Aaron's trash bag was getting heavy; he pictured it ripping wide open and wondered what he would do if it did.

He came upon the dead hostage a the frozen expression of death by surprise. Aaron tried to lift the bulky bag over the sizable pool of blood that had spread into the surrounding carpet, but the thin black plastic just stretched and dragged through the blood, leaving a crimson trail as he pa.s.sed.

The blue smoke effect was rapidly dissipating as Souther paced the floor in the center of the lobby, his rifle hanging in one hand, his eyes and teeth flashing through the holes in his ski mask.

"Let's be generous, shall we?" he said. "A wedding ring is not worth your f.u.c.king life."

Jim Walden appeared from the back dragging four heavy duffel bags; he was soaked to the skin with sweat and looked to have aged ten years. Needles followed, a stride behind, the barrel of his rifle making a dent in Jim's back.

Souther was openly pleased. "I'll take those," he said. Jim slid the straps off of his narrow shoulders and the money slumped to the floor at Souther's feet.

"Go join the others," Souther said.

Jim nodded and did as he was told. As he pa.s.sed the dead hostage, he paused to spread his suit jacket over the victim's face.

Souther saw that Aaron was finishing up as well. He pulled the little kitchen timer out of his jumpsuit pocket, set the dial to five minutes, and placed it on the carpet between the empty smoke canisters. Then he stepped back and looked around at the hostages.

"Listen up!" he shouted. "When that bell rings you are free to go about your business." He indicated the timer. "Until then, stay where you are and no one else gets hurt."

He and Needles gathered up their loot and headed for the door. Aaron brought up the rear, dragging his bag behind him.

Suddenly he stopped, let go of the bag, and pulled the gun out of his pocket.

"I QUIT!" he screamed, and a deafening silence absorbed his words like a padded coffin.

Souther turned to see the barrel of his 9mm pointing straight at him. He recalled having left the gun on the floor of the van and kicked himself for being an idiot.

"Nice move, kid," he said calmly. "What's going on?"

The enormity of Aaron's predicament burst upon him like a thunderclap and his heart dropped into his shoes.

This monster would just as soon kill me right now as wipe his nose, he thought. But I can't just shoot him a can I? Oh, G.o.d ... what have I done ...

His thoughts trailed off. Time slowed and the pistol grew heavy in his hands. For a brief torturous moment he considered turning the gun on himself. Then he began to cry.

"I can't do this any more," he said. "I can't do this to these people."

"It's just stuff, kid," Souther said, sounding coldly imperious. "They'll get over it."

Aaron held the gun steady. "That's bulls.h.i.t!" he shouted. "They won't get over it! One of them is dead because of you! You murdered him!" He quickly wiped his eyes with the arm of his jumpsuit, knocking his ski mask slightly askew. "Do you know what I think? I think you're nothing but a big bully! You act tough all the time to cover up the fact that inside you're a coward a a blood-thirsty psycho who kills people because he can't think of a better way to get things done!"

Souther took a slow, deep breath, removed his hat, and held out his hand. "Hand over the gun, kid," he said.

"No! I won't!" Aaron cried. "Give it back! Give all the money back!" He tried to kick his trash bag away, but it was too heavy and his shoe simply crunched into the contents.

A crackle over the radios made him jump.

"Time to rock, motherf.u.c.kers!" Beeks said in a distorted walkie-talkie voice.

"Copy that," Needles replied, keeping his rifle on the hostages.

"Come on, kid," Souther said. "The cops will be a"

"Give it back!" Aaron cried. He took aim at Souther's forehead with a deadly two-handed grip. "ALL OF IT!"

"Okay, kid ... take it easy," Souther said. "I'm giving it back." He slowly lowered his duffel bags to the floor. "Look ... Here's the money ... I'm giving it back." One of the bags fell open and a few stacks of $100 bills spilled out onto the carpet.

"You, too, Needles!" Aaron said with a wave of his pistol.

Needles eased the bags off of his shoulder.

"Okay, now get the h.e.l.l out of here!" Aaron said.

"No problem, kid," Souther said. "You can put away the gun. We're leaving ..." He took a couple of steps back, then turned to leave. "Let's go," he said to Needles.

Needles gave Aaron a look that said, I hope you know, kid, you're digging a hole you can't easily un-dig, here. Then he stepped over the empty smoke canisters and followed Souther across the trashed lobby toward the door.

Aaron lowered his weapon and looked at the hostages. His ski mask was soaked with tears. They looked at him like he had just descended from heaven.

He found himself oddly amused by the h.e.l.lish absurdity of his situation and nearly laughed out loud. Then a morbid chill ran through him and he thought, Is this what it feels like to go insane?

Suddenly the little timer bell went DING!

Souther swung around in the doorway and fired a single shot.

Aaron staggered back, dropped the gun, and gripped his chest. He looked at Souther, at Needles, at the hostages, blinking through his eye holes like a World War I recruit who's discovered that his gas mask has a leak. He looked down and sucked a quick breath in through his teeth. A heavy flow of dark red blood oozed from between his black-leather knuckles and dripped on the rolled-up cuffs of his white jumpsuit. Oh, G.o.d, he thought; then his eyesight flooded red, then black, and he lost consciousness before hitting the floor.

Needles ran and knelt at Aaron's side, screaming at Souther. "You f.u.c.king son-of-b.i.t.c.h! You shot him! You shot the G.o.dd.a.m.n kid!"

The hostages were hysterical.

Souther fired a quick burst over their heads. "Anyone else want to be part of the show?" he shouted, trying to maintain control.

Needles laid down his rifle and checked Aaron's pulse.

Souther shouldered the duffel bags and rifles. "Let's get the f.u.c.k out of here, man!" he yelled. Panic teased at him and the walls of the bank started to close in on him.

Needles unzipped his white jumpsuit, stripped to his undershirt, and packed Aaron's wound with his shirt. He lifted Aaron enough to see that the bullet had pa.s.sed cleanly through the shoulder. Then he packed the exit wound as well. Finally he yanked off his undershirt and wrapped it tightly around Aaron's chest, completing the makeshift bandage.

BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ! Jim Walden had triggered the bank's alarm.

"Leave the kid, d.a.m.n it!" Souther shouted over the din. "We gotta f.u.c.king bounce, man!"

Needles looked up at Souther. "Aaron is right. You are a f.u.c.king coward." He gathered the boy up in his arms. "And we aren't leavin' him ..."

Thunder and drenching rain pounded the robbers as they exited the bank a Souther with the money bags and a.s.sault rifles, Needles naked to the waist with the dying boy in his arms. Beeks was ready with the engine running; he spotted them and sped forward to pick them up. Everyone loaded into the van and Beeks spun the tires on the wet pavement as they swerved off down the street.

In the distance, sirens ...

Chapter 38.

Doctor in the House Beeks drove hard, heading south, in the direction of the cannery. His worried eyes filled the rear view mirror.

"What's goin' down, bro?" he asked Needles.

"The kid got shot," Needles replied from the back of the van.

"You're s.h.i.ttin' me ... What kinda piece-of-s.h.i.t son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h a.s.shole would shoot a d.a.m.n a"

"Shut up and drive," Souther said.

Needles carefully removed Aaron's ski mask and stroked the boy's matted hair back from his face. He tucked a folded duffel bag under Aaron's head and sprinkled a few drops of water onto his dry lips.

The black van pulled into the cannery and skidded to a stop. Beeks jumped out and ran around to open the rear doors. Needles helped him take Aaron into his arms.

Souther dragged a leather briefcase out of the van and started for the door. "You should have left him," he said. "He's dead either way."

"Bring him into the break room," Needles told Beeks, ignoring Souther. "We have to move fast."

Beeks cradled the boy in his huge arms and followed Needles. "What're you gonna do with him in there?" he asked.

"I'm a doctor. What do you think I'm going to do with him?"

"What the h.e.l.l you talkin' 'bout? You ain't no d.a.m.n doctor."

Souther stepped out onto the sidewalk and rolled the big steel door closed behind him.

Chapter 39.

The Blue Door Souther walked four blocks east along the waterfront before turning two blocks north. He arrived at a small, gray, two-story building with no windows and a single royal blue entry door. Above the door was a small black sign with white lettering that read BLACK EAGLE STUDIOS. The door was secured with a hasp and heavy padlock. Souther removed a small bra.s.s key from his briefcase and unlocked the lock. Then he stepped inside, leaving the door ajar.

A pair of shiny black sedans were parked nearby. From the first car emerged four beautiful teenage girls dressed in provocative attire; from the second stepped a striking redhead in her middle twenties. She tossed her long flaming hair back from her face and checked the street. Then together the ladies followed Johnny Souther inside and closed the blue door behind them.

Chapter 40.

The E.R.

The thugs slammed through the door into the cannery break room.

"Over here," Needles said, clearing the large wooden table with one long sweep of his arm.

Beeks laid Aaron gently down on the makeshift operating table. Needles lit a gasoline lantern, placed it for optimum light, then checked the unconscious boy's pulse.

"I think he's dyin'," Beeks said.

"I'll be the one that says who's dying," Needles said. "Boil some water."

"What? How much?"

"A pot full, you idiot. Don't you watch any movies?"

"More than you, motherf.u.c.ker," Beeks said. He found a pot and set some water to boil. Needles positioned two more lamps.

"Where the h.e.l.l did Souther go?" Beeks asked.

"How should I know ... home to Brandy Fine, I suppose." He paused. He hadn't seen Souther's girlfriend in over a year and was curious as to why she suddenly came to mind. "Who gives a d.a.m.n, anyway?" he said at last.

"Well, excuse me for makin' conversation," Beeks said.

Needles yanked open a cupboard and slid out a large s...o...b..x. He spread out a clean towel, removed the lid from the s...o...b..x, and dumped the contents. Out spilled an array of surgical equipment: scalpels, scissors, forceps, clamps, suturing materials, sponges, masks, miscellaneous bottles, bandages and hypodermic needles.

He sorted through the items. "Did anyone ever tell you you talk too much?"

"No ... maybe you, I guess," Beeks said.

"Well, you do."

"f.u.c.k you."