Shit. McMillan’s horrible reputation with juvenile offenders. She should have guessed back when Colby had first started talking about punk kids.
Martin stepped into the kid’s line of fire and Tiffani felt all her breath lock itself up inside her chest. He held up his hands.
“Your problem is with the judge, isn’t it,” he said. His voice was smooth, calming. “Not with anyone else here. You don’t want to hurt any of these people. Let me send them outside.”
“They’ll call the police!”
“No,” Martin said. “No, they won’t. They’re scared and they just want to get out of here. Let me send them out.”
If the kid thought about that for even a second, he had to realize that that was insane. Of course they would call the police. Tiffani would guarantee that multiple 911 texts, tweets, and alerts had already been sent out from people frantically fiddling with their phones on their laps.
But Martin was reassuring. She knew that firsthand.
It took several tense minutes of negotiation, but finally the kid let most of the people go. First he sent out the spectators, who filed out as quickly as they could, clearly terror-stricken. Then he let the lawyers and witnesses go. Finally he let the bailiff take out the defendant, who seemed to vaguely resent having been upstaged at his own trial.
“She can go too,” the kid said, gesturing to Tiffani. “You can go too.”
She really wished he wouldn’t wave at her with the hand holding the gun. “No, thank you.”
He blinked at her. “Are you crazy?”
“No,” she said calmly. “I’m just dating the man you’ve been talking to and I don’t want to leave him here alone.”
He boggled at that and she wondered if he had ever even had a girlfriend or a boyfriend. God, he was so young.
“I’ll be fine,” Martin said. His voice was strained but steady. “Please go, sweetheart. I’ll feel better knowing you’re safe.”
Tiffani hesitated—she wanted to know that he was safe, too—but she couldn’t miss the fear in his eyes. It hadn’t really shown up in force until she had refused to leave.
He knew what he was doing. The last thing she wanted was to be a distraction.
So, feeling like she was about to cry, she nodded. “Okay. I love you.” She swallowed. “I’ll see you outside.”
“Nobody’s going outside!” the kid yelped. He pushed his hand back through his hair, making it all stand up in sweaty spikes. He waved the gun back and forth wildly. “No, we’re done, we’re done here.”
“Just let her go out with the others,” Martin said.
“No! I can’t deal with all this!”
“It’s just one more person. You just said she could go.”
“And now I’m saying she can’t! Nobody moves. I just need to think. All of you need to shut up.”
Martin looked at Tiffani. Now the fear had turned to desperation and determination. His jaw was locked. He gave her a small nod. They were in it together now. He might not have chosen it, and it might not be a good idea, but she was as stuck there as he was. The kids was too panicky now to risk further argument.
This was the end-game. A couple of hostages, a teenage gunman, and a pegasus.
She didn’t want anything to happen to any of them—she was almost as worried about this young, freaked-out kid as she was worried about McMillan, the man he had come to hurt.
Though most of all, she was worried about Martin.
Chapter Nineteen: Martin
Most of all, he was worried about Tiffani.
Some part of him had been touched when sh
e had refused to leave the courtroom on his account, but the smarter, more conscious part of him had groaned in dismay. She had to go. She had no weapon, no training in hostage negotiation, no surprise karate skills—unless she had forgotten to tell him about them. And somehow he didn’t think that was very likely.