seymoure

Hostage is the Loneliest Number

“There is no greater hell
than to be a prisoner of fear.”
-Ben Jonson

We didn’t have time to share more than two breaths before they came around to our side of the van.

“What the hell . . .?” one of them said. Another asked directly, “Who the hell are you?”

Jill slipped her camera into my hand and replied, “Jill Aronson. I’m a reporter, and this is my camera man . . . James Olsen.”

I looked at her in disbelief and mouthed, “Jimmy Olsen? Oh, God.”

The unmistakable guttural speech of MacPherson joined the conversation from the other side of the car. “T’row ‘em in the back. If the cops get involved, we could use a couple of hostages.”

We were lifted bodily off the pavement and tossed into the back of the VW. I was surprised that not once did they check me for a gun. Maybe they were sure that newspaper people wouldn’t be carrying.

After the door slammed shut, someone in the seat reached back and took the camera, saying, “Boss, some of this might be used as evidence.”

MacPherson growled something that sounded like agreement, and then a window was rolled down and the camera was tossed out.

The clattering of the engine sounded like the devil’s maracas being thrown against a tin roof over and over again.

The van careened down the ramps with guns hanging out of the windows. I was not really sure about taking them

on with my single gun. And having Jill there to be caught in a cross-fire made it that much more doubtful a path.

We exploded onto the street, and the hunters started to rain bullets at us.

I ducked quickly, but not so fast that I missed the sight of Hugo in the convertible, with his head down on the wheel. Either he had been shot or he had passed out, but either way he was out of the picture.