“It doesn’t have to go down like that,” Kellen told him. “We can work this out. Your brother wouldn’t want you to do this.”
“Ha! Goes to show what you know. You know nothing about my brother. He’s been waiting a long time for justice.”
“Tell me what you want, Hudson, and we’ll start working on it,” Kellen coaxed.
“I want justice!”
“Justice for your brother?”
“Justice for him and everyone else who’s ever been the target of someone like Larry Rupley, Titus Strubinger, and Bianca Hornberger.”
“What kind of justice are we talking about? All of the folks you just named are dead. They can’t go to trial or jail.”
“I streamlined the process. And I’ll do it again today.”
“Uh, excuse me.” A production assistant off-camera raised her hand. “If we’re making demands, I could go for some lunch.”
There were rumblings of agreement.
“I could go for pizza.”
“We had pizza last night. I want sushi.”
“What about some Italian ice?” someone else offered.
“I’m doing Whole 30 right now. I need a salad.”
Hudson looked around the room. “Fine. Justice and lunch. You got that, detective?”
“No problem. Send one of the hostages out with your order, and we’ll get it delivered.”
“Nice try, detective. I’m not letting anyone go. We’re too busy having ablast.”
Riley felt a nudge at the back of her mind, and her nose twitched.
She glanced at the backpack on the anchor desk, and a sick feeling of dread settled in her gut. The glitter bombs had been homemade. How hard would it be for a motivated Hudson to build an actual bomb?
“It sounds like you have a lot of important things to say,” Kellen observed.
“And I’ll be doing it live during the noon broadcast,” Hudson announced. “You can get our lunch order by watching.” He made a slashing motion over his throat. It took Chris a good beat to figure out Hudson wanted him to hang up.
“Uh, goodbye,” Chris said, disconnecting the call.
“Chris, get out here. I’ve got some breaking news for the teleprompter,” Hudson said, waving a flash drive in his hand.
“Does anyone else want to split a meatball sub?” someone called.
* * *
Riley had never seena live broadcast quite like this one. On one end of the news desk, Griffin Gentry was duct-taped to a chair wearing a sign on his chest that said “Greedy Doucheweasel.” Chris Yang sat at the opposite end of the desk. His sign said “Asshole Enabler.” Between them sat Hudson. The sports desk was occupied by Chelsea Strump, who had refused to hold up her sign until Hudson had forced Riley at gun point to duct tape it to the woman’s head. The duct tape had been overkill, seeing as how the “Judgmental Troll” sign wedged neatly into her helmet of hair. But Riley didn’t want to argue with a guy with a gun.
The producer counted, holding his fingers overhead like it was any other live broadcast. The red light turned on.
Nobody moved or spoke. Griffin looked like he was sitting in a sweat lodge.
Hudson cleared his throat. Still no one spoke.
He gave Griffin a swift kick, making him squawk like a disgruntled chicken.
