Книга - Every Second

Every Second
Rick Mofina


Terror claws into the lives of an American family… On a quiet night in their tranquil suburban home, the Fulton family awakens to a nightmare. Four armed men force bank manager Dan Fulton to steal a quarter million dollars from his branch—strapping remote-detonation bombs on him, his wife, Lori, and their young son.A relentless reporter discovers an agonizing secret… The FBI moves swiftly with a major investigation while Kate Page, a reporter with a newswire service, digs deep into the story. In the wake of the Fulton family's abduction, questions emerge, including one of the most troubling: is the case linked to Lori Fulton's tragic past?Time ticks down on a chilling plan… Working as fast as they can, Kate and the investigators inch closer to a devastating truth—it's not only the Fultons' lives at stake, but thousands of others…and every second counts in the race to save them.







Terror claws into the lives of an American family…

On a quiet night in their tranquil suburban home, the Fulton family awakens to a nightmare. Four armed men force bank manager Dan Fulton to steal a quarter million dollars from his branch—strapping remote-detonation bombs on him, his wife, Lori, and their young son.

A relentless reporter discovers an agonizing secret…

The FBI moves swiftly with a major investigation while Kate Page, a reporter with a newswire service, digs deep into the story. In the wake of the Fulton family’s abduction, questions emerge, including one of the most troubling: is the case linked to Lori Fulton’s tragic past?

Time ticks down on a chilling plan…

Working as fast as they can, Kate and the investigators inch closer to a devastating truth—it’s not only the Fultons’ lives at stake, but thousands of others…and every second counts in the race to save them.


Praise for the novels of Rick Mofina (#ulink_59899a4e-e3c0-53fe-b075-9ac1a7fd942f)

“Another powerhouse thriller for the skillful Rick Mofina.”

—Fresh Fiction on Full Tilt

“Mofina’s novels are guaranteed to be exciting, thought-provoking and full of surprises. Another stellar read that demonstrates Mofina’s one of the best thriller writers in the business.”

—RT Book Reviews on Whirlwind (Top Pick)

“With the exciting plot and a conclusion that is a true surprise to one and all, this is one book that has to be seen ASAP.”

—Suspense Magazine on Into the Dark

“Mofina is one of the best thriller writers in the business.”

—Library Journal (starred review) on They Disappeared

“Rick Mofina’s tense, taut writing makes every thriller he writes an adrenaline-packed ride.”

—Tess Gerritsen, New York Times bestselling author, on The Burning Edge

“A blisteringly paced story that cuts to the bone. It left me ripping through pages deep into the night.”

—James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author, on In Desperation

“Taut pacing, rough action and jagged dialogue feed a relentless pace. The Panic Zone is written with sizzling intent.”

—Hamilton Spectator

“Vengeance Road is a thriller with no speed limit! It’s a great read!”

—Michael Connelly, New York Times bestselling author

“Six Seconds should be Rick Mofina’s breakout thriller. It moves like a tornado.”

—James Patterson, New York Times bestselling author


Every Second

Rick Mofina




www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


To the memory of my nephew, Matt.


Contents

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1 (#ulink_278e0546-b84a-5975-80f0-9b0de4422e1a)

Roseoak Park, New York

Lori Fulton woke in the darkness of her bedroom to a strange pressure covering her mouth, forcing her head deep into her pillow.

A hideous face glared down at her.

Straining to breathe, Lori thought: I’m dreaming! Then her eyes flicked to her husband’s side of the bed. It was empty.

Where’s Dan? What’s happening? Wake up!

At the peel of duct tape and the guttural noises of a struggle nearby, Lori’s brain thundered awake with the horrible realization that the man above her was real. Again, she thought of her husband and her son.

Where’s Dan? Where’s Billy?

She thrashed against her attacker, who countered by seizing her throat.

“Don’t move!”

The lights switched on and she saw Dan was across the room in his T-shirt and boxers, on his knees, hands bound behind his back. A band of tape sealed his mouth. Blood webbed down his cheek. His eyes met hers.

A gun was being held to his head.

Dan! Oh God, where’s Billy?

The two men in her room wore loose mechanic-style coveralls over top of hoodies and white masks with grotesque faces. In an explosion of terror and rage, Lori fought back, shaking her mouth free to shriek.

“Billy! Where’s my son? Billy!”

Lori’s assailant pressed a strip of duct tape over her mouth then yanked her by her hair from her bed. Dan moved to protect her but was stopped when his attacker smashed the butt of his gun against his face. Lori was shoved to the floor, her nightshirt hiked up to her waist in the scuffle. Her attacker—Thorne, according to the name embroidered on the patch on his chest—paused to take in her body before dropping his knee hard on her stomach, knocking out her breath. He clamped her wrists in one gloved hand then reached for the duct tape.

Through her pain Lori noticed him fumbling, unable to find the start of the tape. He cursed, shook off his glove, peeled a lead and quickly wrapped her wrists like a rodeo cowboy in a calf-roping competition.

Thorne replaced his glove, then pulled Lori to her knees positioning her next to Dan, both of them now bound helplessly. Lori wheezed, her need for air contending with the ache in her gut. A muffled whimpering sounded through their open bedroom door. Shadows moved in the hallway as two more figures approached, dressed the same as the first two. Their name patches read Cutty and Percy.

Cutty, the largest of the four, carried Billy on his hip as if he were luggage.

Dan’s muzzled growl nearly burst through his tape as Lori screamed under hers. Billy’s hands and mouth were bound, his eyes wide with terror as Cutty tossed him on the floor next to them. Lori fumbled closer, feeling Billy’s body trembling against hers as he sobbed.

Who were these monsters?

The man who’d been holding on to Dan—Vic, by his name patch—took charge. He sat on the foot of Lori and Dan’s bed, casually contemplating his gun, then the family.

Lori, Dan and Billy were on their knees before him, their armed attackers looming behind them—a portrait of contrasts. Dan was in his favorite Jets T-shirt, now bloodstained, and Billy in the new Spider-Man pajamas Lori had bought him for his ninth birthday last month. They’d been torn in the struggle.

Why had these people violated their home?

Vic tapped his gun to his knee as if coming to a decision.

“Are we calm now? Do we have your attention?” he asked. “I’ll make it simple. If you do what we say and do it right no one gets hurt and this will be over tomorrow. If you fail at any stage, you’ll die.”


2 (#ulink_71177cf2-8593-5b5b-8bc9-c2aae7b82df3)

Roseoak Park, New York

Lori’s pulse pounded.

As the invaders marched her, Dan and Billy downstairs, fear and questions burned through her mind.

Why didn’t the home security alarm work? Why isn’t someone helping us? Please, God, don’t let them kill us! We have to fight back. What can Dan and I do without guns?

Overwhelmed with panic, Lori drew a few deep breaths to calm her nerves and focus. The attackers had moved them to the living room and put them on the sofa. A duffel bag, zippered shut, sat on the hardwood floor in the middle of the room like an unanswered question. The invaders closed the curtains, kept the main floor lights dim then browsed around as if they were interested buyers at an open house.

Thorne inspected their paintings, the crystal figurines and their furniture.

“You got a lot of nice stuff,” he said from behind his mask. “So much suffering going on, so many people in trouble in this world, but why should you care, huh? You’re living the American dream.”

Lori watched as Cutty and Percy went to the kitchen, opened the fridge and helped themselves to leftover takeout—pizza and Chinese food Dan and Lori had ordered when they’d worked late this week.

Lori saw them opening soda cans, lifting their masks to eat and drink. She couldn’t make out their faces in detail, but she could see they were white males in their early twenties.

Like college kids snacking after a late night.

“It’s goin’ good,” Cutty said between bites. “Like you said it would, Jake.”

“Shut up! My name is on my patch!” Vic said.

One of them was named Jake. Lori glanced at Dan as they both noted the slipup before a new fear dawned on her. She looked around for Sam, Billy’s golden retriever. He wasn’t a barker or a good guard dog at all, really. He was just gentle, loving Sam.

What’ve they done with him?

Vic sat in the chair opposite the sofa, placing his gun on the arm and staring at her family from behind his mask.

“We’ve been watching you for a long time,” he began. “We’ve been doing our homework. We know all about you. Billy Fulton, fourth grade at Eisenhower Elementary, dog lover, Little League, shortstop for the Roseoak Park Wild Tigers. Lori Fulton, age thirty-four, devoted mother. You never miss one of Billy’s games. You work at Dixon Donlevy Mutual Life Insurance investigating insurance fraud. Someone in this house is partial to Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. Cherry Garcia, judging by what we found in your trash.

“Dan, age thirty-six. You were in the National Guard, army, when you guys lived in Southern California. You work for SkyNational Trust Banking Corp. A few years ago, you were transferred to New York. Now you’re the manager of a suburban branch here in Roseoak Park. You like the Jets, but you’re still loyal to the Dodgers, according to your Tweets. You both volunteer with charities. How we doing so far? We’ve got you nailed, right?”

Lori’s stomach clenched at Vic’s accuracy. She glanced at Dan. He remained tense, keeping his eyes on Vic as he continued.

“Tomorrow’s going to be a long day. We know Dan’s branch is one of the earliest-opening branches in the state, opening its doors at 6:00 a.m., to serve commuting customers. This is what’s going to happen. Dan, you’ll be going to work in the morning, as usual, while we stay here with your wife and son. But tomorrow you’re going to remove a quarter million dollars from the vault. We know about cash inventory in a branch like yours. You’ll place the money in a bag like this one here.” He motioned to the duffel on the floor. “No dye packs, no radio transmitters, no bait, no silent alarms. You’ll leave the bank, follow our instructions. Once that’s done and we have the cash, everyone is let go unharmed. You got that?”

Dan didn’t move. His face was expressionless but for a twitch in his jaw.

“You need more incentive, Dan?”

Vic nodded toward Thorne, who came forward and unzipped the duffel bag, removing what looked like a small vest bearing thin, brick-shaped items connected to wires. Cutty then yanked Billy from the sofa. He sliced the tape from Billy’s hands and, with Thorne’s help, slipped the vest over Billy, then resealed his hands.

Lori screamed into the tape.

“No!” Dan roared into his.

Vic leaned forward.

“That’s right,” he said, pointing with his gun as he continued. “That’s a suicide vest. It’s loaded with C-4 and all sorts of good stuff. Any of us here can detonate it simply by dialing a cell number.”

Thorne and Cutty pulled another vest from the bag, cut the tape from Lori’s hands, and forced it on her. She struggled in vain when they retaped her wrists, her mind reeling. As she stood next to her son, each of them now wearing a bomb, her knees weakened at the thought of Billy in danger, and she inhaled sharply. They were living and breathing second by second. Their surroundings—the curtains she’d sewn herself, the sofa set they’d bought on sale, the antique coffee table they’d gotten in Williamsburg—their sanctuary instantly took on an unspeakable dimension as images blazed before her.

She imagined their viscera splattered over the living room walls, mingling with the paint color, Coral Sunset, she and Dan had finally decided on. Blood obscuring the paintings they fell in love with on their vacation in Maine. It all seemed silly now.

“Now, I’ll ask you again,” Vic said. “Are you going to cooperate, follow our instructions and get us the money?”

Dan looked hard at Lori and Billy, his eyes filling with tears, and nodded.


3 (#ulink_0e368c04-daf6-5667-aa2b-e4dc632bab50)

Roseoak Park, New York

Cutty, Percy and Thorne took Lori and Billy to the basement.

Their captors switched on the stairway light and marched them down the stairs. With every creaking step, Lori felt time ticking on their lives. The heavy vests enveloped them with the threat of death. Her skin prickled as adrenaline burned through her body, but she moved slowly, terrified that a sudden action might trigger the bombs.

The sound of her own blood rushing in her ears was deafening, but a steely clink and jingle caught her attention. Cutty carried a coiled chain with locks. The heavy fragrance of powdered detergent filled the damp air when they reached the laundry room, stopping at the wall before the washer and dryer.

“Lie down there.” Thorne pointed to the shag mat that Lori had made herself when they’d lived in California. There were mistakes in it that she noticed every time she looked at it, but Dan loved it and had insisted she not throw it out. Heaped on the mat were the sheets and towels she’d planned to wash the next day. As Lori and Billy eased themselves carefully on to the pile, Lori could feel the components of her vest digging into her side. She held Billy’s terrified gaze, hoping to reassure him despite the fear that bubbled inside her.

The chains jangled as Cutty and Percy worked fast, fixing them to a shackle they’d secured to their ankles, grunting as they looped them around the joists in the ceiling and a naked, load-bearing beam.

Padlocks clicked.

Then the three invaders moved the snow tires for Dan’s car. She always hated that he’d stored them in the already cramped laundry room, and now the men moved the tires toward Lori and Billy, building a makeshift wall. The rubbery smell was strong. Atop the tires, they piled dusty cushions from the old sofa at the other end of the basement, then worked together to heave the washer and dryer closer to them, pulling the hoses taut.

Why?

The answer suddenly dawned on Lori. The men were building a barrier to absorb an explosion—something to protect themselves if they detonated the bombs while they were still in the house.

She blinked rapidly, struggling to process the reality of the situation.

Thorne moved close to Lori, lowering himself until he was squatting before her. He drew his horrible mask to within an inch of her face.

“You deserve what’s going to happen to you.”

Without another word, Thorne and the others left. They switched off the lights at the top of the stairs and closed the door.

In the cool darkness Lori felt the warmth of Billy’s body against hers. How could anyone deserve this? Billy was crying softly. She could hear his muffled calling for Sam. As she nestled closer to comfort him, she tasted the salt of her own tears that had seeped under the tape covering her mouth. Her eyes adjusted to the dim basement light and she searched through the cracks of their crude enclosure for any sign of their dog that might reassure Billy. She couldn’t find anything, and she hoped he’d managed to escape through his door in the kitchen. She was suddenly thankful for her bad habit of leaving it unlocked.

Lori’s attention went to the basement window, the night sky and a corner of the Millers’ roof next door.

Lori thought of Grant and Monica Miller sleeping peacefully a few feet away, unaware of the horror playing out in the house beside them. Grant was a mechanic, Monica a nurse. They had little girls. Grant had loaned Dan his generator when they lost electricity in that storm last month. In the spring, Monica had come over to check on Billy when he was running a fever. The Millers were the kind of people who’d go out of their way to help you.

They’d call the police, if they only knew.

In the Tudor home across the street, their neighbors were Ward and Violet Selway, a retired couple. The kindest people you could ever meet. Ward had been an accountant years ago. Violet had managed a clothing store at the Roseoak Mall. Their son lived in Oregon and they spent winters in Clearwater, Florida. Lori had always admired their beautiful yard, and Ward would give her gardening tips. Violet was always baking cookies to share with Billy.

Oh God, if our neighbors only knew!

Lori ached to wake from this nightmare and return to the normal life they’d been living less than an hour ago. It wasn’t perfect, but they’d been doing okay since everything they’d been through in California. They’d finally been moving on.

Lori’s attention shifted to the storage area on the far side of the basement. Pieces of our lives. There was the closet filled with clothes, Dan’s old shirts and suits and some things of her own. Things she was certain she’d never wear again. Why do I keep them?

But she knew the answer. Because of Tim. She reminded herself she had to give all that stuff away, as if any of that mattered at this moment.

Beside the closet was a shelving unit jammed with boxes of board games, lamps, radios, computer keyboards, extension cords, cables and replacement bulbs for the Christmas tree. Rows of old books and stacks of ancient magazines cluttered the rest of it, along with photo albums containing a record of every year of their lives.

Except for...

Lori shuddered. Stress had always been a trigger for these memories, pulling her back to a darker time. In a flash she saw herself...

Sitting in the street, covered with blood, helpless to do anything...

Up until then she had been a whole person—a confident, strong woman who could handle anything the world could throw at her.

Until that night six years ago.

Lori flinched at the sound of movement above them, snapping her mind back to reality.

She was as familiar with the noises and rhythms of her home as she was with the back of her hand. The strain and measured creaking of the floor indicated that the men had gone to the top floor. Maybe they’ve taken Dan back to the bedroom? Soon, more groans and squeaking indicated the invaders had returned to the main floor. Next she heard muffled conversations, though she couldn’t make out the words. But as the voices echoed through the vent nearby, Lori guessed they were discussing a strategy. No matter what their plan was, she didn’t believe it included letting her family live.

She pressed her cheek to the top of Billy’s head, then examined their vests more closely. There was a small red light blinking from a battery pack on each of them, flashing in time with her heart, ticking down, second by second.


4 (#ulink_98e57863-54c9-5741-a301-d42e23127524)

Roseoak Park, New York

Dan’s heart hammered against his rib cage.

He stared at the ceiling, his hands bound and his mouth still covered with tape. His feet were now chained to the footboard of his bed. He wrenched against the shackles until the metal cut into his skin, drawing a rebuke from Percy, the captor guarding him.

“You need to be sharp in the morning. Be smart and sleep.”

How could he sleep knowing bombs were strapped to his wife and son? Again, Dan raged against the chains, but they held him firmly in place, and soon he slumped back into the mattress, exhausted and defeated.

These animals invade my home and what do I do? Do I protect my family and fight? No, I watch them become weapons.

The images of Lori and Billy in suicide vests tormented him. Each passing second threatened an explosion that would kill the two people he loved most in this world.

As the hours slipped by, the quiet of their suburb mocked the reality of his situation. His pulse roared in his ears. No matter how hard Dan tried to find a way to fight back, he came up empty.

It’s because I’m a coward.

Once he’d been a trained soldier, a “weekend warrior” with the California National Guard. But that was years ago. The only action he’d seen was wildfires and mudslides. He hadn’t been deployed to Afghanistan or Iraq, like other units who’d been tested in battle. He’d often been told he was on standby to go—and during those weeks tension had knotted his stomach.

Because deep down, he was afraid.

It wasn’t the risk of dying that had overwhelmed him; he’d accepted that being a soldier might mean not coming back. In fact, coming back was what actually terrified him, the possibility of being permanently damaged—not just physically, but mentally—and not being able to deal with it. He’d never told anyone about his secret relief at not being deployed.

Now he was being tested again, and he was failing.

His home was under attack and he’d done nothing to stop it.

Trained soldier, my ass.

He didn’t even have a gun in the house because Lori didn’t want one. Dan understood. After everything she’d already been through and the price she’d paid, she was justified to feel that way. And back then, in her time of crisis, she’d taken action. His faced burned with shame, knowing she was stronger than he was.

A bark from somewhere outside made him think of his neighbors. They’d know what to do if they were in his shoes.

Miller, a mechanic covered in tattoos—that guy could fix anything, and Dan knew he would’ve fought back against these men. So would Ward, a retired accountant who’d done two tours in Vietnam.

That’s the kind of men they are.

Dan stared at the ceiling.

The seconds ticked by.

And what kind of man am I?

* * *

By sunrise Dan was grasping for hope, telling himself that his chance to act might come later, and he had to be ready for it.

After hours of dark silence, he jumped when the door opened and Vic kicked his bed.

“Time to get ready.”

As Percy unshackled Dan’s feet, Vic stood over him.

“You look like hell. Get up.”

Dan stood, but shakily. His head was still sore from being pistol-whipped.

“You’re going to go through your routine like this was a normal day,” Vic said. “We’re going to free your hands and mouth first. You’re going to shower, shave, get dressed, have breakfast and go to work like any other day, and you’re going to follow our instructions to the letter.”

Vic motioned toward Percy, who held up a cell phone.

“If you try anything, anything at all, Percy will hit Send on a speed dial number and your wife and son are gone. There are no second chances. You got that?”

When Dan nodded, they removed the tape from his wrists and mouth.

As soon as his mouth was free, Dan rushed to speak. “Please—I want to see my wife and son.”

Vic held up another phone, showing a grainy video of Lori and Billy, bound and afraid. Given the quality, Dan couldn’t determine where they were, if it was real time or recorded.

“When was this taken? How do I know they’re still alive?”

“That’s all you get!”

Vic pulled the phone away before they forced Dan into the bathroom, leaving the door open. As they stood guard with their guns, they watched him relieve himself and then climb into the shower. His body was stiff and numb from being tied up all night, and he welcomed the needles of hot water, bringing back some of his adrenaline from earlier. He kept his thoughts on Lori and Billy, praying they were still safe.

Stepping from the shower, he glanced at Percy, who passed him a towel. After drying himself, Dan wiped steam from the mirror and lathered his face. His hand shook as he shaved, nicking his chin with the razor. He stemmed the blood with a dot of toilet paper then put a bandage on his temple where he’d been struck with the gun.

After shoving Dan’s robe at him, the men took him to the kitchen where they watched him gulp two cups of black coffee and forced him to eat a bagel. It would be a long day, and they didn’t need him hungry and light-headed. “We don’t want your stomach growling at the bank.”

In the early morning quiet, Dan heard no sign of Lori and Billy, or the two other invaders from the night before. He wondered if they were still in the house—maybe the basement? Or the garage? As he ate, he found it difficult to absorb the bizarreness of his situation: his family’s lives suddenly at stake; the armed invaders with their freakish masks; the way they watched him and then checked on neighbors at the windows with blinds drawn. As they monitored their phones for messages, Dan noticed Vic checking a duffel bag and the way he kept an eye on the clock over the fridge. If, as they said, they knew everything about his family, then they were aware of their routine. Dan went to work first, and concerns at Lori’s office or Billy’s school about their absences would not surface for a few hours yet.

When Dan finished, Vic and Percy took him back to the bedroom to brush his teeth and dress, bringing the bag with them.

On the bed, Dan laid out his navy gabardine trousers, his navy wool blazer, a silk tie and his powder-blue dress shirt. He’d got as far as pulling on his pants before they stopped him again.

Dan’s heart skipped a beat as he watched Percy reach into the bag for a vest just like the ones they’d strapped to Lori and Billy. They placed it on his chest, the Velcro fasteners crackling as they adjusted it. Dan saw the thin bricks and the wires connecting them to the power source. He could smell the nylon mingling with the scent of vanilla and plastic. They activated the power source and the timing light blinked red. Then they helped Dan tug on his shirt—a snug fit with the vest, but it worked.

Sweat beaded on Dan’s brow and his fingers trembled as he knotted his tie in front of Lori’s full-length mirror.

“Relax, Dan, and pay attention.”

Vic held up Dan’s glasses, black with rectangle frames.

“We did a little work on these, see?”

Looking closely, Dan noticed a small metal button no bigger than the head of a pin fixed to the bridge. On the inside of the arms, they’d attached two more small metal buttons.

“The one in the front is a camera lens. The ones on the sides are microphone-earphone receiver transmitters. They let us see remotely on our laptop what you see, hear what you hear. And they let us talk to each other. Put them on.”

Vic showed Dan the image he was seeing on their laptop.

“So don’t think about being a hero today. We’re watching every move. If you deviate from our instructions, we’ll detonate the vests, all three at once. Do you understand?”

He understood.

They helped him pull on his blazer, adjust his hair, slip on his glasses.

Vic checked the time, then handed Dan his briefcase containing an empty, folded duffel bag.

“Okay, Dan, let’s go to work.”


5 (#ulink_af2b7d21-a8d3-5616-9528-d10c7871ff3e)

Roseoak Park, New York

The house is too quiet.

As they walked Dan through the back and into the garage, his fear mounted.

“Are Billy and Lori in the basement?”

“Shut up!” Vic said. “Focus on what you need to do.”

Dan’s eyes went around the garage, taking quick inventory. Suddenly the everyday items took on a new and desperate significance, a reflection of their lives before the attack. Billy’s bicycle, his goal net, his bats and hockey sticks, and up in one corner, his old tricycle.

Stacked on the bench were cardboard boxes of clothes Lori was preparing to donate to the church. Nearby were her clay planters, her gardening tools and her flower-printed gardening gloves. Looped neatly on a hook was the hose and, near it, Dan’s John Deere mower. He did his best thinking and problem-solving when he mowed the lawn.

I’ve got to do something.

Vic nudged him. Dan opened the door to his Ford Taurus and got in alone. As he sat behind the wheel, he glanced at Lori’s Dodge Dart, parked next to him.

“Step it up!” Vic said.

Dan inserted the key and started his car. Vic tapped the window with his gun. Dan lowered it and Vic leaned into the driver’s door, resting his gun on the frame. For an instant Dan contemplated grabbing it, but he was distracted when he saw that Percy had vanished.

They must’ve parked their vehicle nearby.

“Remember,” Vic said, “all you have to do is follow our instructions. You’re doing good so far. It’ll be over before you know it, so don’t mess this up. We’re watching you every step of the way. Now get going.”

As Vic stepped away from the car, Dan backed out of the driveway and wheeled down the street. The vest was hot and cumbersome. His skin tingled with each bump and pothole for fear the thing might go off.

On the console he saw the receipts from the recent weekend he and Lori had spent in Boston. His chief worries then had been finding good parking and the price of gas. Dan adjusted his grip on the wheel.

What the hell’s happening?

He rolled through their corner of Roseoak, a middle-class community of tree-lined streets with Tudor, ranch and Colonial houses. Flanked by Douglaston, Little Neck and Oakland Gardens and bordered by the Long Island Expressway and Grand Central Parkway, Roseoak Park was a desirable enclave of Queens. With good schools and no crime, it was considered a safe place to live.

A clear radio voice sounded in his ear.

“Looking good, Dan.”

He checked his mirrors in an effort to spot their vehicle. But there was nothing to see. It was futile.

“Stick to the plan and no one gets hurt, Dan.”

Dan prayed that Lori and Billy were still safe—or as safe as they could be wrapped with a bomb—and racked his brain for a way out.

Glancing in vain in his rearview mirror, he wondered again who they were—and why they’d chosen him. He crawled through traffic, knowing he had little time to act.

I could drive to the police—go right to the 111th Precinct in Bayside. Tell them everything!

He thought of Lori and Bill, and how Vic had vowed to kill them.

If I go to the police I could save them.

Sweat trickled from his temple, nearing his eye.

Or...I could kill us all.


6 (#ulink_a7e5de8e-10f6-5955-95f4-3adf5fbe5356)

Manhattan, New York

Kate Page stood on the southbound platform of the 125th Street subway station.

Waiting for the next train to get her to Midtown and Newslead, the global news service where she was a reporter, she reviewed the messages on her phone again and let out a long breath.

She hadn’t even set foot in the newsroom, but her exchange a few minutes ago with Reeka Beck, her editor, had already set the stage for a bad day.

You’re covering the conference of security experts at the Grand Hyatt for us today, Reeka had texted her.

But Chuck told me I was clear to enterprise today.

Change of plan. A lot going on today. Randy Kent’s wife went into labor, so you’re going to the Hyatt this afternoon.

What about Hugh? He’s backup on security?

It’s you, today. End of discussion.

The tunnel grumbled with distant vibrations of the approaching train. Its bright headlights shot from darkness as it rattled into the station. With a rush of hot, dank air, the brakes squealed and the train came to a stop. The doors opened. Kate boarded and found a seat under the large MTA subway map and ads for the addictions hotline and STD awareness.

As the train rolled south, Kate resumed panning for a story. For the past few weeks she’d been trying to nail down some long-shot leads, one about stolen satellite technology and one on human trafficking. She didn’t have much on either of them, and she’d wanted to pursue them today, unless something fresh broke. She’d sent out some notes to a few trusted sources to see if anything new was going on, but the messages that trickled back were not promising. Kate looked up from her silent phone, wishing for a good story.

It’s Deadsville out there.

She could not escape the fact that times were tough in the news business. More and more newspapers were shedding jobs. Newslead was losing subscribers, and rumors of cutbacks were swirling. But as the train grated and swayed, she did her best to stay positive. Whatever happened, she would survive.

I made it this far.

Kate stared at her translucent reflection in the window as the drab tunnel walls rushed by, pulling her back through her life. She was a thirty-one-year-old single mom with an eight-year-old daughter. Kate had been seven years old when her mother and father died in a hotel fire. After the tragedy, Kate and her little sister, Vanessa, had lived with relatives and then in foster homes. A couple of years later, Kate and Vanessa’s foster parents had taken them on a vacation to Canada. They were in British Columbia, driving through the Canadian Rockies, when their car spun out, flipped over and crashed into a river.

The images of that moment were seared in Kate’s mind.

The car sinking...the windows breaking...the icy water...grabbing Vanessa’s hand...pulling her free...to the surface...the frigid current numbing her body...fingers loosening...Vanessa slipping away...disappearing...

Kate was the only one who’d survived.

They’d found the bodies of Kate’s foster parents, but Vanessa’s body was never recovered. The search team reasoned that it got wedged in the rocks downriver, but Kate never gave up believing that Vanessa had somehow escaped the rushing water.

She never gave up searching for her.

After the tragedy, Kate had bounced through foster homes, eventually running away for good. She spent her teen years on the street, taking any job she could find to put herself through college, where she’d studied journalism. She’d worked in newsrooms across the country. Then, in San Francisco, she’d had a baby girl by a man who’d lied to her about being married and had written her off when he’d found out she was pregnant.

Kate named her daughter Grace and raised her on her own in Ohio where she’d worked at a newspaper in Canton, before downsizing cost her that job. But she hung on. She found a short-term reporting position in Dallas, and now here she was: a national correspondent at one of the world’s largest news organizations.

I’ve come a long way, and I never, ever, give up.

The proof smiled back at her from the photo on her phone’s screen.

Grace and Vanessa.

Kate blinked at them.

It nearly cost her everything, but eventually she’d found Vanessa.

Kate smiled to herself. It’d been a year since she’d had her sister back in her life, living with her and Grace. Vanessa was a fighter. She’d made remarkable progress with her therapy; she was going to school and working part-time as a waitress. Last month Kate and Vanessa finished a book on their lost years, Kate’s search for her and their reunion. It was titled Echo in My Heart: A Relentless Story of Love, Loss and Survival, and it was going to be released in the fall.

We’re doing okay. We’re living our lives.

Kate was also blessed to have Nancy Clark in her life. The retired and widowed nurse lived alone on the floor above them. Ever since Kate had moved into the building, she and Nancy had become more than neighbors. Nancy had never had any children of her own and had opened her heart to Kate, Grace and Vanessa. She was so kind and warm she’d practically adopted the three of them, insisting on helping them whenever she could.

A steely scraping pierced Kate’s ears and the train decelerated. The blurring dark tunnels were quickly replaced by the bright tiles of the platform walls of Penn Station.

She stepped off, remembering to breathe through her mouth and avoid inhaling the humid, musty air while navigating the pandemonium of the crushing commuter crowds. Kate had become adept at threading her way through the vast low-ceilinged warren, up to the doors and outside.

She’d surfaced in front of Madison Square Garden, across from the post office, when her phone vibrated. A man bumped her, snickering something, when she stopped to read a message from a source, a detective with the NYPD.

Nothing going on, he texted. But stay on your toes. Never know what’s coming around the corner.

That was it.

Kate put her phone away and hurried toward Newslead’s world headquarters, a few blocks away in a fifty-story office tower on Manhattan’s far West Side.


7 (#ulink_3be0f69b-90ed-5d34-b7c6-01781a94faf4)

Roseoak Park, New York

Dan stopped at a red light two blocks from his bank, paralyzed with indecision.

Then he saw the cop.

A white guy, mid-twenties, sipping coffee from a take-out cup behind the wheel of an NYPD car in the opposite lane.

Drive into the intersection! Now! Block him and tell him!

As Dan tightened his grip on the wheel, Vic hissed in his ear.

“We see that cop, too, Dan. Don’t try anything stupid. You’ve got a lot of lives in your hands right now. You want to risk killing Lori and Billy?”

Dan hesitated.

He heard shuffling in his ear, and then Lori’s voice filled his ear.

“Dan, oh God! If you can hear me, please, do what they say!”

“Lori! Lori, did they hurt you?”

More shuffling, then Billy: “Dad, please, do what they want!”

“Billy! Are you okay?”

A beat passed, and Vic’s voice returned.

“You heard them, Dan. Just stick to the plan, and no one gets hurt.”

The light turned green.

Dan’s pulse was hammering as his foot twitched on the brake pedal.

The cop rolled through the intersection and down the street in the opposite direction. A horn tapped behind Dan, and he continued driving, dragging the back of his hand across his brow as he let out a breath.

Moments later he came to Branch 487 for SkyNational Trust Banking Corp., a small one-story building constructed in neo-art-deco style. Its floor-to-ceiling glass walls gleamed in the morning sun, with a curving clean-lined flat roof extending over the three drive-through ATMs. The property was bordered with shrubs, plants and flowers that were professionally maintained. SkyNational had given Dan awards for exemplary management of his branch.

He turned into his usual parking spot. The lot was empty except for the two cars of the staff who’d arrived first and were in charge of opening. Dan was versed in branch opening procedures and ensured his people complied with, and adhered to, all security standards of the Bank Protection Act.

The bank’s policy required two people to arrive at the same time for opening. First, they scanned the area for anything suspicious. Then the first employee entered while the second one stayed in the car, waiting for an all-clear signal or cell phone call. These steps guarded against “morning-glory robberies,” whereby criminals lay in wait for staff prior to opening.

Once it was safe to proceed, the two staff members used the dual control system to open the vault and obtain daily cash boxes for the tellers. Then they opened the night depository and collected the overnight deposits. An armored security company collected deposits from the ATMs. Aside from a few additional matters, those were the key steps before unlocking the front doors for daily business.

Until today, the branch had never been robbed.

“Time’s ticking!” Vic said. “Get your ass in there!”

Dan grabbed his briefcase. Heading across the lot to the rear entrance, he heard a metallic clanking and looked up at the flag poles. The Stars and Stripes, the state flag and SkyNational’s corporate flag waved dutifully in the breeze.

At the door’s lockbox, he swiped his manager’s card and pressed his security code on the keypad.

Nothing happened.

His hands were a bit shaky. He took a breath, repeated the process. The door opened, and he was greeted with the aroma of fresh coffee.

“Morning, Dan.” Annie Trippe, the head teller and soon-to-be assistant manager, smiled from behind the counter where she was topping up supplies for tellers.

“Annie.”

“Hi, Dan,” Jo Ballinger called out. Jo, one of his best tellers, was arranging an assortment of pastries the branch offered to morning customers.

“Morning, Jo.”

Dan glanced around. They would open the doors in twenty minutes.

“How’d your opening go, guys?” he asked.

“Tickety-boo,” Jo said. “All tickety-boo. Except...”

“Except what?”

“These 6:00 a.m. openings are killers, Dan.”

“I know.” He smiled sympathetically, trying to look as natural as possible. “But central selected us to be a pilot branch. It’s all about serving the needs of our early-bird commuters. Now, I’ve got some urgent business to take care of, then I have to step out.”

Annie’s head shot up, and she took a longer look at Dan as he headed for his office.

“Hold on, there, Dan. What happened to you?”

“What?”

Annie touched her temple indicating where Dan had a large bandage.

“Knocked my head against the door. Getting clumsier, I guess.”

The concern on Annie’s face was slow to melt as Dan shrugged and stepped into his office. He switched on the lights, set his briefcase down on his desk and logged into his computer.

Vic’s voice rumbled quietly in his ear. “You’re doing good so far, Dan.”

He immediately set to work, his keyboard clicking as he typed, but he stopped when a shadow fell over him, followed by the soft thud of a ceramic mug of coffee set on his desk.

Annie stood before him.

“What’s going on, Dan? You don’t look so good.”

He licked his lips, aware that Vic would hear and see everything.

“Shut the door,” he told her.

“Careful, Dan,” Vic reminded him.

After closing the door, Annie turned to him. She was in her midforties, with high cheekbones, dark eyes and a warm smile. Her husband was a fire captain, and her son was starting Hunter College. Annie had been with SkyNational fifteen years. She was devoted, dedicated—an intelligent woman who was not easily fooled.

“Something’s up, Dan. What is it?”

“This is completely off the record and stays between you and me.”

“Of course. What is it?”

“It’s South Branch—seems Mort’s got a little crisis.”

“Odd. Mort’s such a perfectionist. What sort of crisis?”

“His cash inventory is low, so I’m issuing a directive to transfer two hundred and fifty thousand from our vault to South Branch, which I will personally deliver to them this morning.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Believe me, it has to be done this way.” He input several commands, and his printer came to life. “I’ll need you to cosign the directive.”

Dan grabbed the pages and his pen.

“What you’re doing isn’t right,” Annie said. “We use armored car services for interbranch transfers. They’re directed by the Central Branch. Dan, there are strict rules for this. You know that. Mort has to call Central with his inventory issue. Besides, this would drain us. It makes no sense.”

“This is an emergency, Annie.” He put the directive in a file folder and hunched over it slightly as he signed it. All the while he kept his head up, looking at her. “Believe me, you’ll understand later why I had to do this.” He closed the folder on the paperwork, turned it over to her and, leaving it on the desk with the pen, stood and picked up his briefcase. “Please cosign it after you read it carefully. I have to go.”

“No, I won’t sign it.” She turned from the desk without looking at the folder. “This isn’t right. Dan, wait!”

Dan went to the vault, opened his briefcase and began filling the duffel bag with bundles of cash, pausing to look at them and mentally counting.

“Dan, please, stop, I don’t understand what you’re doing! Tell me what’s going on.”

Just as Dan was scrambling to come up with something to tell her, Vic whispered, “Tell her it’s a security exercise, that she’s not technically supposed to know anything and that she’ll get a call fifteen minutes after you leave.”

“Listen to me.” Dan dropped his voice, continuing to load the bag. “This is part of a secret security drill. Everything’s all right. You’ll get a call from security fifteen minutes after I leave.”

Annie’s face creased with fearful disbelief.

Dan zipped the bag, hoisted it over his shoulder, left the vault and strode out the rear entrance to his car.


8 (#ulink_8cff16f1-91c7-59fd-a78c-f67299b31941)

Roseoak Park, New York

Annie Trippe stood inside the bank’s rear door.

She watched her manager drive away, her hands pressed against her mouth and tears stinging her eyes. She jumped when someone touched her shoulder from behind.

“Annie, are you all right?” Jo asked.

Shaking her head and regaining most of her composure, Annie turned.

“Something’s very wrong with Dan.”

“I got the feeling something wasn’t right. What’s going on?”

“He just walked out of here with a bag full of cash—a quarter million.”

“Are you serious?”

“He was talking about low inventory at South Branch, made a transfer directive for me to sign, then said something about a security drill.”

Jo’s brow creased. “But...none of that makes any sense.”

“I know.” Annie pulled herself to her full height, looked around the empty lobby and took charge. “We’ve got to do something—fast. Jo, don’t open the front doors until I tell you.”

Annie hurried to her desk, picked up her phone and called Dan’s cell phone. As it continued to ring, she tried to come up with a reasonable explanation for what he’d just done. He clearly wasn’t himself, and she hoped she could get him to come back to the branch before things escalated any further.

When his voice mail picked up, Annie called Dan’s home and got the same result.

Her mind racing, she pulled up Dan’s full contact information, hoping she’d have some luck with his wife’s cell phone.

Maybe Lori knows what’s happening. Maybe she can help.

It rang through to voice mail. Out of options and out of time, Annie called one more number.

“SkyNational, South Branch. How may I direct your call?”

“Sally, its Annie Trippe at Roseoak.”

“Hey, kiddo.”

“Is Mort there? I need to speak to him, now.”

“He’s got someone in his office.”

“Can you just get him on the line, Sally—please!”

“I will, dear, just as soon as he’s free.”

“No! I need to talk to him now!”

“Whoa, what’s going—”

“I’m sorry, Sally. Just, please, get Mort. It’s an emergency.”

Annie heard a few muffled voices, then the line clicked.

“Annie, what’s going on?” Mort Frederick asked.

“Do you have an inventory issue, and did you ask Dan to personally make an interbranch transfer to you first thing this morning?”

“What the hell? No! Of course not.”

“Mort, swear to me.”

“I swear! What is this?”

“Are you aware of any secret security exercises, anything involving cash transfers?”

“Hell, no! Annie, what’s going on? Where’s Danny— Is he there?”

“No!”

“What’s this all about?”

“Mort—” Annie’s voice broke “—Dan just walked out of the branch with a bag filled with two hundred and fifty thousand!”

“He what?” Mort cursed under his breath.

“What do I do?”

“Annie, call the police!”


9 (#ulink_e46e4565-e021-5ad4-aeee-38a82941f003)

Roseoak Park, New York

FBI special agent Nick Varner held out his ID to the NYPD officer whose patrol car blocked the entrance to the bank’s parking lot.

Marked NYPD units from the 111th Precinct dotted the lot and the area surrounding the SkyNational Trust branch. A heavy-duty response, Varner thought, but then this was Roseoak, middle-class neighbor to upper middle-class Douglaston, with its winding hilly streets and waterfront mansions on Little Neck Bay. The entire region was an appealing, sleepy corner of Queens where not much happened, and residents here wanted it that way.

“Yeah, take it over there, pal,” the officer said.

Varner parked his Bureau car, collected his notebook, his recorder and organized his thoughts. He knew the drill. He was thirty-nine and had put in twelve years with the FBI that had included a tour at headquarters in Washington, DC, assignments in Los Angeles, Phoenix and, for the past seven years, the New York Field Office in Manhattan, where he’d been a member of several task forces. Now he was pulling double duty, assigned to Violent Crimes and the Joint Terrorism Task Force.

He sized up the building. Typical suburban detached box. All the blinds had been drawn. A sign had been posted at the front doors. Printed by hand in block letters, it said the branch was closed. It directed customers to the nearest branch and ATMs in the area.

Varner went to the rear entrance and showed his ID to the uniformed officer there. She nodded and handed him some tissue-paper shoe covers. Varner tugged them on and entered.

The lobby was active.

Investigators with the NYPD’s Crime Scene Unit were just setting up to go into the vault and start processing it. Two others were talking to a guy in a suit who Varner took to be a bank security chief.

“Nicholas Alfonso Varner. Well, I’ll be damned.”

Varner found himself shaking hands with a familiar big-chested man in his fifties, a badge hanging from his chain: NYPD detective Marv Tilden. They’d worked together during the final years of the Joint Bank Robbery Task Force before the NYPD pulled out. They’d spent enough long hours as partners for Tilden to know Varner’s middle name was Alfonso, and that a few generations back, Varner’s family had come to America from Italy. Officials at Ellis Island had changed their name from Varnisanino to Varner.

“Morning, Marvin,” Varner said. “You must be close to hanging it up.”

“One more lousy winter, then we move to Nevada. Hey, you’re alone? You feds never come alone—and you got here pretty fast.”

“Traffic was kind to me, and the others are on their way. What do we know?”

“Not a lot. We’ve barely started.”

“What can you tell me?”

Tilden described how Dan Fulton, the branch manager, came to work alone talking up an emergency branch transfer. “Then he violates security procedures, fills a bag with cash and disappears. No GPS, dye packs, transmitters or bait bills.”

“The tally?”

“They’re still calculating, but it looks like two hundred and fifty thousand, which would just about clean them out of cash inventory.”

“What’ve we done so far?”

“Like I said, we’re just getting started. We’ve alerted the Real Time Crime Center, put out a BOLO for Fulton’s car, a 2015 blue Taurus SEL. We’re calling on traffic to put people at toll plazas, but that’s a resource matter—we can’t cover them all. We’re checking to see if the car has anything we can maybe get a signal on, like a GPS. And we’ve got people heading to his house. Whit Tallbreck, SkyNational’s security guy, is just getting his legal department’s blessing to volunteer the cameras, and he’s got people pulling Fulton’s file. We already ran him and nothing lights up.”

“What’d you think, Marv? Duress, drugs, debt—he just flip out?”

“Any of the above. Look—” Tilden nodded to a desk in a far corner “—my partner, Betsy Mendelson, is talking to one of the two tellers who were here when it happened. I’m about to interview the other one. Why don’t you join me, be like old times?”

* * *

Annie Trippe sat alone in the lunchroom at the back of the bank.

She was holding a mug of hot tea to keep from shaking. When she wasn’t dabbing her eyes with a tissue, she traced the words World’s Best Mom on her mug between glances at the staff bulletin board next to the fridge. It was feathered with notes, selfies from vacations and a group shot from the tug-of-war for charity.

Dan Fulton was smiling with his arm around her.

Looking at it, Annie’s lower lip started to tremble.

“Hello again,” Tilden said as he entered the room. He held out an arm toward another man Annie hadn’t met yet. “This is Nick Varner with the FBI. We’d like to talk to you about what happened.”

Chairs scraped as the two men sat opposite Annie at the table. They flipped through their notebooks to clear pages, logged the time and copied Annie’s information from her driver’s license before starting their recorders.

“Can you start by giving us a time line and step-by-step account of your actions?”

Annie steeled herself then related details of the morning; how she and Jo Ballinger arrived, followed branch opening procedures and what had transpired when Fulton got in. Varner and Tilden took notes, nodded, asked occasional questions.

“Everything was by the book and routine until Dan arrived.”

“And you say he seemed a little off center?” Tilden asked.

“Anxious, distracted, troubled even.”

They made a note.

“And he insisted you violate policy with the transfer directive that he’d created on his computer and demanded you sign it after reading it carefully?” Varner asked.

Annie nodded.

“Did you read it?” Varner asked.

“No. It was a policy violation and I refused to sign it.”

“Where’s this directive?” Varner asked.

“Still on his desk in his office, I think.”

“Did your people look at it, Marv?” Varner asked.

Tilden’s chair scraped as he stood and left the room. A short time later he returned wearing latex gloves, a file folder in one hand and the transfer directive in the other. He looked grim as he laid the printed form on the table for them. Annie went still as she read the note Dan had scrawled on the signature line: Family held hostage at home! Strapped bombs on us!

She suddenly felt sick, but before she could say anything, Tilden reached for his phone.

“We need ESU on the Fulton house ASAP!”


10 (#ulink_670e3e1f-c47f-58b5-99fb-1dae17b98091)

Roseoak Park, New York

It’s almost over. Stay calm.

Dan’s scalp was prickling as he drove back toward his house.

The bag with cash sat on the passenger floor. He’d done exactly what they’d forced him to do. He’d walked into his own branch and robbed it.

Now this nightmare can end. They’ve got to release Lori and Billy. You just need to get home.

He’d expected further instructions when he’d gotten back in the car, but Dan had heard nothing from Vic since he’d left the bank.

“Hello?” Dan said aloud. “I’ve got your money.”

Nothing but silence, making him worry their communication system had malfunctioned. He gently pressed the arm of his glasses to his ear.

“Are you there? Look, I did what you wanted. I’ve got your money. You’ve got to release my wife and son, now!”

Silence.

As the shaded boulevards of Roseoak rolled past, Dan’s mind raced with images of what had happened and scenarios of what may be playing out. He pictured Annie at the bank, how he’d shocked her, how he’d hated seeing her grappling with unthinkable events.

I know she’ll come through.

Annie was smart, and she was strong. He trusted and believed she’d know what to do.

She’ll find my message. She has to.

In the bank he’d been careful not to lower his head, pulling the directive close to his chest so it was out of the camera’s view as he wrote. He imagined Annie and Jo finding it, making calls, showing it to police, and people jumping into action to help.

Maybe that’s why no one is answering, he thought hopefully.

Maybe police had raced to his house and rescued Billy and Lori. Maybe they’d arrested Vic and the others. Would it happen that fast? He had no way of knowing. They’d taken his cell phone, and it would be too dangerous to call, anyway.

Still, Dan couldn’t convince himself that he was off the hook. He grew anxious about what he’d done at the bank.

Maybe I shouldn’t have left the note. Maybe they know, maybe they saw and—

“You did good,” Vic said.

“I’ve got your money! Now release my family!”

“We’re not done, Dan. I need you to pull into the Empire Coastal Mall up ahead.”

“Why?”

“Do it, right now!”

Empire was one of the state’s largest malls, and the marquee for the north entrance towered just ahead of the traffic light. Dan got in the turning lane.

“Go to zone fourteen. Park near the lamppost with green flags.”

Fourteen was the outermost zone, far from the congested parking lanes closer to the mall. Not many people had parked here. A few abandoned shopping carts kept a lonely vigil. After Dan parked, Vic told him to turn his car off, leave the keys and grab the duffel bag filled with cash.

“See that green Chevy in the lane directly across from you? It’s unlocked, the key’s inside. Get in.”

Dan remained frozen where he stood.

Alone in the lot with the heavy bag, he considered running into the mall for help. For the hundredth time this morning he wondered if he should end it here. There was always a chance they’d been bluffing the whole time. Maybe they never intended to kill anyone. Maybe the bombs weren’t real. But could he risk it? What if it backfired? Could he live with himself if they killed Lori and Billy because he screwed up?

“Get in the Chevy now, Dan!”

Reaching the car, he opened the front passenger door, dropped the bag on the floor, then walked around and got in behind the wheel.

He noticed the faint hint of men’s cologne and cigarettes. The car’s interior appeared to have been cleaned, as if all traces of the previous user were hastily obliterated. There were gouges and scratches around the ignition switch, some wires were hanging down. A single key had been inserted into the switch.

It’s a stolen car!

Dan’s fear suddenly deepened—Vic and his crew were not planning to end this soon. This meant they wanted something more.

“Start the car, Dan.”

“No. Please... I—I’ve got your money! Just take it, release my family and leave us alone.”

“Start. The. Damn. Car. Now!”

Dan hesitated.

“Don’t test us, Dan!”

The Chevy’s motor came to life.

“That was smart. Now drive back to the street, get on to the Cross Island Parkway north to the Throgs Neck Bridge.”

“Why?”

“We’re not done, yet.”

“Yes, we are! I’ve got your money, and I’m driving home to give it to you!”

“Get on the parkway now!”

“No. I’ve got your money! You’re going to take it and release my family!”

A long moment of silence passed before Dan wheeled back to the street, but he didn’t head to the Cross Island Parkway. Instead, he headed home.

“Where’re Lori and Billy? I want to talk to them!”

“You’re disobeying us, Dan. There’ll be consequences.”

“You already killed them, didn’t you?”

Silence.

“Put them on, or I swear I’ll ram this car into a bus!”

Still nothing from Vic.

Sweating, gasping for air, Dan searched the streets, the strip malls, the corner store, the retirement home, the gas station and the houses as he passed by. People were just going about their daily lives while he was barely hanging on to his, helpless to do anything.

Suddenly his vest vibrated, and his entire body contracted. He gripped the wheel as hard as he could, preparing for the explosion, to be blown to pieces, thinking of Lori, of Billy.

Nothing happened, but the vibration continued.

Like a ringing phone.

He moved a trembling hand from the wheel and felt around the vest until he noticed the spot where a phone had been sewn in.

He was still alive. Nothing had happened. The phone kept humming.

Then it stopped.

“Do we have your attention, Dan?”

“Yes.”

“That was a little test. The next time you feel that vibration, you’ll know your life is about to end. Now, unless you’d like to feel that right away, you’re going to do as we say and get your ass north on the Cross Island Parkway to Throgs Neck.”

Dan’s body was numb as he turned and made his way to Northern Boulevard, merging with the northbound traffic on the expressway. As the parkway hugged the western shore of Little Neck Bay, he searched the expanse of water for answers while praying for his wife and son.


11 (#ulink_ee55b766-a606-5bb9-bd56-87a41629d302)

Throgs Neck Bridge, New York

Not knowing what had happened to Lori and Billy tore Dan up as his Chevy Impala ascended the approach to Throgs Neck Bridge, which connected Queens with the Bronx. One of the three northbound lanes was under construction, blocked with orange cones. He got into the middle lane and watched his speed.

He looked at New Rochelle’s skyline in the distance, then up at the bridge tower rising above him. Sections of the deck clicked under his wheels with regular cadence, like time ticking away on a clock.

Ticking down on us.

Dan dragged the back of his hand across his sweaty face, thinking of Lori and Billy in their vests, feeling the bulk of his own, his fear and anger broiling with a desire to tear it off, to fight back. He looked out at the East River more than one hundred and fifty feet below and begged God to help him, to keep Lori and Billy alive so he could find some way out of this.

He knew Lori would never give up. She’d protect Billy with her life. In his heart he knew that she was a fighter, a survivor, that despite what had happened to her in California, she’d overcome the odds. In the years since they’d moved to New York, Dan had watched over her and stood by her, ready to catch her if she stumbled.

The worst is behind us.

That’s what he’d always told her. The worst is behind us, not you. Because what had happened to Lori, happened to him. It’s how he felt about everything in their marriage.

Lean on me. Let me take this on with you.

Lori had done well. She’d had good days and bad days, but mostly good ones.

The worst is behind us.

At least it was. Until this.

Dan felt panic rising to the surface as he took in the sweep of the bridge, the water and the sky.

God, please, keep them alive!

The toll plaza was just ahead, but Dan didn’t have a pass. As he slowed and guided his car into a cash lane, his pulse raced with a mixture of dread and hope.

License plate readers!

He remembered a report in the Daily News that police had installed license plate recognition technology at most toll plazas. They were using cameras that read license plates and checked them instantly against databases with hot lists of wanted plates.

Dan studied the gates. Did they have plate readers here?

As he crawled ahead in his line, he fumbled in his wallet for money.

“Don’t try anything here,” Vic said into his ear. “We’re watching you, and you know what will happen.”

Dan let out a slow breath. The thought of them detonating his vest here sent a chill up his spine. It would end any chance to save Lori and Billy. And innocent people would die.

He was now one car from the booth. Gripping a folded ten-dollar bill in his hand, he prayed that his plates would come up as stolen, alerting police, helping them get closer.

Thud!

Dan’s head snapped back. His car had been rear-ended.

After taking a moment to assess that he wasn’t hurt, he got out.

“I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” A woman in her twenties came toward him gripping a cell phone, her face reddening. She stared at Dan, then at the area where her Toyota was pressed against the bumper of his Impala.

“Sir,” the toll officer said. “I’m going to need you to drive through.”

Dan noticed a baby in the rear of the woman’s car, strapped in its car seat.

“Get back in your car!” Vic ordered Dan.

“I guess, do you want my insurance and stuff?” The woman was now in tears. “It was my fault. I’m so sorry.”

Horns were sounding behind them.

“People—” the toll officer had stepped from his booth “—return to your cars. We need to keep this line moving. You can sort this out after going through the gate. Just move over to the right shoulder.”

“Get in your car, Dan!” Vic said. “We’ll kill everybody—you, her and her baby!”

“I don’t see any damage,” Dan said to the woman, wanting to get everyone out of danger as quickly as possible.

“Really? Are you sure? Let me pull my car back a bit, so you can have a better look.”

“Ma’am, do not back up,” the toll officer interrupted.

“I think we’re okay,” Dan said.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you! I’ve been having the worst morning!”

Dan handed the toll officer his cash.

“Keep the change,” he said, getting back in his car.

The officer returned to his booth, and the bar lifted for Dan to pass through.

“Good,” Vic said. “Now get on the Cross Bronx Expressway to the George Washington Bridge to New Jersey.”

Dan accelerated and merged with the traffic, his heart hammering.

“I’m cooperating, okay? You can see I won’t make trouble. Will you please let me talk to my family again?”

Vic didn’t respond.


12 (#ulink_9d2f8aa9-fb61-506c-b210-af5e96ffeed9)

Manhattan, New York

Newslead was located in one of the city’s largest skyscrapers, a modern glass structure rising over Penn Station in the Hudson Yards area of Manhattan.

Tenants in the recently renovated building included the head offices of a TV network, a cosmetics chain, a fashion house, a brokerage firm and an advertising agency.

Kate swiped her ID through one of the main floor security turnstiles and joined the flow of workers to the banks of elevators. She stepped out at Newslead’s world headquarters on the fortieth floor. Each time she walked through reception she was inspired. The walls displayed enlarged news photos captured by Newslead photographers of history’s most dramatic moments from the past half century.

Those powerful images stood as testament to the fact that even though Kate’s industry faced challenging times, Newslead remained a formidable force as one of the globe’s largest news operations.

It operated a bureau in every major US city and some one hundred fifty bureaus in one hundred countries around the world, supplying a continual flow of fast, accurate information to thousands of newspapers, radio, TV, corporate and online subscribers everywhere.

Its track record for reporting excellence had earned it countless awards, including twenty Pulitzers. It was highly regarded by its chief rivals across the country, including the Associated Press, Bloomberg, Reuters, the World Press Alliance and the new Signal Point Newswire. It also competed with those organizations globally, along with Agence France-Presse, Deutsche Presse-Agentur, China’s Xinhua News Agency and Russia’s Interfax News Agency.

Corporate offices took up half of the fortieth floor, and the newsroom occupied the rest with a grid of low-walled cubicles. Above them were flat-screen monitors tuned to 24/7 news networks around the world.

Kate looked fondly at the glass enclosure tucked in one corner—the scanner room, or what some called “the torture chamber.” It was where a news assistant, usually a journalism intern desperate to pay their dues, was assigned to listen to more than a dozen emergency radio scanners.

Kate, like most seasoned reporters, knew that scanners were the lifeblood of any news organization.

Students were trained on how to listen, decipher and translate the stream of coded transmissions and squawking cross talk blaring from the radios of police, fire, paramedic and other emergency services. They knew how to pluck a key piece of data that signaled a breaking story, how to detect the hint of stress in a dispatcher’s voice or the significance of a partial transmission, and how to follow it up instantly before alerting the news desk. Scanners were sacred. They alerted you to the first cries for help, pulling you into a story that could stop the heart of a city.

Or break it.

Kate had spent long hours listening to scanners. She smiled at the softened sound of chaos from the torture chamber as she walked through the newsroom, which was bordered by the glass-walled offices of senior editors. On her way to her desk she paid silent respect to those that were still empty, a cruel reminder that staff had been let go in recent years as the business struggled to stem the flow of revenue losses.

The plain truth was that people were now relying on other online sources for information. While much of it was inaccurate and lacked the quality of a credible, professional news organization, it came free, which seemed to be more important these days.

As Kate settled into her desk, she took stock of the newsroom with some apprehension. She’d sensed tension in the air. Some reporters and editors were huddled in small groups. A few people appeared concerned.

Kate did a quick survey of the suspended TVs. Nothing seemed to be breaking. Then a shadow crossed her computer monitor.

“There you are.” Reeka Beck had approached her from behind, head bowed over her phone as she typed.

“Good morning. How are you?”

“Fine.” A message popped up in Kate’s inbox—it was from Reeka. As discussed earlier, we’d like a story out of the security conference at the Grand Hyatt this afternoon. I suggest you get in touch with Professor Randall Rees-Goodman, who’s attending from Georgetown University. Reeka tapped Kate’s screen with her pen. “I just sent you his information. He’s an expert on current threats in the geopolitical context.”

“I know, but like I said before, I really think Hugh’s better for this. And besides, Chuck cleared me to enterprise. I need to put in some time following up some leads I’m working on.”

Reeka’s thumbs move furiously over her keyboard as she dispatched another text from her phone, then she lifted her head. She blinked and smiled her perfect smile at Kate.

“This is the assignment I’ve given you. Are you refusing it?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. Thank you.”

Kate cursed to herself as Reeka pivoted on her heel and walked away. Reeka was a young, rising star of an editor at Newslead, but she was so curt and officious with reporters that it bordered on rudeness. Every conversation with her was nearly a confrontation.

Reeka’s boss, Chuck Laneer, the man who’d hired Kate to cover and break crime stories, was a battle-scarred veteran. Chuck was gruff but wise. He could kick your ass while showing you respect. Moreover, where Reeka pathologically adhered to filling a news budget, Chuck believed in the value of letting reporters dig for stories.

“Hey, Kate, you heard about Chuck?”

Thane Dolan, an assistant editor, had emerged at her desk.

“No, I just got in.”

“He resigned this morning.”

“No way!”

“Rumor is he’s gone to head news at Yahoo or Google.”

“I don’t believe this! That’s terrible.”

“That means young Reeka likely moves up a notch.”

Kate shut her eyes for a long moment.

“Say it ain’t so. Thane, what’re we gonna do?”

“No idea. It’s a big loss.”

“Monumental. Chuck hired me, you know.”

“Everybody loves the guy.”

Kate and Thane were soon joined by Craig Kryzer, the newsroom intern assigned to monitor the scanners.

“Excuse me...” He was gripping a notebook. “Um, something’s happening on the scanners, and I’m not sure who to tell. I can’t find Chuck.”

“Go ahead, Craig,” Kate said.

“There was a lot of chatter, and I confirmed much of this with 111th Precinct in Queens.”

“Get to it,” Thane said.

“They’re sending ESU—you know, the SWAT team—to a bank manager’s home in Queens. They think there’s a hostage situation.”

“What, like a domestic?” Kate asked.

“No, there was talk that this guy robbed his own bank this morning, a SkyNational Trust branch.”

“Holy crap! You got an address?” Kate said.

“Yep. It’s 3222 Forest Trail Drive in Roseoak Park.”

“Gabe!” Thane shouted to a news photographer, then pointed to Kate, who was struggling with her bag and jacket and trotting out of the newsroom. “Go with Kate! We’ve got a story breaking in Queens!”


13 (#ulink_dccaeb77-8b61-5a6d-b34f-f4344300eb7b)

Queens, New York

Sergeant Paul Roman put two crumpled dollar bills on the counter at Spiro’s Café, took his take-out coffee outside, lifted the lid and blew gently on the surface.

Today was his last shift before his vacation. Once he punched out, he and his wife would fly to Miami for a one-week Caribbean cruise. He’d hoped to spend most of his day finishing off paperwork at the office.

So far, so good, he thought. Then his phone rang.

“Paulie, its Walsh. We got one in Roseoak Park. Bank manager just robbed his own branch—his family’s being held hostage at their home. We need you to get there.”

Roman took a second to absorb what his lieutenant had said.

“Where’re they setting up?”

“Forest Trail Drive and Maple. I’m sending you details now.”

“On my way.”

“One thing you should know—the family’s possibly rigged with explosives.”

Roman’s eyes widened.

Explosives.

A hostage negotiator with the NYPD’s Emergency Services Unit, Roman was assigned to ESU Squad 10. It covered the territory known as Queens North, out of the 109th Precinct in Flushing. Squad 10 would be rolling to the scene now, he knew. The bomb squad would be on its way, as well. As Roman cut across the borough he took several hits of coffee and began a mental review of his situation checklist.

You only get one shot to do things right.

* * *

Some forty-five minutes after the call, Squad 10’s big white equipment truck creaked to a halt at a small park at Maple Street and Forest Trail Drive, joining the cluster of other emergency vehicles.

The location was nine doors down the curved street from the Fultons’ address. Just out of sight of the house, it served as the tactical command post. A dozen ESU SWAT team members, each wearing helmets, armor, headset walkie-talkies, and equipped with rifles and handguns, huddled at the command post, checking and rechecking gear.

As the commanders developed a strategy, marked units established the outer perimeter. Officers choked off traffic at all access points to Forest Trail Drive. They consulted driver’s license photos of Dan and Lori Fulton, recorded plates and checked vehicles leaving, or attempting to enter the hot zone.

Other officers began quietly evacuating neighbors, taking them behind the yellow taped lines, ensuring they were clear of the blast radius and line of fire. Everything was done through back doors and side entrances to ensure nothing was visible from the Fultons’ windows.

Without making a sound, four SWAT team members scouted the area surrounding the house and garage. The stillness held an eerie quiet, conveying a false sense of calm. They deployed an extension mirror to peer into the house and they used a stethoscope device placed carefully against the walls and window to pick up voices or activity.

They detected no movement.

They did the same for the garage and detected no activity.

The scouts were ordered to pull back.

* * *

Inside the command post truck, hostage negotiator Paul Roman watched Wilfred Walsh, the tactical commander, study a floor plan of the Fultons’ home, hastily sketched from memory by a shaken next door neighbor.

“Okay, so here’s what we know,” Walsh said to the other investigators, huddled in the truck. “Dan Fulton, manager of the SkyNational Trust Branch 487, takes a bag of cash from his bank and drives away after leaving a note that reads, ‘Family held hostage at home! Strapped bombs on us!’

“That’s all we have, so far. We’ve been unable to locate Dan Fulton. His wife, Lori Fulton, has not shown up for work. Billy Fulton’s not at school. We’ve been unable to contact anyone in the house. We’ve got no movement or visuals of people in the house. But that does not mean we don’t have people inside. Until we clear the property, we will regard it as still hot.”

“Absolutely,” Mac Hirsch, lieutenant for the bomb squad, said. “We regard everything as an explosive, unless my people confirm otherwise.”

They reviewed options. Using selective sniper fire was ruled out, for the time being. There were no clear targets. Other options: a blitz assault with flash bangs, or unleashing chemicals into the house.

SWAT commander Kevin Haggerty objected.

“I’m not sending my people in there until we know it’s clear of bombs.”

“All right, there’s one alternative—Kevin, you get your people to breach the door, and we’ll send in the robot to search the house and drop a phone, so Roman, here, can start negotiations with whoever’s in there. We’ve got to try to resolve this peacefully.”

* * *

The bomb squad’s robot was controlled remotely and equipped with a camera to transmit live feed to the technician manipulating it. It moved with the speed of a tortoise, its tracks humming and whizzing as it took its position at the front door, waiting like a mechanized alien visitor.

The SWAT team surrounded the entrance, weapons at the ready, as one member used a crowbar to pry the door open. The cracking of the frame echoed in the deserted neighborhood. The robot hummed over the debris, toddled inside and the SWAT team retreated.

The video pictures were sharp and clear.

The detective operating the robot used its speaker system, calling on anyone inside to surrender to the NYPD. Roman watched the video feed over the detective’s shoulder and prepared himself.

He glanced at his phone and the photos of Lori, Dan and Billy Fulton intel had provided him. Dan was a good-looking suburban dad, Lori had an attractive smile, and Billy, in his ball cap with Dad at Yankee Stadium, was the all-American kid.

The safety of the hostages was Roman’s chief concern. He’d need to find common ground with the hostage taker—was it Dan, who’d cracked under pressure? Or was someone else involved? Roman would work fast to establish credibility and trust, then find the cause of the problem. He needed to reduce all the risks. He’d never lie, but he wouldn’t be quick to reveal the whole truth. He’d need to keep the hostage taker’s mind off harming the hostages or himself. He’d probe the problem, let the hostage taker vent. Roman would use a tone of concern, not authority, to reduce anxieties. Above all, he’d be careful to address any immediate needs and keep hope alive for everyone.

He would never forget Pruitt, a negotiator in the Bronx who badly misread his situation when a distraught father took his wife and four kids hostage. After seven hours, Pruitt was convinced the SWAT team didn’t need to go in because he’d resolved it when the father agreed, saying: “There’s only one way outta this.” Pruitt missed the signal and the standoff ended with the dad killing the family before putting a bullet in his head. Pruitt never forgave himself, and six months later ended his own life.

Roman had been a pallbearer.

The robot had descended into the basement, searched it but found nothing. Now it was moving through the living room and the kitchen, sending back live images of the table, the fridge and the calendar on the corkboard, marked with game dates and a note: Billy dentist. Then it lumbered up the stairs to slowly inspect the bedrooms and bathrooms, before returning to the main floor, placing a phone there.

“If you are concealed in this house, the NYPD wants to talk to you. This phone will ring shortly. We advise you to answer.”

The robot exited.

The tactical commander nodded to the SWAT commander, who dispatched his team.

* * *

They moved silently from behind trees, parked cars, house corners. One sniper was flat on his stomach on the roof of the house next door, a bedroom window filling his rifle scope. Another sharpshooter used the hood of an SUV to take a line on a living room window.

Team members crept up tight to the Fultons’ house, the utility man, the breacher, the gas team and other shooters. The squad had taken positions. Members were prone at the front and rear. Each officer knew that the robot could easily have missed bombs, or people, hiding in closets, appliances, walls and ceilings.

The building was still hot.

The squad leader whispered to the command post.

“We’re set.”

The tactical commander nodded to Roman, who dialed the cell phone. In the stillness, the SWAT team could hear it ringing. And ringing. Roman let it ring twenty-five times.

No one answered.

He turned to the commanders.

Haggerty green-lighted his squad.

“Go!”

Five seconds later the pop-pop and shattering glass sounds of tear gas canisters echoed down the street. White clouds billowed from the main floor, followed by a deafening crack-crack and lightning flashes of stun grenades as the SWAT team rushed into the house from both entrances.

Flashlight beams and red-line laser sights pierced the acrid fog. The Darth Vader breathing of the heavily armed and gas-masked squad filled the home as they swept each floor.

In the basement they found used duct tape, chains, a padlock, a pile of sheets, towels and snow tires heaped oddly next to the washer and dryer. In the kitchen, remnants of pizza in a box and empty soda cans littered the table. Upstairs, the beds were unmade. Bedroom number one: empty. Bedroom number two: empty. Bathroom number one: empty. Bathroom number two: empty. Closets: empty. The ceiling, floors and walls were tapped for body mass.

Empty.

No people.

Nothing.

“Looks like somebody was tied up down here, but there ain’t nothing here now, sir,” the SWAT squad leader in the basement radioed to the command post.

“Okay,” Walsh said. “Get the fans in there, clear out the gas. We need Crime Scene working on what they can find for us ASAP.”


14 (#ulink_60874022-0242-535b-b983-718dc635b806)

Roseoak Park, New York

Kate spotted the woman.

She was hugging her cat in the back of a police car, amid the tangle of emergency vehicles just inside the tape.

Why have they isolated her? What does she know?

Kate had noticed her from a vantage point outside the line where she and Gabe Atwater, a Newslead photographer, had watched ESU do its work on the house.

“Got some dramatic images.” Gabe’s face was clenched behind his camera and he was gently rolling its long lens, shooting the SWAT team in the distance.

“Get one of her. In the back of the car, see? Look tight between the vans,” Kate said, nodding to the cat lady. “I want to get to her later.” She kept an eye on the woman while talking on her phone to Craig in the newsroom. He’d been monitoring ESU’s play-by-play on the scanners.

“Sounds like it’s winding down,” he said. “No one’s in the house.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Kate hung up and gave Gabe the update.

“So the mystery deepens.” He’d resumed shooting the SWAT team after a few shots of the cat lady.

“Do you see a name on a mailbox or anything?”

“Nothing.”

Kate bit her bottom lip.

Who is this family? Where are they now? And why would a manager rob his own bank?

Thanks to her years as a crime reporter, Kate knew how to read a scene, knew what to glean from it to give her stories depth and accuracy. She’d studied the same textbooks detectives studied to pass their exams. She’d researched and reported on enough homicides, fires, robberies, kidnappings, trials and a spectrum of other crimes to know the anatomy of an investigation.

Police radios that had been muted began crackling again with dispatches leaking from the emergency crews at the outer perimeter. A few dozen residents and rubberneckers from streets nearby had gathered at the line with about a dozen news types clustered at the row of TV cameras.

Kate anticipated that at any moment the perimeter tape would come down, police would rope off the house and the crime scene techs would begin to process it. While the NYPD was all over this, she knew that bank robberies also fell to the FBI’s jurisdiction. Investigators would take statements from witnesses, friends and neighbors, getting their accounts here and at the bank, or any other location that was a factor.

Some of the marked units began moving out to let traffic flow as uniformed officers began pulling down the tape.

“It’s all over, folks,” an officer said, collecting the tape. “All clear, you’re free to go.”

“What’s going on?” A TV reporter, face encased in makeup, had thrust a microphone into the officer’s face. “Can you give me a statement?”

“I don’t have any information right now.”

“Come on, we need a spokesperson on camera!”

“They’ll put out a press release later.”

Kate and Gabe walked quickly down the street toward the house. Kate was determined to stay ahead of their competition. They’d already overheard other reporters interviewing people, but getting nothing substantial.

“Police just told us to leave.”

“We had to get out.”

“We don’t know who lives down there.”

“Not sure what’s going on.”

“You know more than us.”

Kate needed someone who could give her a sense of the family, an idea of what the real story was. She couldn’t get to the cat lady in the back of the squad car, which had now moved to a distant stretch of the street.

Something’s going on with her.

Kate noticed two uniformed officers were talking to the woman. She’d have to hold off approaching her. Besides, Kate was certain no other press people had seen her so far.

Kate’s phone rang and she answered.

“Who told you to go to Queens?” Reeka asked.

“This story was breaking. Didn’t Thane tell you?”

“Thane Dolan’s not your supervisor. What you have is a local bank robbery, not a national story. I want you to do what I assigned you to do.”

“Reeka, the elements here are significant. A bank manager has robbed his own bank and there’re indications his family was taken hostage.”

A tense silence passed.

“Do you have it confirmed on the record? Is this just another case of someone passing an exaggerated note at a run-of-the-mill robbery?”

“No, I don’t have it confirmed yet, but I have a gut feeling—”

“A gut feeling?”

“Reeka, this one’s different. Why don’t you let me check this out? Unless you want AP or Reuters to break the story?”

Reeka let another few seconds pass.

“All right, you’ve got a few hours to nail this down. Otherwise you’ll be at the Hyatt covering the conference. Is that clear, Kate?”

“Crystalline.”

After hanging up, Kate nudged Gabe.

A man and woman had emerged from the curved end of the street, far down where the command post had been. They looked as though they were in their late sixties or early seventies. They went to the driveway of the house directly across from the one the SWAT team had stormed.

“Excuse me,” Kate said before anyone else saw them. “Kate Page and Gabe Atwater, we’re with Newslead.” Kate held up her press ID. “Will you talk to us a minute about what’s happened?”

The two people exchanged looks before the woman, bothered by the faint ammonia-like traces of tear gas lingering in the air, fanned her face and said: “Yes, but let’s go in the back.”

Their backyard had a glorious flower garden with mature oak trees that shaded the lush manicured lawn. A dog emerged to give Kate and Gabe a friendly greeting.

“May I get your names?” Kate asked, starting her recorder and holding her pen over a clean page in her notebook.

The man looked at the notebook and rubbed his chin, adding to the worry etched deeply in his face. Kate couldn’t tell if it was the gas, emotion or both, but the woman was fighting tears.

“Do you really need our names?” he asked. “Things are a little unsettling.”

“I understand, but in situations like this, people often accuse reporters of making things up. They don’t believe we actually talk to real people, like you.”

The man looked at the woman. “I don’t suppose giving our names could be any worse than what’s going on?”

“That’s true. I don’t care, it’s all so horrible.” The woman turned to Kate. “I’m Violet Selway and this is my husband, Ward.”

After Kate got her to spell their names, she asked: “Do you know the people next door?”

“Dan and Lori Fulton,” Ward said. “They have a son, Billy.”

“Any chance you’d know their ages?”

“Well, Billy’s nine,” Ward said.

“Dan just turned thirty-six,” Violet said. “We went to a backyard party for him, and Lori’s thirty-four.”

“Thanks. What do you think happened?”

Violet shook her head.

“Police asked us the same thing,” Ward said. “We don’t know anything. Whatever happened must’ve happened in the night. We didn’t see or hear anything. I woke up this morning, and Sam, here, Billy’s dog, was in our backyard. I thought it was strange, that he must’ve got out in the night. I took him with me and went to ring their bell this morning. No one was home. We’ll keep Sam with us until we know what’s going on.”

“How well do you know the Fultons?”

“They’re dear friends.” Violet’s voice quivered. “I drew the inside of their house for police.”

“Where do the Fultons work?”

“Dan’s the manager of the SkyNational Trust branch, and Lori’s a claims adjuster at Dixon Donlevy Mutual Life Insurance.”

“What kind of people are they, how would you characterize them?”

“The salt of the earth,” Ward said.

“Dan’s a family man,” Violet said. “Lori’s a devoted mom, and young Billy’s just a joy.”

“Any idea of trouble, stress? Or if anyone would want to harm them?”

“Absolutely not,” Ward said.

“What do you think happened?”

“We wish we knew, so we could help,” Violet said. “All we know is what police told us.”

Kate’s radar locked on that as Ward shot his wife a cautionary glance. But Kate remained casual. She was skilled at extracting information.

“That Dan robbed his own bank this morning,” Kate said, “and that there was supposedly a hostage situation at his home,” she added, inviting the Selways to elaborate. “It’s so troubling, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Violet said. “Especially since they all had bombs strapped to them.”

Kate shot a look to Violet then Ward.

“Really?”

“According to police,” Ward said.

“Did they give any indication of who’s behind it?”

“No. And now they can’t find Dan, or Lori, or Billy!” Violet sobbed into her hands and Ward put his arms around her. “I pray they’re okay!”

“I’m sorry,” Ward said. “This is too upsetting. We’ll have to end it there.”

After thanking them, Kate and Gabe returned to the street. Kate exhaled, stopped to check her notes and her recording.

Gabe, who’d stepped back during Kate’s interview, angled his camera to her, displaying the pictures he’d taken, favoring one of Violet Selway, anguished face buried in her hands, Ward’s arm around her, Sam at their feet looking up at them with big eyes.

“Distraught neighbors and the Fultons’ dog,” Gabe said.

“It’s good,” Kate said, noticing that down the block the situation had changed with the cat lady. “Let’s talk to her.”

The woman was now out of the patrol car, leaning against it, holding her cat. The officers with her had moved off to consult other cops at a van nearby.

Kate approached, smiling once the woman noticed her.

“That’s a pretty cat,” she said. “What’s her name?”

“Lacey Lou.”

“Very cute.” Kate, bearing in mind the officers were near, kept her voice soft. “I’m Kate Page, and this is Gabe Atwater. We’re with Newslead. Some neighbors of the Fultons’ have been sharing their thoughts with us. Can we talk to you briefly?”

The woman looked around as if seeking permission.

“It’ll only take a second.” Kate opened her notebook and shrugged. “You could summarize what you told police, like the other neighbors did.”

“Well, I guess it would be all right.”

“What’s your name?”

“Charlene Biddle.”

Kate took down the spelling.

“Charlene, do you know the Fultons?”

“No, I don’t. I live around the block.”

“What did you tell police?”

“Well, last night Lacey didn’t come home at her usual time. I waited and waited until I got worried. So I got up and looked for her around the block because I thought that’s where she’d gone.”

“What time was this?”

“Oh, about two or two-thirty, I’m not sure.”

“You went alone?”

“This is a good neighborhood. I wasn’t afraid.”

Gabe nudged Kate. Two men in suits had left the Selway house and were heading up the street, staring directly at Kate and Charlene Biddle.

“What happened when you went looking for Lacey?” Kate asked.

“When we got near the house there, Lacey was in the yard beside it. I called her, and she wouldn’t come—this stubborn cat has a mind of her own. I tiptoed into the yard to get her. When I did, I saw a van parked in the driveway.” Charlene nodded to the Fultons’ house. “And people were getting into it. It looked like two men were sort of...pushing a woman and smaller person into the van. It was all quiet and quick and then they drove off.”

“Do you recall—” Kate glanced at the approaching men “—do you recall any details, like a license plate?”

“I didn’t see anything clearly. It was dark. I know it was odd, but I thought it was people going home from a party, and a few of them were drunk, kidding around. I got Lacey and went home. Then this morning police came knocking on everyone’s door to move us out because of something happening, and so I told them what I saw. They wanted me to wait right here so I could talk to the detectives.”

“Okay, thanks, Charlene.” Kate closed her notebook, turned to leave.

“Hold up there!” A big-chested man, the older of the two, stepped into Kate’s space. “Who’re you?”

“Kate Page, Newslead.” She held up her ID. “This is Gabe Atwater, Newslead.” Kate tried to read the badge hanging from the older man’s chain. “Who’re you guys?”

“Detective Tilden, NYPD.”

Kate glanced at the younger man, who had a Brad Pitt thing going.

“Nick Varner, FBI. Over here, please.”

The two men took Kate and Gabe aside to talk privately.

“What’ve you got?” Kate opened her notebook, pen poised.

“We’ve got a problem,” Tilden said.

“What problem?”

“Well, for one, we don’t want you talking to our witnesses before we do,” Tilden said.

“What’d you mean? I’m exercising my right, freedom of the press.”

“Exercise it carefully,” Tilden said.

“Excuse me?”

“We’ve got a very dangerous situation here, Ms. Page,” Varner said.

“I kinda figured that, what with the SWAT team and the street sealed.”

The grim-faced men said nothing.

“Can you elaborate on dangerous?” Kate asked.

“We’ll put out a release later,” Varner said.

“Can you confirm that bombs were strapped to the Fultons?”

“I told you, we’ll put out a press release.”

“But you’re not denying that bombs were strapped to the family?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Agent Varner, can we stop this ‘can’t confirm or deny’ game?”

“Is this a game to you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Maybe before you go ahead and print anything, you should run it by us,” Tilden said.

“You’re kidding, right?”

The two men said nothing.

“Look.” Kate stared at both of them. “Why don’t you guys do your job, and I’ll do mine,” she said, closing her notebook.


15 (#ulink_b984ced6-70d3-56ab-b0a9-44f249d1fa69)

Somewhere in New York

Lori Fulton opened her eyes.

Her ears were pounding in time with her heart.

The van had stopped hours ago and since then sleep had come in tortured snatches. Each time Lori woke, she realized that she was a prisoner in a nightmare.

Billy was asleep, his head on her lap.

They were sitting on the floor of the windowless van, backs against the reinforced wall that divided the cab from the rear. She could feel him trembling. They were still wearing the bomb vests. The tiny red light on each of their battery packs continued to blink.

How much time do we have?

Ever since they’d stopped, she hadn’t seen their captors. She had no idea where they were—she heard no sounds of the city. No traffic, no construction, no noise other than a few chirping birds.

Did they abandon us?

She didn’t know what time it was. Daylight seeped in through the van’s door frame, so she knew it was no longer night. Tape still sealed their mouths and their hands. Suddenly Lori chided herself—should’ve thought of this sooner—and raised her hands, working her fingers to pull the tape from her mouth. She drank in the cool air, welcomed it on her skin as she stretched her jaw.

Her movements had awakened Billy and he sat up, blinking.

“Shh.”

She kissed his forehead, then slowly pulled the tape from his mouth. He took a deep breath.

“Better?” she whispered.

He nodded.

Lori pulled off the tape around his wrists. His hands were still restrained with plastic handcuffs. Lori held out her wrists so Billy could pull off her tape. Plastic cuffs were locked on her, as well.

She began gnawing on the cuffs, but it was futile, the plastic was too thick. She searched the van’s metal frame for a sharp edge to cut the plastic, but found none. She was afraid to try anything more—there was no telling what might set off the bomb vest—but she couldn’t give up.

She cocked her ears, listening for anyone outside the van, and then very carefully moved to the van’s side door, took hold of the handle and pulled. It refused to move. She turned to the cab. The dividing wall was solid, floor to ceiling. Taking great care, Lori crawled to the van’s rear and tried that door, pulling on the handle with every ounce of strength she had.

No use.

They were locked inside.

She tried to think of a way to take off the vest. She could slide it over her head. Or over her shoulder, shimmy it down and step out of it. The problem was she couldn’t open the front. It was zippered, Velcroed and had wires running across the opening.

It was definitely too risky to start pulling and twisting at it. Besides, she’d overlooked the fact her wrists were locked together.

Then, for a brief moment, she wondered if the vests were real. It was obviously dangerous to drive around in a van with someone wearing a bomb, but maybe they were confident that the vests wouldn’t detonate unless they dialed the programmed cell phone. Still...convincing someone you’d strapped a suicide vest on them was a good way to get them to do whatever you wanted—even if the bombs weren’t real.

Then Lori remembered how Thorne and the others were careful to place the snow tires near them, creating a makeshift blast mat, and that was enough to convince her the vests were real. She rejected any idea of tampering with them. She wasn’t going to gamble with her son’s life.

“Mom?” Billy whispered.

“Shh, honey.”

“Maybe we should yell and scream for help?”

Lori considered it as she shifted next to him.

“That could bring the men right back to us.” Lori brushed his hair.

“Mom, I couldn’t see Sam. What happened to Sam?”

“Shh. I bet he got out through his door. I think I forgot to lock it. You know he’s a big baby around strangers, so he probably ran over to Ward and Violet’s house.”

“Do you think Dad’s going to bring help?”

“We can pray he does. Don’t worry, sweetie. Someone will help us, or we’ll help ourselves. We’ll think of something.”

But what?

A new wave of panic began rippling in the pit of Lori’s stomach. As her eyes swept the van’s interior, she thought of the man named Thorne and what he’d spat at her.

“You deserve what’s going to happen.”

Lori didn’t understand what he’d meant. She hadn’t recognized any of their voices, their mannerisms, their body types. Nothing. So who were they, and why did they talk as if they knew her?

They seemed young, and she wondered if they were military types—experts in explosives, maybe?

But why us?

There were plenty of other, bigger banks in the city they could have chosen. What made them choose Dan’s? The thought of Dan had her stomach roiling again—shouldn’t he have gotten them their money by now? Lori held back her tears, remembering how they’d been arguing for the past few days. All because she’d had a glass of wine at the Coopers’ party because she thought she could handle it.

Dan hadn’t said anything; it was just a look that he’d given her. One that had told her she’d let him down. She’d been hurt by it and lashed back at him when they were alone.

“Get off my back! I don’t need you to babysit me anymore!”

But the truth of it was, she knew he was watching out for her, taking care of her. After all she’d put him through, after Tim, after everything. Dan always stood by her. Always had her back.

The last thing he’d said to her before they’d been separated: “Lori, did they hurt you?”

Oh, God, Dan, I’m so sorry. What if I never see you again, never have the chance to tell you that I love you?

Lori searched the ceiling, trying not to lose control in front of her son.

What did they do with you, Dan?

Lori brushed Billy’s hair, thinking back to having been driven around in the night. They’d been on the road for hours—it must have been hundreds of miles—but how would she know if they’d only gone in circles to confuse her?

She tried to remember if she heard the hum of expressways, the rhythmic clicking of a bridge or the echoing of a tunnel. But it was useless. She had no idea where they might be.

Holding Billy next to her, Lori watched the red lights blinking on the bomb vests. She’d seen videos on news reports of suicide bombers—“We caution you, the images you are about to see are graphic and disturbing”—she’d seen how they obliterated a human being, and those images pushed her back through time to when she was...sitting in the street covered with Tim’s blood, helpless to do anything...

The memory of that night anguished her.

Lori wanted to pray, but Thorne’s words loomed over her.

“You deserve what’s going to happen to you.”

Billy lifted his head.

“Mom?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Listen!”

The sound of someone approaching the van grew louder.


16 (#ulink_56cc00ad-21eb-5c07-8a8b-59bc0b0c4ad1)

Roseoak Park, New York

Like a band of protective angels, the group had encircled two distraught women.

Kate Page counted seven women dressed in jackets, skirt suits and blazers, hugging their two troubled friends and looking around worriedly, as if searching for answers to what had befallen Branch 487 of SkyNational Trust Banking.

Some of them were smoking. It must’ve been the reason they were now outside, gathered at one end of the parking lot, deep in the corral of emergency vehicles.

Kate heard Gabe’s camera clicking as he shot frame after frame.

They’d come directly from the Fulton house to the branch. Kate had to find out what exactly had taken place in the bank this morning.

How does an upstanding man like Dan Fulton come to rob his own branch with bombs strapped to him and his family? What’s the driving force behind this?

Kate deduced that the women clustered at the far side of the lot were bank employees. The two upset women they were consoling had to be staff members who’d been present when Fulton took the money.

Little chance I can talk to anybody in that group.

Given their defensive posture and the fact they were enclosed in a fortress of patrol cars and surrounded by an array of police, Kate considered her options as Gabe left her to scout better positions.

Searching the area for any news competitors, Kate saw two TV news trucks at one end of the lot; a car from one of New York’s all-news radio stations was next to it, along with cars from the New York Daily News and the Queens Chronicle.

This isn’t going to be easy.

At the front of the bank, customers were trickling up to the sign posted at the door that informed them the branch was closed. After reading it and taking a few minutes to scope out the police presence, they left.

But one man didn’t.

He headed down the lot toward the group of distraught women. One staff member broke from the cluster, met him near some parked cars, hugged him and talked for a few moments before returning to her friends. As the man came back through the lot, Kate moved quickly toward him, using the cars to shield her so she wouldn’t be seen by the other reporters.

“Sir, excuse me, sir!”

The man went to her.

“I’m Kate Page with Newslead. I understand there was a robbery—do you know much about it?”

The man gave her question some thought. He appeared to be in his sixties. He had a sturdy frame, a handsome, craggy face and white hair with sideburns.

“My daughter called me not too long ago,” he said. “I just came down to see that she’s all right. She was one of the two tellers on duty when it happened.”

“Is she okay, sir?”

“Thank heaven, yes. She’s shook-up, though. It’s quite a jarring thing.”

“Could I get your name?”

“Ernest Beeson.”

“Could you spell that for me?”

The man did and Kate asked for his daughter’s name.

“Jolleen Ballinger, but she goes by Jo.”

Beeson spelled out her name.

“Did she tell you what happened?”

“I guess the manager came in and just walked out with a lot of cash.”

“Anything more?”

Beeson shrugged. “That’s about it.”

Kate glanced at the group in the distance.

“Mr. Beeson, do you think Jo would talk to me for a second?”

He stuck out his bottom lip. “I suppose you could go over there and ask her yourself.”

“I think we’d both prefer if she and I talked here, where it’s a bit private.” Kate touched his arm. “Would you consider asking her to join us here for a moment? You could tell her I’d be happy to share what I’ve learned about the Fultons.”

Beeson glanced toward his daughter.

“No harm in asking, I suppose. The girls are just waiting there for other investigators.”

Beeson went to the group, talked to his daughter and pointed to Kate. Immediately, Jo Ballinger’s attention, and that of some of the others, shot to Kate, who was standing seven or eight parked cars away. Several moments passed before Beeson accompanied his daughter to Kate, who introduced herself.

Jo Ballinger was uneasy.

“I don’t want my name in the papers. You can’t use my name.”

“I’ll just say a source close to the case.”

“Okay, but I really can’t tell you much,” Jo said. “I shouldn’t be talking to you, but Dad said you knew something about what’s happened?”

“I know a little, Jo, and I’ll help you if you help me, okay?”

“I will if I can. Did they find Dan?”

“Not yet. The SWAT team and bomb squad searched his house.”

Jo cupped her hands to her face.

“They found nothing. No sign of Dan, his wife or his son,” Kate said.

“Oh, my God!”

“Can you tell me what happened here earlier this morning? You were there when it happened, right?”

“Yes. This is my week to open with Annie, Annie Trippe, the head teller. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say.”

“Jo, I’m going to get most of the details anyway. You can help me make sure I get it right. I won’t use your name at all.”

Jo hesitated and bit her bottom lip. “Well, we went through our usual procedure for opening, then Dan came in and told Annie there was an inventory problem at South Branch. He drafted a directive for her to cosign about an emergency interbranch transfer that he was going to deliver himself.”

“So he planned to personally take the money himself to the other branch?”

“Yes.”

“Is that how transfers are usually done?”

“No, of course not! It’s a violation of procedure. Annie refused to sign it.” Jo glanced at the group. “I don’t know if I should be telling you this... I should get back.”

“Wait, Jo, just a few more seconds. Do you know how much money was going to be transferred?”

Jo hesitated before answering in a quiet voice, “A quarter million.”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”

“Yes. He just walked into the vault, put the cash in a bag and walked out.”

“So, what about the bomb he was supposedly wearing? Did he say anything about bombs?”

“He wrote a note on the directive, I guess so Annie would see it. Something about being held hostage, and that they all—him and his family—had bombs strapped to them. I really should get back.”

“Hang on, take these.” Kate reached into her pocket and gave Jo several business cards. “Pass them to your coworkers and ask them to call me. I’ll share any updates when I get them. Okay?”

Jo nodded and rejoined the group accompanied by her father, who’d decided to wait with her. Kate was glad to see Jo passing out her cards and the others glancing toward her. She was relieved that no other reporters had seen her interview Jo.

Kate used the hood of a car and reviewed her notes, confident that she now had the inside track on the story. She called the newsroom and asked for Reeka. It took a few seconds to transfer the call.

“Reeka Beck.”

“It’s Kate at the bank.”

“What do you have?”

“Dan Fulton, manager of the SkyNational Trust Banking in Roseoak Park, Queens, takes a quarter million dollars from his own branch after scrawling a note that ‘they’ have placed bombs on him and his family.”

“That’s solid? You’ve got it confirmed, Kate?”

“A person who was there when it happened detailed it for me. I don’t think anyone has what we have, Reeka. I think this is a national interest case. We don’t know where the manager is, or where his wife and nine-year-old son are. They’re all believed to be strapped with bombs, and no one seems to have a clue who’s behind it all.”

“Okay, get this on our news budget and give me a story within the hour. Did we get art with it?”

“Yes. Gabe Atwater’s got some dramatic stuff.”

“All right.”

“There’s still a few people I need to talk to.”

“I want a story in an hour, Kate. You can update through the day.”

“And the conference?”

“We’ll send a stringer.”

Kate ended her call.

As she turned to look for Gabe, she stepped directly into FBI agent Nick Varner.

“You’re something else, Kate, I’ll give you that.” He was tapping her business card in his hand and shaking his head. “You want to know everything, and you want to know it now.”

“I’m a reporter, Agent Varner. It’s what I do.”

“You’re doing a helluva job.”

“Well, that’s what I’m paid for. What’s your problem, anyway?”

“I’m telling you for the last time.” Varner jabbed a finger toward Kate. “Do not jeopardize this case.”

“And I’m telling you, I’m not going away.”


17 (#ulink_e7b2ac51-e8db-50d1-943b-b48420cf2dfa)

Roseoak Park, New York

Gabe Atwater’s Jeep Patriot accelerated down Orchard Boulevard. Destination: Dixon Donlevy Mutual Life Insurance, Lori Fulton’s employer.

Kate eyed the dashboard clock.

Like all reporters, she worked to a perpetual deadline ticking down on her. Most would be writing their story right now. They would’ve made a quick phone call to the company, plugged in its response and filed.

Not Kate.

She was old-school and still believed in digging for information face-to-face, abiding by the wisdom a rumpled old police reporter in San Francisco had once passed to her. Phone somebody, you get one story. Talk to them in person, you’ll get more than one story.

“Almost there,” Gabe said, glancing at his GPS.

Kate would make her deadline. She was a fast writer. She reviewed her notes, mentally shaping her story, still vexed by Tilden and Varner for jamming her at the Fultons’ house. Why were they in her face? Especially Varner, the good-looking FBI agent. Why was he being a hard-ass when she was only doing her job?

Maybe I’m getting close to something...

“Here we go.” Gabe stopped in front of a six-story rectangle of blue-tinted glass that reflected the small plaza across the street. “You’re on your own, Kate. I’ve got to get to another job in Brooklyn. Call the photo desk if anything breaks. We got plenty of freelancers in Queens.”

“That’s fine. I’ll write in the coffee shop in there—” Kate nodded to the plaza across the street “—then cab it back to the office. Thanks, Gabe.”

* * *

Dixon Donlevy was on the fifth floor of the glass building.

As the elevator rose, Kate weighed the pros and cons of making a cold visit. Sure, showing up without an appointment wasn’t ideal, but her competitors may have already called—even been here in person. She had to keep moving.

She stepped from the elevator, went down a polished hallway and passed through the brass-plated doors of Dixon Donlevy Mutual Life Insurance.

The lobby floor gleamed against the dark wood desk where the receptionist sat. A huge shield encircling a mountain range against a blue sky and the company’s name graced the wall behind her.

“Can I help you?”

“Hi, I’m Kate Page. I’m a reporter with Newslead.” She placed her card on the counter. “I’d like to speak with Lori Fulton’s supervisor. It’ll only take a moment.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No. Sorry, but I’m facing a tight deadline.”

The receptionist took Kate’s card and examined it.

“Please, have a seat,” she said, nodding to the waiting area.

The cushioned chairs were inviting, but Kate chose to stand by the gurgling water of a hanging wall fountain.

“Excuse me?” The receptionist called to Kate a few minutes later, her hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. “I’m told we’re not making any statements to the press at this time.”

“I understand, but it’s important I speak with someone while I’m here, to ensure my story is accurate concerning this company. Someone could talk to me now, or explain to their boss why they didn’t after the story is published.”

“One moment.”

Kate couldn’t hear what the receptionist said into the phone, so she turned back to the fountain until she ended her call.

“Someone will be out shortly.”

“Thank you.”

Kate moved from the fountain, admiring the landscape paintings, the palms in the floor planters, all the while shaping her story and checking the time. She was glancing at a glossy travel magazine featuring treks across Iceland on the cover when a tall woman in a well-cut navy skirt suit arrived.

“You’re Kate Page?”

“Yes.”

“Denise Marigold, with Corporate Communications.”

“Thank you for seeing me. In the wake of what’s happened, I just had a few questions about Lori Fulton, an employee of yours.”

“We’ve only just been informed about what’s happened by police and really can’t comment at this time.”

“I just need to confirm how long Lori Fulton’s been employed here.”

“Unfortunately, given the gravity of the situation, we really can’t discuss her employment here or her previous employment, the whole situation. We have to refer all questions to the authorities. Okay?”

“I understand. Can you offer any statement at all?”

Marigold’s face creased in thought. “We can say this—we’re deeply concerned for Lori and her family, and we’re cooperating fully with police in every way possible.”

Kate wrote down every word.

* * *

Denise Marigold didn’t give her much, but it was something, Kate thought as she hurried across the street to Fredrico’s Coffee Shop. She got a coffee and an apple muffin, found an empty table and began writing. Shutting out the noise of the busy shop, Kate entered her zone, concentrating as she wrote on her phone. Her story came together quickly as she firmed up the structure, inserting the quotes and details she’d managed to gather.

She proofread it twice, then sent it to Reeka Beck.

Kate checked the time. She’d made her deadline. She reached for her coffee and muffin to savor a small celebration. As she ate, something Denise Marigold had said niggled at her. She looked at her notebook, rereading the words she’d underlined, previous employment. Kate replayed Marigold’s comment on her recorder: “...can’t comment on her employment here or her previous employment...”

That’s an odd thing to say. Is Lori’s previous employment somehow a factor?

Kate gave it consideration before growing cognizant of the conversation people were having at a table behind her.

“...he robbed his own bank...they can’t find Lori...”

Kate withdrew her compact mirror from her bag and made as if to check her hair. Tilting it, she saw the two women and a man who were talking about the case. They had to be Lori Fulton’s coworkers, she thought, as one of the women continued.

“...my sister lives on the same street. I was talking to her this morning, she told me Lori didn’t show up for work...”

Kate put her mirror away and sat a little straighter, eavesdropping until they prepared to leave. Keeping her back to them, she cleared her table, put her garbage in the trash and left ahead of the group. She waited in the street, and when the group exited, she went toward them.

“Excuse me. But by any chance, do you happen to work in that building?” Kate indicated the glass office complex across the street.

“Yeah,” the man said.

“I’m looking for people who work at Dixon Donlevy Insurance.”

“Why?”

“Do you guys work there?”

“Maybe. Who are you?” the man asked.

“Kate Page. I’m a reporter with Newslead.” She took her Newslead ID from her bag and showed it to them. “I’m covering the robbery at the SkyNational bank. I’ve been to the bank, the Fulton home and I’ve spoken with Denise Marigold. I’m looking for people who know Lori Fulton. Do any of you work with her? Maybe you know her and her husband, Dan? He’s the manager of the bank that was robbed.”

The man and women exchanged silent looks as if waiting to decide who among them would answer.

“We don’t know her that well,” one of the women said. “She works in another department—insurance fraud.”





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