Step on a Crack (Michael Bennett 1)

No, Conlan realized as the hijacker stared at the screen and started pressing buttons with his thumbs. He was playing a video game.

Conlan coughed twice. His signal. Todd Snow at the front pew sat up and shot him a look. Conlan nodded as Mercedes, sitting at the end of one of the middle pews, tugged the passing hijacker’s robe.

Let’s roll.

When the hijacker turned, Snow bolted over the front pew, hopped silently over the rail, and disappeared under the skirt of the altar.

Conlan swiveled his head to see if the hijacker at the rear had noticed. Nope, still into his game.

Conlan could hear Mercedes chatting up the other punk.

“I’m going a little crazy,” Mercedes hissed. “C’mon, you and me. I’m serious. Give me a kiss at least.”

The hijacker’s Adam’s apple bulged. He glanced back at his partner, then leaned down and started tongue kissing the pop singer through his mask. His hands were all over her chest.

“Not here in front of everybody. Behind the altar,” Mercedes whispered breathlessly.

The hijacker squinted back at his partner.

“What? I’m not worth it?” Mercedes said. She walked her fingers down the gunman’s robe. Stopped right above his crotch. “Believe me, I’m worth it.”

“Behind the altar?” he said. “You’re even dirtier than your videos. All right, let’s go.”

Conlan exhaled as Mercedes rose in her pew. This was it.

Two things would happen now. Snow would stomp the hijacker behind the altar, and Conlan would rush the gunman at the back rail. Then they would have two guns, and maybe they’d have a chance to get out of this alive.

Charlie Conlan wiped the sweat from his palms. He knew how risky this was. But it was either fight or wait to be shot like Rooney.

He glanced up at the altar again. Mercedes and the hijacker were glued together as they hurried up the steps.

Now.

Conlan stood in his pew. Suddenly there was an unexpected explosion. What felt like a steel fist slammed into the small of his back.

There was another explosion, and an iron blow caught him in the chin. Without knowing how it had happened, he was down on his back, numb and bleeding, struggling to stay conscious.

He heard Todd Snow yell out. Snow had been rushing toward the gangly hijacker when three others suddenly appeared. They fired on him—rubber bullets!

Conlan watched, horrified, as the quarterback dropped. Then Little John walked out from the larger church. He stepped up to Snow.

“You thought you could take us? You? That old man?” Little John said as he put his boot on Snow’s chest.

Slowly, almost ceremoniously, he took a rubber bullet gun from one of his colleagues. He placed its bore between the athlete’s eyes. Then he seemed to reconsider. Instead, he placed the muzzle on the star’s right hand, his throwing hand. He stepped on the wrist to hold it still.

“Interference,” Little John yelled in a canned ref’s voice. “Ten yards. First down. And I’m placing you on the permanent DL.”

The pop of the gun firing was swallowed by Snow’s scream.

Conlan looked on as Mercedes Freer walked up to Little John. What the hell was she doing now?

He watched as she was handed a cell phone. Then a cigarette. He realized what had happened as Little John chivalrously lit it for her.

“You sold us out,” Conlan croaked. “You insane little bitch.”

Mercedes rolled her eyes at Conlan.

“Merry Christmas, Momma,” Conlan heard her say into the cell phone as the numbness in his face started to warm. “Stop cryin’,” he heard her say. “It’s okay. These boys aren’t so bad. They’ll let me go, don’t you worry about it. One thing you taught Mercedes is how to take care of herself.”