipers had been deployed. Once Elvis and Sandy had been identified, they were supplied with photos of them. The officer continued his report.
"Crossing front of store, entering check-out area. Presumed hostage."
Don grabbed the microphone out of the radio base. "Description."
Silence. "Male. He's kind-of green, sir, hard to get a lot of details."
Don knew the snipers were using night vision, but he also knew they could see enough to tell it wasn't Elvis or Sandy. "Give me what you can."
"I've got him from my angle now," came another voice. "Slender. Not moving too smoothly, possible injuries. Lots of hair."
Don slowly replaced the mic and lowered his head.
Whatever Charlie was doing, he was doing it now.
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Charlie pawed through the cigarettes and oriented himself. He tried to measure the distance and plan a route. He looked back in the direction where he knew Elvis was in the shadows, gun trained on him. "Soft or hard pack?", he asked. "What brand?"
"Doesn't matter," Elvis growled. "Just grab something and get back here."
Charlie saw the opening at the back of the counter. The clerk.s body was partially blocking that way out. He would have to crawl over him. He swallowed. "Menthol?"
"Damn it, get the hell outta there, NOW!" Elvis must have reconsidered, because he suddenly added an order. "Bring me a lighter, too."
Thank you, thought Charlie. He fumbled with the lighters hung on the side of the cigarette display and one fell to the floor. "Sorry. Dropped it," Charlie said, and leaned over as if to pick it up. He heard Elvis snarl something else and take a step, and Charlie dropped to his knees behind the counter, made for the opening in the back. The pretzels. If his calculations were correct — dear God, let his calculations be correct — he needed to be at the pretzel display about five feet in front of the counter, exactly 37 degrees to the right of the position he had left Elvis in. That should make Elvis come out into the store far enough, into the sniper's line of fire.
He held his breath as he crawled over the clerk. There better damn well be a sniper where he thought one would be, on the roof of the small green house across the street. He crawled around the end of the counter, lighter still clutched in his hand.
"Get out here! Get up!" Elvis was sounding frantic.
Charlie threw the lighter so that it bounced off the glass doors of the beer case directly across the room. The sound should distract Elvis. Desperate, terrified, ignoring his protesting body, he rose to a lean and scurried across the empty floor to the pretzel display.
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There was a change in the sniper's voice.
"I have visual on the suspect. Repeat, I have visual."
This time Captain Davis picked up the mic. "Do you have a clear shot?"
"Negative. Hostage has moved out into store and has placed himself between…Captain…Hostage appears to be drawing suspect further into my line of fire."
Don lifted his head and met Colby's eyes. Apparently that sniper case and its lessons had lingered in Charlie's mind. But he couldn't be doing this.
Charlie couldn't do this. Did he think math could save him from a bullet?
Don, having difficulty breathing, hung his head again.
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He stood next to the pretzel display. "I'm leaving, Elvis."
"I will drop you before you get to the door, tough guy!" A step. "Get back here, now!"
Charlie saw the barrel of the gun come out of the shadows and took one step back and to the right, causing Elvis to do the same. He waited, and Elvis took another step.
1,700 fps. He counted the half-seconds off in his head. He needed to drop…right…n…
Charlie hit the floor in a shower of pain and pretzels and glass.
