“…at the opening of the NRA conference at the U.S. Bank Stadium. At this moment in time we have no information as to why Mayor Patterson has canceled his appearance, but our information is that he was at the stadium. And I’m hearing right now that the mayor and his party have just left the stadium with a police escort. We do not know what if anything has happened to the mayor. All we know is…”
Bob felt his phone vibrate. It was Kay.
“Hey, what the hell is going on?”
“Mike Lunde,” said Kay. “He has the mayor’s wife and children with him in the store. He shot one of the bodyguards. I’m on my way there now.”
Bob glanced up at the red light, looked left and then right andsaw a trailer approaching. He hoped the Volvo was having one of its better days and caught a glimpse of the staring man in the zebra-striped car as he put his foot down hard on the gas pedal.
—
Bob turned down the street where Town Taxidermy was located at the same moment an ambulance entered at the other end, sirens blaring. He leaned out of the window and saw two police cars outside the store. They had stopped in the middle of the street, blue lights flashing. Bob drove the Volvo up onto the sidewalk, jumped out and ran past the crowd of onlookers toward the store and ducked under the crime scene tape. Four police officers and a man in a dark suit were taking cover behind the cars. Two had service rifles aimed in the direction of the store, two had service pistols.
“Get out of here!” yelled one of the officers, a sturdy man, his face flushed as he waved his arms at Bob.
“MPD, Homicide Unit!” Bob yelled back and ducked down behind the police car. He held up his expired ID card, showing it to the guy with the flushed face and the one in the suit, who had to be FBI. “Detective Bob Oz. What’s happening?”
“He’s in there with the hostages,” said the officer. “No sign of life.”
“What are you doing here, Detective?” the FBI guy interrupted.
“I know Mike Lunde. Who are you?”
“Gerard Zimmer, JTTF.”
Bob nodded at the SUV that stood with both front doors open. “Where’s your partner, Zimmer?”
“On his way to the hospital. Or the morgue, hard to say. Bullet caught him above his vest.”
“Okay. So what’s happening now?”
“We’re waiting for SWAT. They’re on their way from the stadium. Should be here in about”—Zimmer checked his watch—“four minutes.”
“Four minutes,” Bob repeated. He stood up and started unbuttoning his cashmere coat.
“What are you doing?” the police officer shouted. “Get down! Zimmer says the guy in there has an M24!”
“I know,” said Bob. “And I know four minutes is a long time and that having SWAT here guarantees nothing.” He folded his coat and laid it on the hood of the car.
“Where are you going?” asked Zimmer.
“To talk to Mike.”
“Our orders—”
“—are your orders, they aren’t mine,” said Bob.
“So who gave you yours?” Zimmer was standing now and blocking Bob’s way.
“You can shoot me if those are your orders, Zimmer.”
Bob walked around Zimmer and crossed the street, coatless. His shirt was wet with sweat, ice-cold on the shady side, warm on the sunny side. Behind him someone shouted. But it was too late now. He just had to hope that they wouldn’t shoot him.
He walked to the store doorway and stopped. “Mike!” he shouted. “It’s Bob. I’m coming in.”
Bob waited. No answer. He pushed open the door.
The bell jangled as he walked in. Four people sat in a circle around something. A dog. The Labrador retriever Mike Lunde had finally managed to get the right eyes for. Mike was holding a rifle pointed at him, but strangely enough Bob felt no fear.
