The Hollow Ones(77)

“We have to get closer,” said Blackwood.

“We are not getting any closer,” Odessa said. “They’ve got this block locked off on four sides.” She looked around, noting the level of precaution. “Must be a bomb threat.”

She eyed a pair of NYPD detectives in plainclothes, one talking on his phone, the other, younger one scrolling through his. Odessa approached with her badge in hand.

“Excuse me,” she said, “who can give me an update here?”

The younger detective looked up quickly, dismissively, then looked up again, the double take a response to the surprise of being approached by a younger female with FBI credentials.

“Not a lot is known,” he said, affecting a casual air. “Original bank alarm seemed like a robbery. Maybe it still is. But it’s the manager who took over her own bank. Busted robbery seems unlikely. They think she just snapped. Been emptying drawers and the vault and dumping the cash and coins on the floor. She’s lost her damn mind.”

“No demands?”

“Not that I’ve heard. I know the crisis negotiator can’t keep her on the phone. Couple of customers ran outta there when she started ranting, before she locked them in. They said she made bomb threats. We’re treating it as such—”

Two loud reports, like balloons popping, silenced the barricade.

“Jesus,” said the detective. “She’s shooting it up randomly. This ain’t gonna end good.”

Odessa said, “Is there a plan to go in?”

“Well,” said the detective, “the other option is to stand out here while she shoots her employees and customers one by one.”

“Right,” said Odessa. “Thanks.”

“You look familiar,” said the detective, ignoring his ringing phone. “You work out of the B-Q here?”

“Federal Plaza,” she said, lying, letting him take his phone call.

Blackwood overheard most of the conversation. “She wants the confrontation,” he said. “The Hollow One wants her to be killed.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Odessa, impatiently. “What is it you think I can do here?”

Blackwood looked around. “We can’t let it jump into another body.”

“So tell me how,” she said. “It’s completely out of my hands.”

“You have seen what it can do,” he reminded her. “Other lives are at stake. You have to try.”

He was right. Odessa did not want any other cop or FBI agent to be put in the position she had been in. Besides, what did she have to lose here: her job?

“Wait here,” she said.

She walked to the largest of the mobile command center trucks set back from the perimeter and knocked on the door, opening it. She had her badge out, expecting to have to bullshit her way inside, but none of the half dozen cops even turned to look at her. Each of them wore headphones or earbuds, remotely monitoring the standoff via the truck’s surveillance cameras and glass-penetrating microphones, or else spoke into a cell phone.

Odessa watched the video feeds on a bank of screens on the long side wall. The bank manager appeared behind the teller counter with a metal tray, a gun in her hand. She overturned the tray over the floor, dumping its contents, the camera dipping down to reveal a pile of paper currency on the floor.

The cop with the largest headphones was narrating her movements into a wire microphone, communicating with other cops. One high-angle view indicated snipers in position on the rooftops across the street.

“She’s mumbling again,” the man relayed. “Teller number three is sobbing and the suspect is running out of patience with her. Wait a minute…she’s got some other object. It’s a can.”

Odessa saw the canister in the manager’s hand. It looked like cleaning solution, or a can of air freshener from the bathroom.

The man continued. “She’s dumping out customers’ handbags on the counter…looking for something…oh man. I see it now…”

Odessa saw the manager flick a butane lighter. The woman walked over to the pile of cash.

“I don’t believe it,” he said. “She’s burning it. She’s burning it all.”

The manager lit the spray, igniting the product, then turning the improvised flamethrower on the paper currency.

“Roger that,” said the man, receiving other transmissions. “She’s backing off now. We’re going to get smoke alarms. She tossed the canister away. Still mumbling in a very strange voice. Over and over again. Something like, ‘Blackwood…Blackwood…’”

Odessa was a moment processing these words. Blackwood. She said loudly, “What?”

Heads turned her way. Then another screen came on, a new video source, a body camera having been activated. The jerky perspective made it difficult to understand what was being seen at first. Odessa made out officers being strapped up in tactical gear, buckling helmets and performing weapons checks on assault rifles. It was the NYPD Emergency Service Unit, their SWAT team squad, preparing for a breach assault on the bank.

“You’re going to do a dynamic entry?” said Odessa. “Hey, guys, listen to me. She’s going to force a shoot.”

One man pulled his phone away from his ear in aggravation. “Who the hell are you again?” he said.