The Masked Truth(11)

“I’m the star here, right?” Aaron says. “The rest are just extras?”

“That is correct.”

“Which means you won’t get nearly as much money from their families, because they don’t exactly hang out in the same social circles as mine.”

“Whoa, get a grip on that ego, mate,” Max says. “If it inflates any more, it’ll burst.”

Aaron turns toward him. “You might not like what I’m saying, but it’s the truth. How many of you guys showed up tonight in a chauffeured car?”

“How many of us would want to?” Max says.

“The point”—Aaron turns back to X-Files—“is that they aren’t worth a fraction of what I am. Therefore they shouldn’t need to go through this just because my dad’s an * one-percenter. I’m asking you to let them go.”

X-Files laughs.

“I’m serious,” Aaron says. “My dad can get you seven figures with one phone call. Their families would be scrounging all night to get you five. It’s not worth the hassle. This will be much easier for you if you’ve got only one kid to handle.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Aaron. Very thoughtful. And the answer is: hell, no. Do you know why?”

After a moment of silence, X-Files turns to me. “Miss Riley Vasquez, answer my question.”

I blink. “What?”

“Wrong answer. Come on, girl. You’re a cop’s daughter. And, yes, I know exactly who we have with us tonight. Miss Riley here is quite the local celebrity. Her dearly departed daddy was a detective, formerly a member of the local SWAT team, which, with any luck, is pulling up out front as we speak. Tell me, Miss Riley, why will I not let you all leave?”

“Because you’re a tosser?” Max says, and I shoot him a glare.

“You need backup hostages,” I say. “It’s not about the money. You …” My heart thumps so hard I can’t get the rest out. And I don’t want to. I don’t want to be the one to put it into words.

“Come on, Miss Riley.” X-Files moves forward, waving the gun, and my gaze locks on that.

My blood rushes in my ears, voices coming as if from a mile away, barely penetrating, and Aaron’s telling him to stop, leave me alone, and X-Files makes some mocking reply and then Max says, “You can’t kill Aaron.”

“What’s that, Maximus?” X-Files swings the gun from me and a hand squeezes my arm and I jump to see Maria there, giving me a strained smile.

“You can’t let us go,” Max says, “because you need someone you can kill. It can’t be Aaron. So we’re cannon fodder.”

“What the hell?” Gideon scrambles to his feet and looks ready to go after Max until Aaron grabs his arm. Gideon throws Aaron off and says, “Did you hear what he said? You’re trying to get us out of this, and he’s trying to get us killed. Giving them ideas.”

Max rolls his eyes. “Yeah, mate. I’m giving them ideas, because that’s not what they’re thinking at all.”

“Max is right,” I say as I rise. “They need us to be the stick and the carrot. If things go well, they can release one of us.”

“And if they don’t, we shoot you,” X-Files says. “Well done, Maximus and Miss Riley. At least we have two kids with brains. Which is more than I can say for Mr. Highgate, but that’s what one expects of rich brats, isn’t it?”

As we sit, I whisper to Aaron, “Thank you. For trying.”

He frowns as if the suggestion that we be released was so obvious it doesn’t require comment. It does, though. He offered to take this all on himself—let eight strangers leave him to bear the brunt of the kidnappers’ wrath and frustration if their plan doesn’t go well. It’s not what I expected from him.

“The next thing—” X-Files begins. Then his cell phone rings. He takes it out and smiles at the screen. “Well, well, it seems we’ve made first contact.” He clicks the speaker button and answers the phone with “Good evening. To whom am I speaking?”

“Agent William Salas,” a deep voice says. “I’ll be working with you to resolve this matter.”

“Ooh, I score the hostage negotiator from the first call. Excellent. That will save us some time. I’m the party host tonight, and that’s all you need to know about me. My guests are far more important. Let’s get them to say hi. We’ll start with you.” He points to Maria. “State your name for the nice policeman.”

“Maria Lawrence,” she says, and we continue across the room.





CHAPTER 5


Everything’s going fine. At least, as fine as one might expect from a hostage negotiation. Outwardly, I think I seem calm enough. Inwardly, everything’s equally quiet … if you don’t count that little girl at the back of my brain, running in circles, shouting, “We’re all going to die! Die!”

I’m a little concerned about how well I’m ignoring that girl. Just like I’ve been concerned about how well I handled the Porters’ deaths. I suppose the fact that I’m spending the weekend in therapy camp suggests I’m not handling it well at all, but I think I’d feel more normal if I spent my days huddled in bed, sobbing and seeing their bloodied bodies every time I close my eyes. This emptiness feels callous. The anxiety and the depression feels selfish, as if a horrible tragedy befell Darla and her parents and all I can think is “me, me, me.” I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I jump at every noise. It’s all about me.