Kiss Her Goodbye (A Thriller) Read online

  Actually, guilty was too mild of a word. What he really felt like was an A Number One shitheel and held no illusion that either wife or daughter would disagree.

  The only part of his life Donovan really had a handle on was the job. He’d been a special agent with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives long enough to consider it a lifetime commitment and had spent ten years prior to that with the Chicago PD. He was a rising star in a vast federal bureaucracy and, so far, hadn’t managed to disappoint.

  There was always tomorrow, of course. Or the rest of today, for that matter. But Donovan had enough confidence in his abilities on the job to ignore the failures of his personal life and approach the future with optimism.

  Cautious optimism.

  A.J. turned a corner. “You think we’re looking at another snipe hunt?”

  “Sidney says it’s the real thing.”

  “Doesn’t make any sense. Why would Gunderson take down a bank?”

  Donovan shrugged. “I stopped trying to figure out that asshole a long time ago.”

  Alexander Gunderson was another puzzle Donovan had yet to solve. The task force he headed had been formed specifically to investigate a local arms-trafficking ring with suspected ties to a nationwide network. The deeper they dug, the more Gunderson’s name had come up. So Donovan kept digging and was introduced to the organized anarchy of a small but potentially destructive new militia organization: the Socialist Amerikan Reconstruction Army.

  S.A.R.A.

  Gunderson was its founding father.

  The group’s recent stockpiling activities had put them squarely on Donovan’s radar screen. Yet despite his insistence that they be taken seriously, both the FBI and the Department of Homeland Security considered a ragtag band of malcontents hardly worth their time. They were too busy scooping up olive-skinned bogeymen and carting them off to Guantánamo for a round of zap my privates.

  Donovan knew different. With all the weaponry Gunderson had accumulated, the guy was capable of doing just about anything.

  But a bank job?

  A.J. was right. It didn’t make much sense. Unless, of course, Gunderson was vying for more attention. Something he seemed to crave.

  “Home stretch,” A.J. said. “Twenty seconds to spare.”

  Shooting through an intersection, they made yet another quick turn that had Donovan gripping the armrest. Why A.J. never took the straightforward route was beyond him. With a sigh of resignation, he dropped the crossword to the seat next to him. No way he’d finish it now.

  Up ahead loomed the forty-story building that housed Northland First & Trust, the carnival already in motion. Patrol cars formed a barrier near the bank’s front doors. The street had been blocked off; a throng of rubberneckers had lined up behind long wooden sawhorses, anxiously awaiting the big showdown. News vans struggled to find a place to perch that was within camera range. A SWAT van sat at an angle several yards behind the patrol cars. Standard procedure meant a platoon of sharpshooters already occupied various sweet spots in neighboring buildings.

  Gunderson or not, Donovan didn’t envy whoever was inside that bank.

  WAXMAN AND THE local SWAT commander were waiting for them as they pulled up next to the van. Donovan swung his door open, climbed out. “Sing to me, Sidney.”

  Waxman and Donovan had come up together through the ranks of the ATF, and Donovan had long considered him his best friend.

  He was also a damn fine agent.

  “It’s him, Jack. Gunderson, the missus, and two shooters in ski masks. Video feed was cut right after they made entry, so we’re flying blind.”

  A.J. joined them as they crossed toward the barrier of patrol cars. “He make contact?”

  Waxman shook his head. “Not a word.”

  Donovan shifted his attention to the SWAT commander—a barrel-chested guy with a neatly trimmed mustache. “What about hostages?”

  “We’re estimating as many as thirty. What’s this asshole’s story, anyway?”

  “Just another pretty boy looking for attention,” A.J. said.

  Donovan gestured toward the bank. “Any way out besides the front doors?”

  “Not without a sledgehammer and a whole lot of elbow grease. We’ve shut down the elevators and sealed off the lobby. There’s a fire door in back, but it doesn’t connect directly to the bank. He’s boxed himself in.”

  “Trust me,” Donovan said. “He went in, he’s figured a way out.” Gunderson always had an angle. The trick, of course, was figuring out what it was before he had a chance to use it.

  They crouched low as they reached the patrol cars, taking position behind them. A.J. aimed a pair of field glasses at the front doors.

  Like those in the windows, the blinds were drawn shut.

  “Visibility stinks,” he said. “Shooters don’t have a prayer.”

  Donovan pulled his cell phone from a pocket of his flak jacket. “Let’s see if he’s in a talkative mood.”

  He punched in the number for dispatch and had the operator patch him through to the bank. He had never considered himself much of a negotiator. Found it difficult to buddy up to these scumballs. But if it meant getting the hostages out of there alive, it was worth a shot. Maybe he’d get lucky and Gunderson would tip his hand.

  He thought about that a moment and almost laughed out loud.

  What’s an eight-letter word for fat chance?

  4

  KINLAW WAS PISSED. Three years wearing the uniform, busting his ass on the streets, taking shit from civilians who considered him barely a step above Hitler’s Schutzstaffel, and here he was pulling duty at the rear of the crime scene. You’d think the dues he’d paid, he’d at least get a front-row seat.

  But no. The supervising officer had decided Kinlaw and a handful of his fellow uniforms were best put to use at the back side of the bank building, just in case the suspects got clever.

  The way Kinlaw saw it, they’d have to be friggin’ geniuses, considering there was only a single fire door and no ground-floor windows back here, and the building was made of solid concrete and steel. But who knows, maybe they’d launch hang gliders off the fortieth floor and make their getaway at three hundred feet above street level.

  Uh-huh. Sure.

  Just once in his life, Kinlaw wanted to be out where the action was. Maybe even get in a shot or two when the fireworks started. Assuming there’d be any fireworks.

  Instead he’d have to stand here like an idiot for God knows how long, feeling like the designated driver while everyone else partied hardy. Sometimes he wanted to take this badge of his and…

  Shit.

  Some bozo in a van was trying to edge past the barrier at the top of the block. Big Channel Four news wagon that wasn’t even supposed to be back here. Kinlaw sighed and trudged up the street toward it. All his time on the force and he was nothing but a glorified—

  Wait a minute—what’s this?

  He nearly stopped short when he saw the driver, a hot-looking babe in a tight-fitting wife-beater tank top. Hard to tell through the windshield, but it looked like she wasn’t wearing a bra.

  And what a set of rockets she had.

  Kinlaw threw his hands up to stop her. “Excuse me, ma’am. You can’t be back here.”

  The news van squeaked to a halt and Kinlaw approached the babe’s window, waiting for her to roll it down.

  Damn, she was hot. Steaming, in fact. Short-cropped, blond hair, body of a goddess, cute little radio-com headset that made her look sexy as hell.

  And those tits. Ouch.

  She eyed him quizzically. “I’m sorry. What was that?”

  “This is a restricted area,” Kinlaw said. “Pull to the side and cut your engine.”

  “But I’ve got a story to—”

  “Trust me, you’re not gonna find it back here.”

  “But I’m late and everything’s blocked out front and my producer’ll kill me if I don’t get something on tape before the noon broadcast.” Her face flushed as sh
e said it, a twinge of desperation in her voice.

  Ahh, Kinlaw thought. A woman in distress.

  He smiled. It was a smile he normally reserved for off-duty hours, the smile he took with him to the dance clubs and used as often as he could to charm his way into the sack.

  He took a casual glance at her tits again, noting that her nipples were diamond hard. Then he said, “Tell you what. Pull to the side and cut your engine.”

  “But—”

  Kinlaw silenced her with a firm but patient wave of the hand, making sure to infuse his words with just the proper amount of charm. “I’ll make a call,” he continued, “and see if we can get you some kind of exclusive.”

  Kinlaw knew there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of that ever happening, but he could make the promise now and apologize later over dinner and drinks. And dessert, of course.

  She looked at him. “Really?”

  Kinlaw nodded and relief shone in her eyes.

  “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am. Protect and serve. That’s what I’m here for.” He extended a hand. “Name’s Randy, by the way.”

  She shook the hand, holding it a split second longer than necessary. “Tina,” she said, her eyes telling him she was definitely interested.

  Oh, yeah, Kinlaw thought. I’m in.

  Maybe getting stuck back here in the boonies wasn’t so bad after all. If he played this right, by midnight tonight those hefty ta-tas of hers would be warming the palms of his hands.

  He was busy picturing every exquisite detail of the evening ahead when a muffled explosion came from inside the bank building.

  Kinlaw turned. What the hell?

  THE BLAST KNOCKED the vault door right off its solid-steel hinges. Gunderson saw it at half speed, like a scene from an old Peckinpah flick—the door teetering, then falling to the linoleum with a booming crash.

  Somewhere behind him a phone was ringing, but Gunderson ignored it, enjoying the spectacle. He relished his ability to slow the world around him to a crawl whenever the mood suited him.

  He grinned at the exaggerated looks of surprise on the faces of bank tellers and customers. Marveled at the fluidity of motion with which Luther and Nemo wielded fire extinguishers as they put out stray flames and climbed into the vault to fill their duffel bags.

  He watched as, backpack full of Semtex in tow, Sara glided past the Plexiglas teller windows toward the rear of the bank, moving with an easy grace that only his slow-motion point of view could provide.

  Gunderson felt high. As if he’d taken a dozen hits of ecstasy. But he never took drugs of any kind when he was working, didn’t need them to see the world this way. This was his gift. His power. One he used sparingly and never took for granted.

  And it wasn’t his only gift.

  Better yet was what the bitch who’d raised him—his nasty old bat of an aunt—called his Inner Eye, an acute intuition he had inherited from her, a sensitivity to the vagaries of human emotion that sometimes offered him a peek into the darkest corridors of the soul.

  It was a gift that had made the old woman an outcast, the neighborhood crackpot. He himself had been smart enough not to flaunt this gift, learning to use it with stealthy precision to gain trust and manipulate. Because, after all, Trust was his true weapon of choice.

  Despite his hatred for the old woman, who had been as cruel as they come, Gunderson shared her fascination for the workings of the mind and soul, and the belief that there was a world beyond this one, where both could thrive and flourish.

  And where anything was possible.

  The phone continued to ring. Gunderson snapped out of his reverie, turned toward the nearest desk where an extension light blinked.

  It was the cops, of course. Most likely the Feds.

  He checked his watch. Still on schedule. The police response had been quicker than he’d expected—someone had probably triggered the silent alarm the moment Sara started shooting—but everything was going smoothly, all according to plan.

  Not that this surprised him. The Book of Changes was rarely wrong. His interpretations might be off sometimes, but you could never blame the Ching.

  Patting his breast pocket, he heard the faint chink of the I Ching coins he always carried with him and wondered if he should bring them out for one last consult. Instead, he fished for his pack of Marlboros, shook one out, then tore off the filter and lit up, listening to the phone ring.

  He picked it up at ring number forty-seven.

  “Let me guess,” he said into the receiver. “ATF? FBI? Mom?”

  “Jack Donovan, Alex. I’m guessing the explosion we heard was the vault?”

  Well, well. Mr. ATF himself.

  Special Agent Jack had been trying for quite some time now to put a damper on Gunderson’s plan to reeducate the country. So long, in fact, that he’d become a regular source of irritation. Despite their mutual interests and a couple of semi-close encounters, however, this was the first time they’d actually spoken.

  Donovan’s vaguely condescending tone was annoying as hell, but Gunderson kept his cool. “How you been, Jack?”

  “Better than you’ll be if you don’t release those hostages. You’ve blown it big-time, my friend. There’s no turning back now.”

  Gunderson laughed. “Turning back? I’m moving forward. Just like a shark.”

  “You let those hostages go, we’ll talk about getting you out of there in one piece.”

  Gunderson sucked on the Marlboro. Exhaled. “You sound awfully sure of yourself, Jack. You know something I don’t?”

  “Only that you’re fighting a lost cause. Why don’t you give it up like a good boy and let those people go? They aren’t involved, anyway.”

  “We’re all involved, whether we like it or not. You call ’em hostages, you’re right. They’re hostage to a country you, and people like you, created.” He took another hit off the cigarette, then flicked it aside. “But I don’t mean these folks any harm, so I’ll tell you what—you want ’em, you got ’em. Just remember one thing: the water’s cool and clear right now, so don’t for a minute think you can slow me down.”

  He hung up. In the movie of his life, Gunderson was Che Guevara and this idiot was Barney fucking Fife. Donovan had been haunting him on the evening news for months now, spreading the Gospel According to the ATF. Didn’t he realize that sooner or later the tide would turn as more and more citizens began to see the U.S. government for the inbred den of hypocrisy it was? The country had wasted valuable resources blasting sand rats in the Middle East, when it should have been looking inward. The real threat didn’t come from outside. It came from right here, within our own borders. From our own selected officials.

  It was only a matter of time before the people of America came around, and Gunderson would be there, leading the charge.

  Luther and Nemo climbed out of the vault carrying duffel bags full of cash.

  Gunderson looked over at them. “How we doing, boys?”

  “We’re clear,” Luther said.

  “Excellent. Baby?”

  At the back of the room, Sara looked up from a patchwork of Semtex—or plastic boom-boom, as she liked to call it—part of a shipment Gunderson had had smuggled in from Prague. “All set, sweetie.”

  He clapped his hands together. “All right then, let’s put some wheels on this wagon and ride.” He gestured to Luther, who immediately dropped his duffel bag, brought out his cell phone and touched the screen, switching it to video mode.

  The only thing the traditional media offered Gunderson was exposure—which, of course, was his real reason for being here. But the traditional media was controlled by gutless corporate stooges. Expecting them to broadcast his true message was like expecting the late, lamented Mother Teresa to take a dump on the steps of the Vatican.

  Gunderson knew full well that Fox and the nightly news would reduce him to a six-second sound bite courtesy of ATF lackeys like Jack Donovan. So he took matters into his own hands by p
irating various high-traffic Internet sites to spread the word.

  That’s where the video cam came in.

  Gunderson smoothed his hair back, adjusted his ponytail, then waited for Luther to take a good pan shot of the damage they’d done. As the camera turned on him, he addressed the hostages.

  “All right, listen up,” he said. “This little garden party has been brought to you courtesy of the Socialist Amerikan Reconstruction Army. We’re ordinary folk, just like yourselves, striking a blow against a New World Order that uses mind control and propaganda to beat its citizens into submission and turn us into slaves. It’s all about freedom, folks, and we’re taking it back. If any of you want to join us, check out our Web site at S-A-R-A dot com.”

  He looked directly into the camera. “Get ready, America. The revolution is now.”

  He scraped a finger across his neck, gesturing for Luther to stop rolling. Unhooking a two-way radio from his belt, he flicked it on. “Big Daddy to Tina. You out there?”

  A voice crackled in response. “Roger, Big Daddy. Already in position.”

  “Thirty seconds and counting,” Gunderson said, then returned his attention to the hostages. “Everybody on your feet.”

  The hostages, still facedown on the floor, glanced at each other as if the command had been too much for their minuscule brains to comprehend. Fucking morons.

  “Come on, come on,” Gunderson snapped. “Hop to it.”

  One by one they started to rise, still looking at each other, fear in their eyes. Some of the women broke into tears.

  When they were all on their feet, he said, “Okay. I’m gonna start counting. When I get to three, I want you to run your asses straight into the street. The last one out those doors gets a bullet to the back of the brain. Understand?”

  Wide stares. More tears.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Here we go: one … two …”

  Before he could finish, a beefy boy in a three-piece suit cut loose and beelined it for the doors. The room filled with shouts and screams as the rest of the hostages scrambled after him.