“My name is Reevis Tome, and I’m a reporter with Florida Cable News. I know this might be a sensitive subject, but would you mind at all if I spoke with you about what happened four years ago? The police believe my story might be helpful in solving—”
The owner tilted his head to see over the reporter’s shoulder. “What the—?”
The door crashed open. Nigel and Günter rushed in with camera and lights.
“What are you doing?” said the manager. “Turn that thing off!”
“Reevis!” said Nigel. “Quick! Ask him why he refuses to go on camera!”
“No.”
Günter advanced on the counter as the manager covered his face. “Get out!”
“Perfect!” said Nigel.
Suddenly the door crashed open again. More lights and another camera. This time they were aimed at Nigel and Günter.
“Oh no,” said Nigel.
“What’s going on?” asked Reevis.
“The Australians,” said Nigel. “My archnemesis, the devious producer ‘Cricket’ Brisbane, and his inseparable videographer, Dundee.”
The new camera zoomed in on Nigel’s face. “What have you got to hide?”
Nigel and Günter turned their own camera around. “What have you got to hide?”
“I asked you first!”
“Get out of here!” shouted Nigel.
“You get out of here!”
“All of you leave!” yelled the owner. “Before I call the police!”
The two film crews took their disagreement outside, chasing each other in a circle in the parking lot. “Why are you running away from our camera?”
“Why are you running away from our camera?”
The pursuit continued until the two film units broke apart and took up defensive positions behind their respective vehicles.
“Why are you hiding behind your car?”
“Why are you hiding?”
The motel manager stepped outside and stood next to Reevis.
Günter popped up from behind his SUV for a quick shot with his camera. Then Dundee popped up. Then Günter . . .
The owner scratched a bald spot. “What in the name of anything am I looking at?”
“A snake eating its tail,” said Reevis. “Listen, I’m really sorry about all this. They weren’t supposed to do that.”
“That’s why it seemed weird,” said the owner. “I told them on the phone I’d be happy to give any interviews if it would help the case.”
“You did? . . .”
A news truck from the local eleven o’clock show Action Eyewitness 7 Live happened to be driving by and hit the brakes. A third camera began filming.
“What’s going on?” asked the Eyewitness 7 reporter, straining to make out the action in the darkness.
“Looks like some kind of shootout,” said her cameraman. “Must be using silencers.”
Günter popped up again before ducking back down. Then Dundee.
Nigel dropped to the ground. “Günter! Shoot under the car! You can get their feet!”
“Right.” He placed the camera on the pavement.
Across the parking lot: “Where’d they go?” asked Brisbane. He looked down and saw camera lights shining off his loafers. “Oh no, they’re shooting our feet.”
Dundee crouched and got off a few seconds of his own low-level footage before they jumped in the front seat and took off.
“Günter! After them!” A second SUV took off down A1A, followed by the Channel 7 news truck.
Reevis pulled out his phone and called a cab.
Chapter 12
Later That Evening
Sniper rifles froze in triangulated aim at a ranch house in Sarasota County.
Rog gingerly slid his chair up to the coffee table and reached into one of the pizza boxes.
A string of hot mozzarella stretched from a slice to Serge’s mouth as he chewed. “One last lesson. After you grasp the concept of a psychopath, you have to wonder, what’s the opposite? An ‘empath’! They feel everything, the suffering of people they don’t even know in other countries, baby seals, the destruction of rain forests. Some of them are those former celebrities on late-night commercials with starving children who are forced to write you personal letters if you buy them rice and pencils during a drunken late-night moment of weakness, and now these letters of shame keep popping up each month like herpes. That’s why I hate the terms ‘bleeding heart’ and ‘tree hugger.’ Sure, they can get so annoying you want to ram knitting needles through both your ears. But deep inside, their intentions are wonderful. Jesus was an empath. Although today I’m tempted to tweak the Sermon on the Mount: ‘The meek shall inherit the earth, but only if their parents were greedy psychopaths’ . . .”
Tires screeched outside. A sedan with black-wall tires and tinted windows pulled up. A badge flashed. “FBI special agent Braun . . . You must be Sergeant Duffy . . .”
Another skidding of tires. Another sedan with lots of antennas. A different badge. “CIA special agent Cargill . . .”
. . . Serge leaned back on the couch and patted his stomach. “I’m stuffed.”
“So am I,” said Coleman.
Serge slowly stood and stretched his back. “I guess that means it’s time to surrender.”
Rog perked up. “You mean it?”
“Sure.”
“Uh, Serge,” said Coleman. “I think we might have a problem.”
“What’s that?”
“We’ve gotten ourselves cornered,” said Coleman. “The whole place is surrounded by cops. I don’t see how we can get away.”
“There’s always hope.” Serge walked to the front of the house and grabbed the doorknob.
“Great!” said Coleman. “I knew you’d have a plan! What is it?”
“That is the plan,” said Serge.
“Hope? . . . No, seriously.”
“I am serious.” Serge cracked the door a slit and waved a pizza-stained napkin. “We’re coming out!”
“Everyone in position!” yelled Sergeant Duffy. “But hold your fire.”
Clacking sounds as the SWAT team crouched and readied their weapons. Other officers shielded themselves behind the open doors of their squad cars. Agents Duffy and Cargill pulled Glocks from shoulder holsters inside their suits. A half block away behind the police lines, the entire press corps stopped talking. Cameras zoomed in on the front of the house.
All sound stopped. Time slowed down. Perspiration trickled on cheeks. Fingers twitched on triggers. Duffy took one last, careful look around and raised a megaphone. “Okay, we’re ready!”
The door opened the rest of the way. Rog burst from the house—“Thank God! Those guys are out of their minds! They held me hostage!” One of the SWAT team tackled him in the middle of the yard, and soon there was a pile of ten. Somewhere at the bottom, handcuffs snapped closed.
Serge and Coleman strolled across the grass in Windbreakers. “Sergeant Duffy, I’m taking a wild stab that you’d like to have a word with us.”
“Yes! Definitely! Don’t go anywhere!”
The tactical human pile in the middle of the yard began to sort itself out. They helped Rogelio to his feet, and Duffy led him to the back of a blue-and-white police transport van.
A suit with a thin tie stepped in front of him. “Excellent work,” said Agent Braun. “We’ll take the prisoner now.”
“No disrespect,” said Duffy. “But I’d like to get him processed at the jail before anything else. This is my city.”
“National security takes precedence,” said Braun.
From behind: “Yes, it does,” said Agent Cargill. “And I’m taking custody of the prisoner.”