Ransom River Read Online Free PDF

ceiling.
    “Well?” Nixon said.
    “Here.”
    A man scrabbled in his pants pocket, pulled out a phone, and tossed it on the floor like it had bitten him.
    “Anybody else?” Nixon said.
    Nobody spoke up. He pushed a button on the device and walked up the aisle.
    “Okay.” Crying, a woman pulled a phone from her bra.
    He grabbed it. “You do what we say, and you’ll survive. Play Rambo, you won’t.”
    He stalked to the defense table and climbed on top of it. “Everybody on the floor. Facedown, hands behind your heads.”
    People began dropping to their knees. But one of the defense attorneys, a ravenish man named Pritchett, edged back from the table, hands in the air. “Tell us what’s going on. What do you want here?”
    Nixon turned his head, slowly, and lodged a stare at Pritchett. Without a word he swung the butt of his shotgun and cracked Pritchett in the face. People gasped. Pritchett staggered back, legs like bamboo. He crashed into his chair and toppled, hand to his bloody forehead.
    Nixon swung the shotgun back up, finger on the trigger. “Any other questions?”

    The lobby of the courthouse was empty. Two lawyers strolled in and stopped chatting. The weapons checkpoint was unmanned.
    “Hello?” one said.
    A moment later, she heard banging sounds. The noise came from beyond the checkpoint, around a corner. It was repetitive and heavy. Like shoes kicking wood.
    The lawyers glanced at each other and, with a shrug, went through themetal detector. It rang but nobody came running. They rounded the corner. The banging grew louder. Down the hall, a closet door shook with each thud. The lawyers glanced around. The administrative offices for the courthouse were in the opposite direction at the far end of the hall, behind closed doors.
    “Hey, anybody here?” she said.
    The kicking got louder and was accompanied by muffled shouts. The lawyers jogged down the hall to the closet.
    It was locked, the key broken off in the door.
    “Anybody in there?” the lawyer called.
    The kicking resumed, and more desperate shouting. The lawyer pulled out her phone. Her colleague dropped his briefcase and ran down the hall toward the administrative offices.
    The lawyer called 9-1-1.

5

    O ne by one people dropped to the courtroom floor. Frankie Ortega lay down, breathing like a wheezy metronome. Rory held still. A voice within her said,
Stand up.
Don’t get on your knees.
Around her, shuffling, crying, people prostrated themselves.
Don’t let them shoot you in the back.
    Pritchett, the defense attorney, lay collapsed by his chair, his face creased red with blood. Atop the defense table, Nixon swept his gun barrel slowly across the courtroom. He looked like a tank turning its gun turret. A wire of anger and fear heated in Rory’s chest. Nixon’s gun veered toward her.
We’ve lost.
    She dropped to her knees and stretched out on the floor, facedown.
    She laced her fingers behind her head and rested her cheek against cold stone. Two feet away, the court reporter stared at her. The woman’s eyes were wet. In a staccato whisper she began reciting the Hail Mary.
    “Faces
down,
” Nixon said. “Stare at the floor.”
    People placed their foreheads against the stone. Rory heard heavy breathing, whimpers, the percussion of a woman’s charm bracelet shivering against the tile. She heard a small airplane buzz overhead, and traffic on the street. In the hall: nothing.
    Didn’t anybody know what was happening?
    From the table, Nixon said, “Stay exactly as you are. Do not roll over. Do not raise your heads.”
    Across the well of the court, the defense attorney breathed in broken,wet gasps. The court reporter murmured, “Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners…”
    Behind the woman’s prayer, Rory heard another voice.
    “One. Two. Three.”
    It was Reagan. His footsteps scuffed across the floor.
    “Four.” He paused. “Stand up.”
    A cry. “No. Please, don’t…”
    “Stand up.”
    Nixon’s voice boomed out.