Lockdown

Seventy-five

Josh stirred in his father’s arms as Mareta made the guard kneel on the floor with his face to the wall. In her right hand she held a Glock; in her left, two pieces of metal linked to the detonator, contact guaranteeing everyone’s death. Lock wanted the kid out of there, and here was his chance.

‘Hasn’t he seen enough killing?’ Lock asked her.

‘Then take him outside.’

‘I’ll do it,’ said Richard.

‘Go on, then,’ Mareta said, as if the desire to spare a child from seeing cold-blooded murder was a clear sign of weakness.

Lock watched as Khalid escorted them both out. ‘Thank you.’

The guard facing the wall began to break down. ‘Please, don’t let her do this. I have a wife and kids.’

Mareta swiped at the back of his head with the Glock, leaving a gash across the top of his skull. ‘Then why do you take this job?’

‘Five minutes. Give him another five minutes, Mareta,’ said Lock.

‘Then at the end of those five minutes, you ask for another five. I know these games.’

That was something Lock hoped Frisk and the rest of the JTTF were also factoring in. Most terrorists didn’t survive their first siege; Mareta attended them with about the same frequency that newly married women out on Long Island attended baby showers. By now she must know the hostage negotiator’s playbook better than they did.

‘How’s your leg?’ Lock asked, hoping to distract her.

‘Wonderful.’

She checked the screens. More vehicles massing outside the perimeter. Most of them clustered either side of the gate.

‘No sign of your friend,’ she said.

‘He’ll be here.’

Mareta lowered the gun. ‘OK, have your five minutes. But after that, it’s half an hour until I kill the next one.’

‘You said every hour.’

Mareta sighed. ‘We negotiate. I give you something, you give me something back in return. That’s how it works, no?’