Nobody But You B&N (4 page)

She just hoped it would all be over fast, a quick grab of cash and then they'd be gone. The man with the Yankee baseball cap stood at the counter, instructing the teller to fill a canvas bag with cash from the drawers. The second guy in the hooded sweatshirt was making his way around the bank, collecting cell phones, jewelry, and wallets from the customers and employees. He was in front of Spencer now. She watched as Spencer pulled off his watch and tossed his wallet into the bag.

As his brother pulled out his phone, it began to ring. The man hesitated.

"In the bag," the gunman ordered. "And your wallet, too."

Spencer's brother reluctantly handed over his phone and wallet, his expression grim.

And then it was her turn.

As the man moved towards her, she could see his hand on the gun. One slight pull of the trigger, and it would be all over. She knew what a bullet could do, how it could rip apart a body, destroy a life. She'd dealt with more gunshot wounds than she could count. She'd spent the past four years as a nurse in the Army and done two tours in Afghanistan. She'd seen more horror in those years than anyone should see in a lifetime, and she was still haunted by terrifying images. The most innocent sound could set her off, a rumble of thunder, a car backfire, the snap of a branch. Post-traumatic stress syndrome was the official diagnosis, but giving her panic a name hadn't done much to stop the attacks.

She lifted her gaze from the gun to the man's face. She couldn't see his eyes, but she could see the tension in his jaw, the barely restrained energy in his stance, and the nasty looking snake tattoo on his neck. He was on edge, maybe on some kind of drug. She didn't think it would take much to make him snap.

"What are you looking at?" he grumbled.

"Nothing," she muttered, immediately realizing her mistake. She handed over her bag and looked back down at the ground, telling herself not to be stupid. If this guy thought she could recognize him or pick him out of a line-up, she would be in more danger.

Her heart beat even faster as she felt his gaze on her head, and then finally he stepped away and ordered the teller who'd been helping her to come around the counter and get on the ground next to her.

The older woman scurried around the wall and dropped to her knees a few feet away from Hallie. She looked absolutely terrified.

The hooded gunman glanced back at his partner. "Almost done?"

"Getting there. Check the door."

As the man closest to Hallie moved away, she saw Spencer give her a reassuring look. A few minutes ago she'd been thinking that it had been a long time since a handsome stranger had hit on her. And when he'd asked for her number, for one brief second she'd been tempted. If it hadn't been her turn at the counter, maybe she would have given it to him. But more likely she would have said no and walked away, because she wasn't ready to invest in anyone or anything, not even in a casual way. She needed to get over the massive hurt in her heart first. How long that would take, she didn't know.

She'd planned to start her recovery tomorrow, on a beach in the middle of nowhere, and hopefully find some much-needed peace. Her tropical island was calling to her now. Her flight was leaving in less than two hours. She was so close to escape and yet so far away.

She'd never imagined that coming to the bank to exchange her money would put her life in danger. While she'd been prepared to die every day that she'd served in the Army, she was not prepared to die now. It would be the worst kind of irony to have escaped the bombs and gunfire that had killed her fiancé only to lose her life in a bank in the middle of an upscale neighborhood in San Francisco.

It wasn't going to happen, she told herself. These guys just wanted money and then they'd be gone. A few more minutes, and this would all be over.

A phone began to ring again, the sound coming from the canvas bag where they had tossed their cell phones. Spencer's brother stiffened. She could see the frustration on his face, and she felt for him.

Was the bride waiting at the church, wondering where her groom was?

Hopefully not. Hopefully, the wedding wasn't for a few more hours, but Hallie could see the longing in the groom's eyes. He wanted to answer that phone. She hoped he wouldn't try to get to it. She didn't want anyone to do anything to anger the gunmen. If they followed instructions, no one would get hurt.

* * *

"Don't be a hero," Spencer muttered to Max, seeing the tension in his brother's eyes. "Better we get there late than not at all."

"That's Emma calling. I know it is. She's wondering where the hell I am. I wish I had my gun."

"Well, you don't, so don't do anything stupid."

"I'm usually the one telling you that."

That was true. Max had always had more control than Spencer, but today his brother had a lot on the line.

Looking away from Max, he turned his gaze to the hooded man, who was now digging through the bag to turn off the offending cell phone. He was pissed off and agitated by the persistent ringing. Every movement he made was jerky, nervous. It was clear he was high on something. Spencer wasn't surprised. Drugs and desperation fueled a lot of robberies. He'd spent seven years of his life locked up with guys like this—exactly like this, he realized, as the man lifted his arm to wipe some sweat off his forehead. The gesture revealed a tattoo on his wrist.

The tattoo consisted of five dots, which comprised the five points of a star. It was a common prison tattoo, the outer dots representing the walls of the jail, the inside dot the prisoner. He had a similar tattoo on his wrist. It had hurt like a son of a bitch, but getting it done had made his life a little easier on the inside. He'd become one of them. It was not a group he had ever imagined joining.

He'd grown up in the suburbs, graduated from UC Berkeley, worked on Wall Street. He'd had money and clothes and a damn good life until the bottom had fallen out of it. But he'd had to bury that side of himself when he went to prison. He'd had to change in order to survive the culture. Now he was going to have to change again, find out who he was, somewhere between where he used to be and where he was now. But first he had to get out of this bank.

He glanced at Max again. He could see the wheels turning in his brother's head. Max was assessing the situation, weighing the pros and cons of two armed gunmen versus four bank employees and three customers. He was thinking like a cop, debating whether or not he could personally take down both guys without losing anyone in the process.

Spencer didn't think that was possible. The best scenario was to stay quiet and hope the robbers took off as quickly as they'd come. But not doing anything went against Max's nature.

Max had wanted to be a cop for as long as Spencer could remember. His younger brother had always had some innate need for justice. A shrink would probably say his brother's need to put away the bad guys was somehow related to their father's abandonment, but that seemed too simplistic for Spencer's taste. The truth was more than that.

Maybe Max did feel good when he took a criminal off the street, but he also liked the chase, the puzzle, and the adrenaline rush. And he was good at what he did.

Spencer respected Max's achievements. It had taken him awhile to get past the anger he'd felt toward Max for not being able to save him from prison, but in retrospect he knew that Max had done all he could. And his anger with his brother had just been a part of his overwhelming sense of injustice. But that anger was gone now. He was happy to have his brother back in his life, and he'd been honored when Max had asked him to be his best man. He wanted nothing more than to stand beside Max when he and Emma exchanged vows.

His thoughts turned to the wedding. Emma had to be worried about Max, and his mom was probably already crying hysterical tears. Susan Harrison had always been a drama queen. He couldn't imagine what they thought was going on. But they'd explain everything when they got to the church and one day this would just be a crazy story to tell.

"Damn," Max said, his jaw tightening

He followed Max's gaze to the female loan officer who was surreptitiously moving closer to her desk. There was a focus in her gaze. She was trying to get to something—an alarm maybe. He wanted to yell at her to stop, that losing the bank's money wasn't worth losing her life. In five minutes, these guys would be gone. They just had to wait it out.

He wanted to find a way to get her attention, but she was zoned in completely on her goal, so deep in concentration that she didn't see the hooded gunman turn and look right at her.

"Stop," the gunman yelled, raising his gun.

The woman froze for a second. Then she reached for her computer keyboard and pushed a key.

Shit
!

Spencer started to his feet, but he was a split second behind Max, who tackled the woman to the ground just as the gun went off.

Screams lit up the air as Max fell to the ground, clutching his side, blood staining the front of his white shirt.

Spencer rushed toward his brother, and a bullet whizzed past his ear. He knelt down beside Max. His brother looked up at him with anguish in his eyes. "Emma," he murmured. "Tell Emma I love her. Tell her I'm sorry I screwed things up."

"No, you're going to tell her yourself." He glanced at the gunman, seeing the wild light in the man's eyes. The adrenaline rush had lit him up like the Christmas tree in the corner of the bank. It was surprising he hadn't shot all of them. "He needs help."

"I don't give a shit what he needs," the man replied. "And I didn't tell you that you could move."

"He's my brother."

"What did you do?" the second gunman interrupted, anger on his face. "Why did you shoot him?"

"He got in the way. She was going for the alarm. I had to stop her." He aimed his gun at the woman now cowering and crying by the side of her desk. "Bitch."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, tears streaming down her face, as she put her hands in a silent plea for mercy.

"Leave her alone. Let's get out of here," the other gunman said. He'd barely finished speaking when sirens lit up the air.

Spencer could see the panic flash across their faces. Their escape route had just been cut off. The hooded man walked over to the windows. "Cops everywhere." He started pulling the blinds closed. The man in the Yankee cap moved over to the door to see what was happening out front.

While the men were preoccupied with the cops, Spencer took off his coat and covered Max's legs. His brother was going into shock and blood was gushing from his wound. He put his hands over the injury, applying as much pressure as he could.

His brother groaned from the painful pressure.

"Sorry, but I need to slow this bleeding down," Spencer said.

"It's not going to work. You have to take care of Emma. Tell her how happy she made me. Promise me."

"Don't die on me," Spencer said forcefully, fear running through his body as Max's eyes closed. "Hang in there, Max. Emma needs you. I need you, too."

His words went unheard. Max was unconscious.

A loud speaker suddenly crackled. The voice of a police officer ordered the men to come out with their hands up.

"What are we going to do?" the hooded man asked, meeting his partner in the middle of the bank.

"Bargain," the man said. "We've got hostages to trade for an escape."

"They're not going to deal."

"They'll have to if they don't want everyone in here to die."

The phone on one of the desks began to ring. The men didn't budge.

"If you want to negotiate, you should answer that," Spencer said.

"Did I say you could talk?" the hooded man demanded.

He ignored that comment, determined to find a way to get Max some help. "Yu have to offer them something, a sign of good faith. Let me get my brother out of here. You don't want him to die."

"I don't give a shit if he dies."

"Yes, you do. Bank robbery beats a murder rap. I know what I'm talking about." He pulled back his sleeve and lifted his arm, showing his tattoo. "You can still get out of here. You can negotiate an escape car, but if this guy dies, you're done. Let me carry him out of here."

The guy in the Yankee cap looked like he was considering the suggestion, but the hooded man shook his head. "No way. We need everyone for insurance." He looked back at his partner.
"You agree, right?"

The other man slowly nodded, and Spencer's heart sank.

"Everyone against the wall, over there," the man in the Yankee cap said.

The employees and customers quickly moved toward the nearby wall, but Spencer wasn't about to take his hands off of Max.

"You, too," the hooded man said, waving his weapon at Spencer.

"I'm not leaving my brother. At least let me try to keep him alive."

"He's not important," Yankee cap said. "Let him be."

The hooded man frowned but followed his partner's lead. They moved further away to discuss their options.

Spencer pressed his hands down harder on Max's wound. "Hang in there, Max," he whispered. "Emma needs you. And so do I."

The man on the floor was going to die, Hallie thought, seeing the blood pooling under Max's body. He was going to bleed out right here on the floor of the bank. Her head spun with the realization, with the horror to come. Spencer was going to lose his brother. The groom was never going to get to his bride. It was tragic. And it had all happened so incredibly fast.

She wanted to help. The nurse inside of her
needed
to help, but what could she do? She'd been ordered to stay put. And even if she hadn't, she'd given up on medicine months ago. She'd told herself that never again would she be faced with a life and death situation—never again would someone's entire existence be in her hands, because she wasn't up to the task. She'd let down her profession, her father, and herself. And she just wanted to put it all behind her.

But there was a man in front of her who was dying. And Spencer didn't know exactly what to do. He was trying, but he wasn't getting it done.