(no subject)
Because White Plains is the County Seat of Westchester County, the Westchester County Police share their facilities with the city police. Therefore--given the bombs--New York State Police from the barracks in Hawthorne are the first on the scene at White Plains Prep. According to Dispatch, the FBI agents sent up from the city are currently locked up on the I-90, where a thirteen car pile-up has dragged things to a halt. As if a Saturday night in May when six other high schools were holding prom wasn't traffic jam enough.
It's the opinion of Major Dwayne T. Robinson that his Troopers have done an outstanding job under the circumstances. The hostage negotiator from White Plains PD was killed instantly, and he handled the negotiations himself, including the uneviable task of actually getting the cash at this time of night on a weekend out Westchester bankers who more or less define the word conservative, at least when it comes to money. Millions of dollars; fortunately the parents involved have that kind of money, but just because money is technically yours doesn't mean a banker is going to be in any rush to give it back to you. Major Robinson knows that quite well.
Now they're waiting. The waiting bothers him, because it's one more thread in the huge tapestry of things that don't make sense here. The fighting that broke out in the parking lot (he's forced to conclude that they decided to begin fighting among themselves, apparently with knives at one point), the exploded vans (poor handling of munitions?), the fire across the street (...coincidence?); none of these things add up, but least of all waiting for an escort vehicle to return when there are more than enough operational vehicles left waiting in the parking lot. Maybe they don't trust the State police not to have tampered with them, but there's no way they'll all fit in one of these vans; Major Robinson is half expecting a semi-truck or something to come rolling up.
If they're coming by way of I-90 and not the Triborough, it's going to be a long wait. He's gotten more than a hundred students out of that building tonight, by hook or by crook; some of them have gone home, and some of them wait behind the barricades, solemn in the formal wear, looking like refugees from a funeral. But all anyone will ever remember--the papers, the FBI, the superintendent, the citizens, and Major Robinson himself most of all--are the five still inside, if he doesn't get them out.
And the truth is, he doesn't think it's very likely.
***
The original plan called for two sentries at each entrance; in theory they brought more than enough troops to deal with any casualties incurred capturing the gunslinger.
So much for theory.
There's only one sentry on the front door of the school; he stares out across the parking lot with the same sick tension in his stomach as the Troopers and County Mounties looking across the parking lot at him. Between them are the burned and broken bodies of his compatriots, after all. He knows those guys; served with them overseas or on (yes, sometimes illegal) missions here in the States.
He just wants this shit to be over.
When the quiet blue van re-appears, with the psychic who is their only ticket back to the real world, his first reaction, just like everyone else in the parking lot, is relief. His second reaction is confusion, as the van comes to a stop.
The psychic is driving; one of the girls is with her at gunpoint. (The other, the gunslinger girl, is gone, and good riddance.)
"What the fuck is going on?"
The psychic looks terrified, but then she's looked that way every time he's ever seen her. "Tell the Captain I'm back. I've got to report to her."
Jesus, is that blood on her uniform?
"Yeah, but--"
"Do it." The psychic's voice is shrill, and the gun in her hand trembles, socked at the back of the dark-haired girl's head. The girl herself is blank and calm as a tombstone. "Just tell her we're back and let her handle it, for God's sakes."
"Yeah." He nods. Good idea. Let someone else handle it.
It's a brief, quiet conversation over the Bluetooth; he knows the State guys can listen in, so he keeps it quick and calm, and so does the Captain, but he can tell she's freaked out, too. Hell, they all are, but hearing it in her voice doesn't make it any better.
"Affirmative, ma'am," he says. "Sending them in now."
It's the opinion of Major Dwayne T. Robinson that his Troopers have done an outstanding job under the circumstances. The hostage negotiator from White Plains PD was killed instantly, and he handled the negotiations himself, including the uneviable task of actually getting the cash at this time of night on a weekend out Westchester bankers who more or less define the word conservative, at least when it comes to money. Millions of dollars; fortunately the parents involved have that kind of money, but just because money is technically yours doesn't mean a banker is going to be in any rush to give it back to you. Major Robinson knows that quite well.
Now they're waiting. The waiting bothers him, because it's one more thread in the huge tapestry of things that don't make sense here. The fighting that broke out in the parking lot (he's forced to conclude that they decided to begin fighting among themselves, apparently with knives at one point), the exploded vans (poor handling of munitions?), the fire across the street (...coincidence?); none of these things add up, but least of all waiting for an escort vehicle to return when there are more than enough operational vehicles left waiting in the parking lot. Maybe they don't trust the State police not to have tampered with them, but there's no way they'll all fit in one of these vans; Major Robinson is half expecting a semi-truck or something to come rolling up.
If they're coming by way of I-90 and not the Triborough, it's going to be a long wait. He's gotten more than a hundred students out of that building tonight, by hook or by crook; some of them have gone home, and some of them wait behind the barricades, solemn in the formal wear, looking like refugees from a funeral. But all anyone will ever remember--the papers, the FBI, the superintendent, the citizens, and Major Robinson himself most of all--are the five still inside, if he doesn't get them out.
And the truth is, he doesn't think it's very likely.
***
The original plan called for two sentries at each entrance; in theory they brought more than enough troops to deal with any casualties incurred capturing the gunslinger.
So much for theory.
There's only one sentry on the front door of the school; he stares out across the parking lot with the same sick tension in his stomach as the Troopers and County Mounties looking across the parking lot at him. Between them are the burned and broken bodies of his compatriots, after all. He knows those guys; served with them overseas or on (yes, sometimes illegal) missions here in the States.
He just wants this shit to be over.
When the quiet blue van re-appears, with the psychic who is their only ticket back to the real world, his first reaction, just like everyone else in the parking lot, is relief. His second reaction is confusion, as the van comes to a stop.
The psychic is driving; one of the girls is with her at gunpoint. (The other, the gunslinger girl, is gone, and good riddance.)
"What the fuck is going on?"
The psychic looks terrified, but then she's looked that way every time he's ever seen her. "Tell the Captain I'm back. I've got to report to her."
Jesus, is that blood on her uniform?
"Yeah, but--"
"Do it." The psychic's voice is shrill, and the gun in her hand trembles, socked at the back of the dark-haired girl's head. The girl herself is blank and calm as a tombstone. "Just tell her we're back and let her handle it, for God's sakes."
"Yeah." He nods. Good idea. Let someone else handle it.
It's a brief, quiet conversation over the Bluetooth; he knows the State guys can listen in, so he keeps it quick and calm, and so does the Captain, but he can tell she's freaked out, too. Hell, they all are, but hearing it in her voice doesn't make it any better.
"Affirmative, ma'am," he says. "Sending them in now."