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“Hands where we can see them. Nice and high. Now, lace them around the back of your heads, thank you,” the man said as both of his accomplices fanned out, lightning-fast, to gather the bank managers and customers who had been on the opposite side of the space. “The security cameras and silent alarms have been disabled,” the leader said to the two tellers behind the bullet-resistant barrier. “Your cell phones have been jammed and the rear exit has been blocked. You can try testing the limits of that glass, if you like.” He shrugged, glancing down at the high-powered weapon in his grasp. “But I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“Oh, God. This isn’t happening.”
Camila realized two things belatedly. One was that she’d actually spoken the words out loud, albeit in a panicked whisper, and two was that Roman had, at some point in the last five seconds, shifted to put his body in front of hers. He dropped his voice to a barely audible murmur that slid from the corner of his mouth.
“You’re going to be okay, Camila. Just breathe.”
His words penetrated the fear that had been keeping rational thoughts from forming. Camila forced herself to take a breath, although her throat was still knotted and the hands she’d laced behind her head had to be visibly trembling. It was enough, though. She’d worked in a middle school for three years now. Yeah, it might be her fifth—and probably not last—career path, but she’d done active shooter training in a dozen different scenarios. She was smart. Qualified. Prepared. She knew the key to survival was staying calm.
And she wasgoingto survive.
Taking another breath, Camila tried to focus, to see what was in front of her like a drawing. The other two men, one hulking and the other smaller and lean, had forced everyone from the opposite side of the lobby into the space where she and Roman were standing, in front of the tellers’ counter. She counted five people—two bank employees, one middle-aged man, and a woman clutching the hand of a terrified-looking preteen. The sight of the young girl bolstered Camila’s resolve to stay calm so they could all get out of this situation unharmed, and she forced her hands to stop shaking so she could think. Roman remained perfectly quiet in front of her, but his muscles had tightened ever so slightly. Camila clocked his line of sight and realized he must have seen the crying preteen.
The girl was clearly terrified, her steps shaky and small, and the woman with her wasn’t faring much better as they stuttered into place on Roman’s other side. Camila heard his voice, too low for her to catch the words but not for her to miss the calm certainty in his tone, and the woman nodded almost imperceptibly.
The two robbers didn’t waste so much as a millisecond after bringing everyone to the counter, moving toward the security door to bring the pair of tellers to the lobby with everyone else—God, they were so fast—and before Camila could register another thing, the leader pointed his gun at the security guard, who looked even more dazed than the rest of them.
“We’re going to need that weapon.”
The guard, whose hands were already up and pressed against the back of his head, didn’t protest as the muscle-bound robber stripped him of the handgun on his hip. Slipping the weapon into the utility belt slung over his hips, the robber grabbed the guard by the back of his shirt, shoving him toward the cluster of patrons so roughly that the man stumbled and fell to his knees.
The leader’s head whipped toward his accomplice, but his only words were to the guard. “Stay there.”
Oh, God. Oh, God, the man was unarmed. Would they hurt him anyway? And what could she possibly do if they did?
Wait.Wait.Roman was an FBI agent. Maybe he had a weapon. Or, at least, a plan.
Camila’s eyes zeroed in on Roman’s torso, her heart thundering in her ears, but she didn’t see a holster or a service weapon beneath his suit jacket as he stood in front of her with his fingers laced behind his head. She’d been around her brother and everyone in the Intelligence Unit enough to know that most cops didn’t run their errands armed, so it made sense that Roman didn’t seem to be.
It was theonlything that made sense right now, and as weird as it was, Camila clung to the fact that Roman was beside her like a freaking lifeline. If staying calm was part of his plan, she had to make it part of hers.
She had to make it out of this alive.
Past the mouth covering on his tactical mask, the leader said, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We have several goals for the next few minutes. They don’t include hurting any of you unless you give us good reason to. Don’t do anything stupid, and you’ll all walk out of here.”
The tension in Roman’s shoulders relaxed at that, if only by a tiny fraction, and okay, that must be a good sign. Camila might not have any love lost for the guy, but he was a freaking FBI agent. He’d stared down buckets full of danger on the case he’d worked with the Intelligence Unit last year that had saved her best friend Delia’s life.
Of course, the tension came winging right back when the leader added, “But if you do, you’ll be carried out in a body bag. Your choice.”
He pointed his gun at the female bank manager, whose face was drawn and very, very pale. “We’ll be needing your services in the back, Rosalie. Everyone else”—the other two robbers held their weapons at the ready—“Face-down, on the ground.”
He waved his gun in a way that motivated them all to move quickly. Everyone other than the bank manager, anyway.
“Me?” she gasped, her breath shallow and tight, her forehead dotted with sweat. The muscle-bound robber took a menacing step toward the woman, and Camila’s mouth moved to instinctively tell him to stop.
But Roman spoke first. “I’ll go.”
All the air in the room seemed to vanish as the three robbers turned their weapons toward him in unison. Camila’s heart vaulted against her sternum, beating so hard she could barely hear anything other than its insistent slamming against her eardrums. Yet Roman remained ridiculously cool. He knelt beside her, immovably still except for his eyes, which he trained on the leader.
The man didn’t even seem to think twice. “No.” He looked at the bank manager. “Now, Rosalie. I don’t have time to waste. The rest of you”—his stare landed back on Roman, his tone brooking no argument—“on the ground.Now.”
Rosalie choked down a breath, looking even more pale than she had less than a minute ago. She complied, though, stepping toward the accomplices as everyone else followed the leader’s demand. Getting to the floor with her hands laced behind her head wasn’t easy, and the move brought Camila close enough to Roman that their elbows touched. The leader positioned himself directly between the group and the counter, giving himself a clear line of sight to both as he kept his attention on the group of them now prone on the marble floor.
“Go,” he said, sending a micro-glance at his watch. “Twenty behind.”
The muscle-bound robber jerked his chin, shoving Rosalie toward the door leading behind the counter and stabbing a finger at the access panel. Rosalie punched in her security code with trembling hands, her chest hitching as she gulped for air. Camila bit down on the urge to protest—the woman looked like she could barely stand—her belly filling with dread when both accomplices propped the door open and pushed Rosalie over the threshold and out of sight. The preteen, who was on Roman’s other side, began to cry again. Camila’s heart lurched, her panic beginning to rekindle.
But, once again, the low timbre of Roman’s voice, notched barely above a whisper, threaded past her fear. His face was turned toward the girl, whose cries subsided after a few seconds, and Camila took a deep breath, her resolve set.
