Hollywood, LA, California
Audition Room
Sophie grasped her head between her palms, violently shaking her head. "Why? Why?!" she demanded while casting directors looked on in abject horror. "I can't live like this anymore," she cried. "With the lies and the filth. No!" she raked her hands down her arms, scrubbing away imaginary dirt. "Help me. I want to be clean! I want to be clean!" she dropped to her knees.
The camera woman's eyes widened as she tilted her head. She was surprised her camera lens hadn't cracked yet. Looking at Sophie overtop his glasses, the casting director-John Rogers- questioned: "Yeah, you understand this is a soap commercial, right?"
Sophie nodded, smiling. "Uh huh." She returned to her feet. "When I thought about Peggy, I came up with this idea that the dirt was really this giant, like, metaphor, for sin," she explained before she glanced to her purse when her cell phone rang.
Rogers jumped at the opportunity. "You should take that." When Sophie hesitated, he continued. "No, no. You should take that,"
Sophie reluctantly bent, grabbing her phone from her purse. She cast a disdainful glare toward the casting directors. "Oh." she murmured before answering her phone. "Hello?" her tone became more serious when she asked, "When?" she nodded before disconnecting the call. She turned to the casting directors contemptuously. "Peggy killed her first husband,"
Rogers waved as she left. "Tha-thank you." After Sophie left the room, he let his head fall into his hand, murmuring to his assistant. "I need an aspirin,"
-O-
Berlin, Germany
Eliot tossed the last unconscious man onto the hood of his former employer's car. The man landed on the hard surface with a resounding thud. Eliot turned just as the last of the retrieval team pointed his gun at the hitter. The pistol's hammer clicked, and Eliot stopped his advancement. They stared at each other for a long moment before a cell phone ringing broke their silence. The cold wind brushed Eliot's hoodie and leather jacket while causing him to be glad he wore the black beanie.
"That you or me?" Eliot asked. The man seemed unsure as his eyes darted to his pocket where his own cell phone rested. "Could be important," Eliot prodded. The phone trilled again. Eliot lifted a brow. "Does your mama have your number?"
At last, the man glanced down, his free hand reaching for his pocket. Eliot's hand surged forward, punching the man in the neck and wrenching the gun away. The last man fell, grabbing at his neck, choking. Eliot unloaded the magazine and the one bullet in the chamber, tossing it away. His hand slipped into his hoodie pocket, grabbing his cell phone.
He flipped it open, answering, "Yeah?" he glanced at the bodies behind him and the one at his feet. "Nothin'. Why?"
-O-
Monaco
Joseph, the security guard of the National Art Gallery, made his last round of the evening in the Post-Impressionist area of the museum. The older man took slow steps as he shone his flashlight on various paintings. Van Gogh, Cezanne, Matisse, and van Gogh again...
Joseph turned on his heel, checking the line of vases and small sculptures on the opposite wall. He returned his focus to the original arrangement of paintings on the wall. He aimed his flashlight, illuminating the assortment. Van Gogh, Cezanne, Matisse, and van G-….
It had disappeared!
A piece of rope hung down from the skylight while a thin woman easily scurried up the length of it. She toted the stolen painting with her. A cell phone's ring echoed in the cavernous space while Joseph was certain he must be hallucinating. The woman flipped open the cell phone, answering: "Parker." The woman shushed the guard when he began to call for his colleagues to sound the alarm. She loudly whispered in the receiver. "No, I wasn't shushing you,"
-O-
San Francisco, CA
FBI vans and the National Guard's humvees swarmed around the Federal Reserve Bank of San Francisco. Blue lights of the local cop cars flashed against the dull brown of the building. FBI negotiator Bill Johnstone hopped out of his car after slamming to a stop right outside the mobile command center. His newbie partner, Leon Redding, was fresh out of Quantico, and as the young man stumbled out of the vehicle, the distinction between the two agents couldn't have been more clear.
Agent Johnstone approached the acting detective underneath the canopy, ignoring the multiple news crews capturing his every move. The detective stomped out his cigarette as they approached. "FBI, right?" Detective Valastro asked while a SWAT team changed into their tactical gear behind them.
Johnstone retrieved his badge from his pocket, quickly showing it to Valastro. He gestured to himself. "I'm Agent Johnstone." he pointed to the young man beside him. "This is Agent Redding." he shoved the leather case back into his breast pocket. "Wha' do ya got, detective?"
"Hostage situation. The suspect has been in there since ten this morning. We're lucky that the bank manager was able to get to the silent alarm,"
"What do we know about the suspect?" Johnstone asked.
"Name's Eduardo Salazar,"
Redding's eyes widened. "Jorge Salazar's kid? The drug guy?"
The detective appraised the kid. "Yeah. You know him?"
"Just from what my dad told me while he worked with the DEA." Redding pulled a small notebook from his windbreaker. "How many hostages?"
"Just two now. The bank manager and that negotiator you sent in there," the detective answered.
Johnstone's brow furrowed as his whole body stilled. His steely composure slipped for a split second. "I didn't request for a negotiator until ten minutes ago,"
Valastro shook his head. "No. She's been in there for hours. And she's been doin' fricking good job of it too," he said sourly, noting Agent Johnstone's irritation. "Look, we had a direct line. They're all-"
"Show me!" Johnstone interrupted.
"Hey! This is my crime scene, bub! I called the FBI in as a favor. So don't you be telling me what-"
The detective's already rotten mood dropped into dire straits when Johnstone again interjected, "Show me. Now!" The detective grabbed another cigarette and lit it before Johnstone simply brushed past him.
The detective huffed, smoke from the cigarette choking Agent Redding. "What do you think you're doing!" Valastro demanded.
Agent Johnstone marched to the laptop sitting on one of the tables; live security footage was being fed onto the screen. He easily spotted the suspect in the center camera screen. The gun in Salazar's hand shook and trembled, causing the agent to conclude that the kid was coming off a wild high. Salazar was a thin, lanky kid, barely out of his twenties. Johnstone's attention didn't linger on Salazar for long. His eyes roved the screens, only stopping when he glimpsed a woman in a long, flowery patterned dress sitting on the bank floor with her back against the teller's counter.
Johnstone snarled when the woman waved at the camera. He banged a closed fist against the table. "Redding!" he yelled. "Get me Assistant Director Lowe on the phone! Now!"
-O-
Liza leaned against the teller's counter, fanning herself with her hand. Judicial action for a hostage situation, she thought irritably. Sweat them to death. Yes, let's take an unstable individual and push them even more completely over the edge. Brilliant!
"Eddie," Liza said. The thin, scraggly man paced back and forth, the shotgun in his hand weighing heavily. He muttered incoherently to himself. She sighed before snapped her fingers. "Hey, Eddie!" The man turned his head. "Don't look at the cops. Look at me." In the corner of her eye, Liza saw the gagged and tied-up bank manager tense when Eddie moved. Liza patted the spot next to her. "C'mon. Let's talk, honey," she drawled, offering a smile.
"But-" he pointed at the window where a sea of blue and red lights flashed in a rhythm.
She waved a hand in dismissal. "Eh. They can wait. The government's pretty good at that these days. C'mon, and sit a spell,"
He swiped a hand across his sweaty forehead, taking a shaky breath. He crossed the room, and Liza beamed. She scooted over as he sat. "Now," she began, propping her chin on her palms. "How have you been feeling these past few weeks?"
The bank manager's eyes widened while she looked as though she were about to faint.
-O-
Liza, Eddie, and Mrs. Lyons- the bank manager, who had long been untied- sat together in a circle. Mrs. Lyons sipped her Diet Coke. Liza leaned back as she said, "Now, Eddie," her voice was gentle as she continued. "You can't just let your daddy's expectations control you like this,"
Eddie's head dropped, his eyes downcast. "I know, Doctor Liza. It's just so hard to face him like this,"
Mrs. Lyons pursed her lips in sympathy. The older woman patted Eddie on the knee. "I know, dear," Mrs. Lyons said. "I had the same problems with my mother." She raised her hands, looking around the bank. "Why do you think I'm stuck here and not teaching a pottery class?" she laughed.
"See, it's not so uncommon to have overbearing parents." Liza adjusted her glasses. "Sometimes, we just need to confront the issue instead of…" An amused smile quirked at the edges of her mouth while she couldn't help thinking, Instead of robbing a bank. "Doing something we don't mean." She said instead of voicing her other thought.
Eddie tapped his fingers against the metal of the gun. He took another deep breath. "You…" he began, causing Liza to hold her breath. "You're right." he pushed the gun off his lap. Liza's hand shot out, wrapping around the shotgun and quickly unloading it. "I think I'm ready to go out now,"
Liza grinned, slumping forward. "Wonderful," she said as Eddie stood to his feet and took small steps to the door. She gave a thumbs up when he hesitated."Mrs. Lyons and I are right behind you." When he exited the front entrance, Liza let out a laughed a bit hysterically. "Huh, I can't believe that worked,"
Eddie had barely made it out the door when an adventurous, young FBI agent tackled Eddie to the ground. The fight only lasted a few moments. The agents yanked him to his feet, and Eddie threw a smile and a thumbs up to the ladies still inside the bank. Much to Liza's surprise, Mrs. Lyons smiled fondly.
"Such a nice boy," Mrs. Lyons said good-naturedly.
Liza hurried to the back stairwell that led to the basement when FBI and San Francisco staff rushed the building. She glanced down when her cell phone trilled, echoing in the cavernous stairwell. She hiked up her long dress and raced down the stairs, shoving open the emergency exit door. Flipping open her cell phone, she answered, "Hello? ...oh, hey, Hardison! What's up? No, I'm not doing anything." She reached her motorcycle parked in the back alleyway. Swinging a leg over, she paused before pulling on her helmet. "...why?"
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Author's Note: Hey, guys! I'm sorry that it has taken me so long to update this story. School and life, in general, has been super crazy! But I shall do my very best to do better about updating. Now in the story, I realize that this is probably not how an actual bank robbery/ hostage situation would be handled. So please don't try to intervene with my tactics should you ever be taken hostage, lol! I guess this is just my version of a disclaimer. I just wanted to write a fun scene. It might not be believable but, hey, whatever. This is fiction, right? Let's just go crazy. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter of the Third Man. Thanks for reading!
scripturient3201: Thank you so much for reading! I hope you'll continue to enjoy it! Thanks for commenting :-)
guest: Thank you so much! I love these characters so much. I just hope I am doing them justice.
