Brett lowered the bullhorn and looked at Ryan standing beside him. “You sure they’re in there?”
Ryan nodded. “Positive. Nobody’s come or gone since I saw the one entering twenty minutes ago.”
George said, “Maybe they’re discussing their surrender.”
Ryan grinned. “If they know what’s best for them, those two will hurry out with their tails between their legs.”
The three of them stood in the parking lot forty yards away from Room 9, two oversized Dodge Rams flanking them. One was Brett’s, the other was Blake’s, who had headed around the end of the building to keep an eye on the bathroom window in case the two escapees got it into their heads that they could slip out the back.
“Do it again,” Ryan said.
Brett looked down at the bullhorn in his hand. In his other hand, he gripped a Glock 19. Strapped over his shoulder was an AR-15. Ryan and George had similar AR-15s strapped over their shoulders, as did Blake back behind the motel. Each rifle fully loaded, with an extra magazine just in case. Which hopefully they would not need, but these were violent criminals, murderers, men who had escaped a maximum-security prison, so they weren’t taking any chances.
“Hey,” Ryan said to Brett. “Do it again.”
Brett said, “How positive are you those are the guys?”
“I said I was positive.”
“Maybe they’re just two faggots on their honeymoon or something.”
Ryan reached out and grabbed the bullhorn from Brett. He held it to his mouth.
“Hey, you two assholes in there better come out in the next five seconds or it ain’t gonna be pretty!”
George sniggered. He had his AR-15 raised, the stock against his shoulder, his eye lined up with the sight aimed straight at the door.
Ryan said, “Five!”
Nothing.
“Four!”
Still nothing.
“Three!”
The door opened. Not entirely, just a couple inches.
George’s finger touched the rifle’s trigger as Brett aimed his Glock, and Ryan, fumbling, dropped the bullhorn to grab his own rifle.
A man yelled from inside Room 9, “We have a hostage!”
The three teenagers shot each other quick, uncertain looks.
Ryan shouted, “Who do you have?”
“A woman!”
“Prove it!”
For a long moment nothing happened, and then the door opened even wider and a woman leaned out. She was young, in her early thirties, short dark hair. She looked terrified.
“Please,” she sobbed, “don’t let them—”
She screamed as she was yanked back into the room.
Brett kept his aim on the open motel room door when he whispered, “Maybe we should call the police.”
Ryan shouted, “You need to let her go!”
Silence.
Brett whispered, “I don’t like this.”
“Shut up,” Ryan whispered back. Then shouted, “Hey, assholes! Did you hear what I said?”
From inside the room, the man’s voice shouted back, “If we let her go, what do we get in return?”
Ryan didn’t hesitate. He shouted, “We won’t kill you!”
More silence. It lasted maybe ten seconds before the man shouted again.
“I don’t believe you!”
Ryan shouted, “You let her go first, then come out with your hands up, and we’ll make sure the police take you back to prison! Nobody’s gotta get hurt!”
Brett whispered again, “I don’t like this.”
Ryan said nothing. He kept his aim straight at the open door.
“Okay!” the man inside Room 9 shouted. “We’re letting her go!”
The woman reappeared a moment later. She stepped out of the room slowly at first, looking back inside as if a weapon was aimed at her. Then she was on the walkway and glanced up and saw the three teenagers with their weapons trained on her and froze.
Ryan said, “It’s okay. We’re here to help. Come on, hurry!”
She didn’t move. Just stood there, as if stunned. She said, her voice trembling, “There—there—there are only three of you?”
“And one around back,” Ryan said. “Come on!”
Ashley hurried forward. The three teenagers stayed motionless, keeping their weapons aimed at Room 9, until she reached them. She started crying, tears in her eyes, her entire body shaking violently.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God!” she sobbed.
“It’s okay,” Ryan said. “Stay behind us.” He shouted at the motel room, “Okay, time for you two guys to come out with your hands up!”
Nothing happened. Several long seconds passed with no answer. In fact, it was completely silent. Even the girl had stopped sobbing.
Ryan glanced back to check on her, and that was when she punched him in the face. He stumbled back, stepped on the bullhorn, twisted his ankle, and fell to the ground. His rifle fell with him too, clattering to the pavement.
At that same moment, Sean stepped out of Room 9. He fired the Colt several times, first at Brett, then at George. Not a skilled marksman by any account, his shots were steady but wide. One of them hit Brett in his left arm. Another hit George in his kneecap. That was it. Still, enough to put one of the boys down momentarily and give Ashley enough time to grab the rifle Ryan had dropped and bring it up and, at such close range, fire straight into Ryan’s chest. Then she turned and fired into Brett’s chest. By that point, Sean had advanced across the parking lot, placed the muzzle to George’s head, and pulled the trigger.
Blake, who'd heard the gunfire, had abandoned his post behind the motel and hurried around to the parking lot. Seeing what had become of his friends, he fired at Sean and Ashley who dove for cover behind one of the pickup trucks. Blake rushed forward, and as he neared, Sean circled the pickup and stepped up behind Blake and fired two rounds into Blake’s back.
“You okay?” Sean asked Ashley.
She looked down at herself as if to make sure, then nodded.
“Check one of the pickups for a key,” he said, heading back toward Room 9.
“Where are you going?”
“To finish what I started.”
“We need to leave!”
“Just get the pickup ready!” he shouted, stepping up onto the walkway and entering the room, the Colt aimed, in case Logan had slipped out of the bathroom during the shootout and was right now hiding behind the door.
The room was vacant. The bathroom door still closed.
Sean kicked at the door once, twice, three times. On the fourth kick, the door finally gave way and swung inward. He stepped in, the Colt raised, but the bathroom was empty. The window open, the screen pushed out from where Logan must have climbed through.
Out in the parking lot, Ashley leaned on one of the pickup’s horns.
Sean grabbed her purse off the TV stand and hurried back outside. He paused by one of the teenagers wearing a cowboy hat. He grabbed the hat, the kid’s Glock 19 and AR-15 and extra magazines, and opened the driver’s door and told Ashley to move over.
As she climbed into the passenger seat, Ashley asked, “Logan?”
“Slipped out the back.”
“He’ll contact the FBI.”
“Yes, but by that point we’ll be long gone,” Sean said, putting the Dodge Ram in drive, stomping on the gas, and whipping them out of the parking lot onto the main road.