Page 84 of Lela's Choice

If Giovanni Vella was paying attention—and he wasn’t a stupid man—he’d have worked out that Hamish was in love with Lela, and that he’d never separate her from her family.

When Hamish had sorted this case, he’d go to her, beg her for another chance.

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AWEEK LATER, HAMISHstood at the windows of his fifth-floor building. The outlook provided a clear view of the central plaza below. The busyness and activity of people going about their daily tasks—of flower vendors spruiking their wares, of sunseekers on benches in those pockets of the plaza still attracting the sun’s attention—usually distracted him, emptied his mind of tedious detail and allowed his subconscious to solve intractable problems.

Today something was different. Shielded from noise, a silent movie played out in front of him. Police and tactical response vehicles moved in from all directions. His office had had no warning of a drill. Another terrorist siege? Intent on answers, he turned to his desk.

“Hamish.” His second-in-command popped his head around the door. “We’ve had an early alert from the cops. They said to prepare the building for a lockdown.”

“What’s up? I’ve spotted the response squad.”

“Trouble a block up. Tipoff is a domestic gone wrong.”

“Why the heavy response?”

“Someone spotted an assault weapon and a backpack that could be rigged with explosives. They’ve taken hostages at West Nat. Isn’t that where the Vella daughter works?”

No!

The word roared through Hamish in instant denial. His brain, processing facts with robot-like precision, moved faster than his body, still sitting in his chair. Standard business hours, Lela would be working, would be inside the building, possibly facing a thug with a gun.

She didn’t know he loved her. He had a plan—a stupid, stupid plan to tell her when the time was right—for him.

“Are you okay, Hamish?”

He met the concerned gaze of his colleague. “Take care of everyone here. I have to go.”

“The police have already closed the block.”

“I have to go.” Hamish snagged his jacket off the back of the door, shoved his phone in his pocket and headed out. “Lifts still open?” he threw over his shoulder.

“When I came in they were.”

Hamish pressed the button for the garage. If any move had been made to lock down this building, an exit would be easier from there. He didn’t want to fight anyone, but he had to be as physically close to her as he could get. Remembering phones on silent could be used in a lockdown, he took the risk and texted her.

“Lela, please let me know you’re okay.”

The tension in the air was palpable when he slipped out of the garage and into the crowd. An inexorable push of people away from the plaza in front of West Nat. Ambulances and fire engines now ringed the plaza. Media vans were parked further away. The choreography of dealing with a hostage crisis played out according to the pre-arranged plan—sealing the buildings closest to the plaza and evacuating people from open space and nearby buildings to a safe distance.

Where are you?Alone? Afraid? Damn it, she was just as likely to be standing in front of another woman or child to protect them.

Police were at the back of the crowd, calmly shepherding the horde away from the crisis. The hum of excited, anxious and confused voices carried rising fear, while the police carried out their orders with inexorable efficiency, professional and unshakeable.

Adrenalin pumped through him, his eyes darting everywhere at once, looking for an opportunity to get closer. West Nat was cordoned off, but he could get closer. Close enough to see who went in and came out of the building.

The crowd surrounded him, and the police were mere metres away. He ducked back inside the garage and dropped down behind a car.

The spider crawled slowly around his watch face. Three minutes and no word. He willed Lela to respond, but wouldn’t chance another message. The thought of never seeing her again, never hearing—No!

Studying the crowd and the cops, he worked out a plan. The cops were sweeping the area in waves, picking up stragglers or those, like himself, who were reluctant to leave. Their reasons might be as good or better than his, but when he spotted a guy gesticulating wildly and swinging punches at the cops, he took his chance. Slipping out behind them, he ran the fifty yards to his regular café on the corner of the plaza. Bent double, he leaned into the door. Locked.

He signalled wildly at the man peeping under a drawn window shade to the right of the door, eyes rolling with fear.

“Man, we’re not allowed to take any more customers.” The barista, who served him daily, squeezed the door open a crack.

Hamish gripped the side of the door, forced it open further and pushed through, letting it slam behind him. “Not here for coffee,” he grunted.

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