Hostage

By Jay Greenstein

A fanatical gunman has taken a top lawyer prisoner, and is demanding millions of dollars for his release—which brings FBI agent Cal Clayton to the office complex. On the surface it seems a simple hostage situation. Intuition, though, says the lawyer’s very attractive secretary, who’s presently wearing only panties, is hiding something important. But the secretary, Jessie, is a prisoner, herself, in an unexpected way, one that touches Cal’s heart and divides his loyalties.

Add in a crazy-lady’s visit that left Jessie both tearful and angry moments before the hostage-taking, a gunman who may not be what he seems, and a ransom of tens of millions of dollars. What happens next is anything but certain. But then, it is Friday the Thirteenth. And you know what people say about that.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jay Greenstein
• Release date: Jul 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463116777

Jay Greenstein

I'm a storyteller. My skills at writing are subject to opinion, my punctuation has been called interesting, at best—but I am a storyteller. I am, of course, many other things. In seven decades of living, there are great numbers of things that have attracted my attention. I am, for example, an electrician. I can also design, build, and install a range of things from stairs and railings to flooring, and tile backsplashes. I can even giftwrap a box from the inside, so to speak, by wallpapering the house. I'm an engineer, one who has designed computers and computer systems; one of which—during the bad old days of the cold war—flew in the plane designated as the American President's Airborne Command Post: The Doomsday Jet. I've spent seven years as the chief-engineer of a company that built bar-code readers. I spent thirteen of the most enjoyable years of my life as a scoutmaster, and three, nearly as good, as a cubmaster. I joined the Air Force to learn jet engine mechanics, but ended up working in broadcast and closed circuit television, serving in such unlikely locations as the War Room of the Strategic Air Command, and a television station on the island of Okinawa. I have been involved in sports car racing, scuba diving, sailing, and anything else that sounded like fun. I can fix most things that break, sew a fairly neat seam, and have raised three pretty nice kids, all of who are smarter and prettier than I am—more talented, too, thanks to the genes my wife kindly provided. Once, while camping with a group of cubs and their families, one of the dads announced, "You guys better make up crosses to keep the Purple Bishop away." When I asked for more information, the man shrugged and said, "I don't really know much about the story. It's some kind of a local thing that was mentioned on my last camping trip." Intrigued, I wondered if I could come up with something to go with his comment about the crosses; something to provide a gentle terror-of-the-night to entertain the boys. The result was a virtual forest of crosses outside the boys' tents. That was the event that switched on something within me that, now, more than twenty-five years later, I can't seem to switch off. Stories came and came… so easily it was sometimes frightening. Stories so frightening that one boy swore he watched my eyes begin to glow with a dim red light as I told them (it was the campfire reflecting from my ...

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Jay Greenstein

Jay Greenstein

All rights reserved

Published by Continuation Services at SmashWords

Copyright 2019

Other Titles by Jay Greenstein:

Science Fiction

As Falls an Angel

Samantha and the Bear

Foreign Embassy

Hero

Monkey Feet

An Accidental War

Starlight Dancing

Wizards

Trilogy of the Talos

(Sci-fi)

To Sing the Calu

Portal to Sygano

Ghost Girl

Sisterhood of the Ring

(Sci-fi)

Water Dance

Jennie’s Song

A Change of Heart

A Surfeit of Dreams

Kyesha

Abode Of The Gods

Living Vampire

An Abiding Evil

Ties of Blood

Blood Lust

Modern Western

Posse

Romantic Suspense

A Chance Encounter

Kiss of Death

Intrigue/Crime

Necessity

Betrayal

Hostage

Young Adult

My Father My Friend

Romance

Zoe

Breaking the Pattern

Short Story

A Touch of Strange

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this book are fictitious and created by the author for entertainment purposes. Any similarities between living and non-living persons are purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 1

The clock on the night table growled a good morning, forcing Tom Zoltac into the world once again. Instantly awake, he snaked a hand out of the covers to silence it before it could wake Trudy. Almost afraid to move, he watched the shadows of the blowing curtains play on the far wall. Today was the day.

He lay quietly for a time, not thinking, putting off the business of getting out of bed, feeling brand new and almost unreal. Once he moved it was started. And once begun there was no going back.

Again, the doubts came, forcing their way into his mind, trying to push him back into the comfortable groove he’d made of his life. With a quiet snort, he suppressed them. There’d been more than enough soul-searching. Today was the day.

He turned toward Trudy, sprawled in a tangle of covers on the far side of the bed, her mouth wet with the careless drool of sleep. In repose, the age lines were smoothed, but a slackness to the skin below the chin and a tiredness born of boredom and pain clearly showed. When had they grown old?

His mouth drew into a line. Do I love you old lady? Probably not. He thought the words, but he knew them as a lie even as he did—a lie born of a life far less than what he’d hoped for, a useless wish for his lost youth, and fear for the future. She, above all else, gave meaning to his life.

With a sigh, he turned to stare at the ceiling. They’d not been intimate for nearly a week, and it would be far longer before they made love again. He sighed once more, laying back the covers as he eased out of the bed, careful to avoid waking Trudy. It was time.

Yawning, he closed the bathroom door before turning on the light, going so far as to turn the knob before closing it, to avoid the clack of the latch’s plunger as it crossed the striker plate and snapped home. Best that Trudy not wake and ask unanswerable questions. Moving to the sink he applied a wake-up splash of cold water to his face, then stared at his reflection in the mirror for a moment, leaning forward on strong work-hardened hands. His grandfather frowned unhappily back at him, making him shake his head. Time to shave the tops of his ears again—a mark of growing old.

He grimaced. Hello Pop-Pop, welcome to today.

About to reach for the shaving cream he stopped. No shave today. The ears could wait too. No shower today, nor deodorant either. They didn’t fit the image he needed to convey. Perhaps a brush of the teeth from habit, but that was all.

Finished quickly, Tom tiptoed out of the bathroom and through the bedroom into the hall, stopping outside the boys’ room. He eased the door open on the clutter of active youth, smiling at the thought that he still thought of it as the boys’ room, though there’d been only one boy for nearly five years. Even that would end when Todd moved into the dorm at State College next month. God alone knew where Steven was these days.

He stood for a moment, lost in memories of shared times, wondering if he’d ever see Steve again. It hadn’t been anger that drove him away, though at the time it seemed so. It was just that Steve hearkened to the beat of a drum he wouldn’t let himself hear. They both recognized what was happening, but somehow, despite endless resolutions to be more tolerant, a spark would strike and the war would begin anew. His going quieted the house, and emptied some of the hurt and anger from Trudy, but it left a gap like a missing tooth, one that had to be probed over and over.

He looked down at Todd, relaxed in the boneless sleep of youth. I wish you well, kid, he whispered. I really wish you well. Which of his boys he was talking to was uncertain. Probably both.

After a long moment, he backed through the door and moved away, still musing on happier times. Turning, he stopped and stared at the door to Susan’s room, filled with mixed emotions. Then he sighed and headed downstairs, still in his underwear. As he walked, he caught sight of himself in the hall mirror and sucked in his gut, then laughed and relaxed. Too late for that old man. He laughed, quietly. A lot of pizzas, beers, and ice creams, too late for that.

Grinning, he headed for the kitchen, and breakfast. Best to eat as he was, though. If he dressed first, and someone came down, there’d be a lot of explaining to do.

He stopped in the kitchen doorway, seeing it as through the eyes of a stranger. Bright and airy, it reflected Trudy’s taste, not his. In matters of house decoration, she was the designer, he the contractor.

The clock in the microwave said five-thirty. That gave nearly forty-five minutes before alarm clocks began sounding on the floor above. Time enough for steam-basted eggs.

After starting the toast he buttered the pan and set it to warming, as he placed a bit of crushed ice in a glass. He waited till the butter showed a trace of charring, for flavor, then eased in the eggs. Then, when the white of the eggs had just set on the bottom, he added a tablespoon of crushed ice at the edge of the pan and covered it, tightly, to trap the steam. The ice, as it melted, provided a steady cloud of steam to bathe the upper surface as the lower surface fried in the butter.

He laughed as the toast popped, waiting to be buttered a moment after he covered the pan. It’s all in the timing, he chuckled. Buttering complete, he eased the eggs, with their film of white over the yokes, onto the plate. Finally, he sat back in his chair and smiled with satisfaction, saying, Perfect old boy, absolutely perfect.

As he ate, he thought back to when Susan made it for breakfast, on her first morning in the house. Thank God for Susan, and for finding her that day.

With a start, he realized that he’d been holding a fork full of egg in front of his face for some time, as he meandered the trails of memory. With a snort at his foolishness, he pushed the food into his mouth.

Dear Lord, I’m turning into an old man, looking backward instead of forward. When did that happen?

The idea of getting dressed in the garage for the first time brought a smile, which faded as he remembered why it was necessary.

Opening the car’s trunk, he held up the suit. A well-worn double-breasted suit that had gone out of style years ago, it would do nicely. That it had a bit of a musty aroma was a plus. First though, came his hands. They were clean, with no trace of a grease line surrounding the nails. That would have to change.

Turning to the ancient Camaro awaiting restoration, he reached in among the hoses leading to the intake manifold and groped around, then rubbed his hands together to spread the dirt before surveying the results. Not enough. Not nearly enough. Stooping, he fumbled for the grease fitting at the end of the steering linkage. He was rewarded with a smear of greasy muck, which he worked into the skin of his hands, paying attention to the ring of cuticle of each fingernail. Satisfied, he scooped hand cleaner out of the can on the workbench and began removing the grease he’d just applied.

Finished, he surveyed his hands, grunting, and nodding in satisfaction. They would do nicely. Here and there his palm and fingers showed traces of grease embedded in the skin. Each cuticle formed a half-circle of darkness around the nail, while a thin dark line of grease under the nail ended each finger. No one who saw those hands would doubt that he labored hard for his living.

After washing away the perfumed stink of the hand cleaner, he reached for the suit. Finally dressed, he placed a small dab of hand cleaner under each armpit to add to the ambiance, then, lifted the battered old attaché case from its hiding place over the paint cabinet and checked for the hundredth time that all was ready.

That done, he could delay no longer. He closed the lid and snapped the case closed. The metallic click of the latches had a final sort of sound: an ending of the old order.

He stood for a time, hands on the case and looking at nothing, while a voice inside shouted, Stop! It was too late for that, though; too late to sink back into the comfortable life of an electronic technician; too late for anything but the business at hand.

His mouth hardened as he took what might be a last-ever look around the garage. How could he leave what was in reality, his second home?

A board creaked somewhere in the house. Probably just the house talking to itself as it warmed to the rising sun, but it broke the spell. Time to get moving.

He slid into the car, lifting the case across to the passenger seat. He tapped the garage door control, then sat for a moment, eyes locked on the case. But then the whine of the door’s lift motor stopped. It was time. He shook his head and placed the shift lever into reverse. Carefully, and with misgivings, Tom Zoltac backed out of the garage and into his chosen future.

° ° ° °

Chapter 2

Jessie Martin rarely needed an alarm clock. It was a talent she had, like being able to ride a bicycle the first time she tried. She decided on when she wanted to wake and that was pretty much when she opened her eyes. A handy skill to have.

Today though, she woke earlier than intended. She knew it the moment she opened her eyes, but there was no trying to go back to sleep today. Waking early, after a restless night was another measure of how tense she was. Today was the day of the big decision.

Her first action was a sigh, followed by the thought that there was no way she could put it off any longer. She either slept with the man tonight, or she began shopping for a job. Her second was that in reality almost nothing can be reduced to yes or no, black or white, go or stay.

The clock said she had twenty minutes to worry over the problem. Twenty minutes to talk herself out of it. Or perhaps to accept the inevitable.

Carefully she constructed a chart in her mind. On one side she put the reasons for not jumping into bed with Maxwell Tustin. On the other, reasons she should. It was a long list, but unfortunately, one that mostly balanced out.

She leaned back, lacing her fingers behind her head as she reviewed the list.

She didn’t love him.

Maybe she did.

He didn’t love her.

He said he did.

He was her boss.

So what?

He was too old for her.

She didn’t plan to marry him.

He was married.

She didn’t plan to marry him.

He was white.

She didn’t plan to marry him.

Her job depended on a yes.

He claimed to love her.

He was good to her.

He was good to mom.

Her future depended on that job.

Damn! So much for the scale tipping only slightly. Growling in frustration, she stretched, in a vain attempt to ease the stiffness brought about by a night of uneasy sleep.

There were times she wished she’d never seen that secretarial position notice. If she hadn’t, though, she’d still be struggling to make ends meet. But at least it would be on her terms.

But the job was in a law office, so she’d mailed a resume on impulse, with no expectation of a reply. Certainly, she had the office skills needed, like typing and computer usage, but little experience as a secretary. She did have a legal background, however, and a driving desire to work in some part of the legal profession.

As she pushed the send button on the employment site, she cursed herself for being seven kinds of a fool for torturing herself with false hope. But Mr. Tustin himself replied, and offered an interview.

° ° °

She left the house for the interview, emotions roiling and her stomach a twisted knot in her gut. With certainty, she’d do or say something stupid, and destroy whatever chance she had to get herself out of the quagmire in which she was trapped.

When she opened the door to the office the butterflies in her stomach doubled in number. With a conscious effort, she stepped inside, intimidated by the display of wealth surrounding her, certain they’d see her as covered with the muck of the ghetto and unsuited for work in the lofty tower in which the law offices were located. Unhappily, she perched on the edge of the chair, wearing her last good outfit, trying to control an almost irresistible urge to bolt from the room. When the receptionist waved her through a doorway at the far end of the room, she was trying to ignore the tension headache that made thought difficult.

The walk to the office door seemed a thousand miles long, and with it came the realization that she had to use the ladies room. She stopped for a moment outside the door, trying to bring her fears, and for that matter, her bladder, under control. To an extent, she was successful, but only because, in reality, she stood so little chance of being hired. And given that, why worry? Regaining a measure of control she took a deep breath, pulled her blouse down in the front, and under the amused eye of the secretary, forced herself into motion once more.

The doorway led to a small waiting room, with a secretary’s station by another doorway, presumably the lawyer’s office. She entered the office, all mahogany, leather, and money, feeling lost and woefully out of place, her mouth dry, with the metallic taste of fear strong on her tongue. As she walked toward the desk the plush of the rug swallowed her footsteps, and she had the absurd feeling of watching the desk through the wrong end of a telescope so that despite her steps, it was moving no closer.

But then the man behind the desk rose, extending his hand, smiling and speaking her name, adding, I’m Maxwell Tustin, and I’m glad you could make it. With that, her fear departed, leaving her still unsure, and a bit adrift. She was not, however, afraid of this man. Quite the opposite.

Research said that Maxwell Tustin was one of the top contract lawyers in the city, and he more than looked the part. Tall and distinguished, he had a thick mane of brown hair, with just enough gray at the temples to add an elegant touch to his fine-featured, almost boyish face. His welcoming smile was broad and friendly, not the stern visage she expected from one in his position. He wasn’t at all what she expected. That smile, alone, disarmed her fears. With growing pleasure, she tentatively returned it.

He took her hand in his, in a warm handshake, then frankly looked her over, obviously pleased with what he saw, while her cheeks darkened with sudden heat. He said nothing for a moment, allowing her the same favor.

The man stood with the easy grace and unconscious authority of a successful leader, while his voice had been a cultured rumble that soothed her frayed nerves. This was a man who, on first meetings, inspired trust in men and lust in women. Her first thought, after he introduced himself, was that it was a damn shame he was too old for her—her second, to wonder if her first was too hasty. He was one hell of a man. In fact, he was the first white man to ever inspire that kind of thinking.

Tustin quizzed her for over an hour. After the usual small talk to gain an initial impression, he gave her a thorough grilling, covering not only her knowledge of the law, but her personal life, too, and her mother’s problem with the kidney dialysis clinic.

During the legal part of the interview, he gave her a series of What if’s, then, when she responded, forced her to defend her position. It was the sort of thing done to law students to teach how to properly debate a point of law—something she enjoyed, and even came out ahead in most of the time at school. This, though, wasn’t in the same league. The man was good. Overall, she’d done passably well—or at least hoped she had. On the negative side, there were times during the interview where his probing questions gradually and inexorably forced her to take an illogical and sometimes silly position in defense of a point she didn’t want to hold. He even forced her into arguing in favor of some things she’d initially argued against, and she desperately wanted to learn how to do that herself. In a lawyer—and she still thought of herself as a lawyer-in-training—it would be an invaluable ability.

She left his office exhausted and limp, her underwear and armpits damp with nervous perspiration, but she was also supremely elated. She wanted this job!

Four agonizingly long days later his secretary called, requesting a second interview.

Your interview was quite impressive, Miss Martin, Tustin said, by way of an opening. The law lost a fine advocate when you left school before graduation. He paused and shook his head. A damn shame. But there’s something I can do about that. He slid a paper in front of her while she held her breath, hanging on his words. You’ll be happy to know, he said, with a smile, That I made my decision to hire you before you left the office the other day. She nodded soberly, but found it hard to breathe, and inside her head was doing handsprings of joy, so she almost missed his next words. The reason I took so long getting back to you was that I had to check your background. Forgive me for appearing to doubt your story, but not everyone is as honest as we’d like to believe. He stopped and shrugged in a, What can you do? way, before adding, If they were, I’d probably be out of a job. He chuckled, and waited for her to compose herself and match his grin before continuing with, In any case, in addition to the offer of employment as a secretary, here’s what I’m going to do. He pointed to the paper. This is a contract between this firm and Jessie Martin. Should you accept employment with us, my firm is willing to advance you the money to attend night classes, until your graduation. This is over and above any money you earn as my secretary.

For a long moment, she was frozen, unable to respond, or even formulate a coherent thought. The man was granting her most hopeless and impossible wish. Sadly, although she never admitted it to herself, she’d given up on completing a legal education.

The man continued to shock her by naming a salary far greater than what she earned at the grocery. It had to be more than a legal secretary could hope to get as a starting salary—especially an inexperienced secretary.