Rock Star

At twenty-two he shot and nearly killed a bank guard during the course of a violent robbery.

  ‘I give up,’ Carmine said. ‘Let him rot in jail. He’s not my son.’

  And so he spent the next seven years in prison without a word from his father.

  When he got out he headed for California, and it wasn’t long before he decided what his next job would be. Reading a magazine one day, he found out all about Nova and Marcus Citroen and their fabulous wealth. Then he saw the newspaper piece about their forthcoming fund-raiser for Governor Highland. The two articles jelled in his head. It was too good an opportunity to miss.

  Now here he was. Fucked.

  And outside the house there were police, and people and TV cameras and press.

  He was FUCKED.

  ‘Can I please have a drink of water?’ Rafealla asked wearily. Like the others she was bound hand and foot, lying on the floor in the corner.

  Maxwell had forced them to tie each other up shortly after he broke in. Wild-eyed, he’d brandished his gun in the air threatening to shoot every one of them if they didn’t comply with his wishes.

  He’d sent Rafealla upstairs to fetch sheets. If you’re not back in two minutes I’ll put a bullet through his head,’ he’d warned, nodding at Bobby.

  Shaking, she’d raced through the bedrooms, dragging sheets from the beds.

  When she’d brought them downstairs, he’d made Kris and Marcus tear them into strips and tie first Bobby, then Rafealla. Next, he’d had Marcus truss Kris up, and finally he’d done the honours to the furious record magnate himself.

  Marcus had tried to reason with him. ‘Be sensible,’ he’d said. ‘You’ll never get away with this. Never. So why don’t you be smart, and walk away now, before you do something you’ll really regret?’

  Walk away. That was a joke. He couldn’t walk away. He was trapped. All his life he’d been trapped.

  Marcus Citroen reminded him of Carmine. A fat cat. A man who thought money could buy him anything.

  ‘How much if I walk?’ he’d asked, seeing what price Marcus would put on his life.

  ‘Ten thousand dollars. Cash,’ Marcus had replied, with all the confidence of a man able to buy himself out of any situation. ‘And you have my word. I’ll make absolutely certain you’re set free.’

  Sure. And Mother Teresa will get a job in a go-go parlour. Marcus Citroen insulted his intelligence, just like Carmine. Two rich pigs.

  Maxwell had laughed in his face, whereupon Marcus Citroen doubled his offer, then tripled it. But by that time Maxwell wasn’t listening.

  Once his hostages were tied up he’d felt better. Leaving them for a moment he’d scanned the house, making sure every window was secured from the inside, and pushing the bolts and chains on the two outside doors.

  Soon the police would arrive.

  He wasn’t wrong.

  * * *

  All Rafealla could think about was Jon Jon. If anything happened to her, how would her little boy survive? He was ten years old. What would he do without her? Who would teach him about life, and how to treat women, and the difference between right and wrong?

  Who would comfort him when he was sad? Laugh with him when he was happy? Scold him when he was naughty?

  She was his mother, goddammit, and she was determined to get out of this alive.

  * * *

  Locked into a world of blackness Bobby struggled with a terrible feeling, of inadequacy. There was nothing he could do – he was tied up, helpless, he couldn’t even see what was happening. He, Bobby Mondella, was a prisoner in every way.

  * * *

  On the other hand Kris felt pretty damn strong. When Marcus was tying him up he’d managed to loosen the bonds as they were going on. Strips of sheet weren’t going to hold him back when the moment came to take this psycho out. And the guy was a psycho – Kris knew he was right – you only had to look at the creep with his flat, starey eyes, and edgy, unsure movements.

  Hey – Andy Warhol had said it pretty good. Everyone can be famous for fifteen minutes – and that’s what this asshole wanted. To hit the headlines, sell his story, have a book written about him, maybe even a mini-series.

  Right now he was on the verge. He had three of the biggest recording stars in the world and a billionaire record tycoon wrapped up as hostages. But hey – Kris could figure out what the freak was thinking. If he let them go, what then? One headline, and that was it, he’d fade into obscurity without a trace. The only way he was going to hit it big was if he did something major – like kill them all.

  With a shudder, Kris managed to roll towards Rafealla. ‘You okay?’ he whispered.

  She nodded.

  ‘Hang in there, kid,’ he said comfortingly. ‘Because we’re gonna get out of this. An’ that’s one thing you’ll learn about me, I’m never wrong.’

  * * *

  Gathered outside the house there was a virtual army of people. The police, along with the SWAT team, had cordoned off a large area. Behind them were the TV crews, reporters and photographers. Most of the important guests had fled the scene, but Governor Highland had remained, giving Nova Citroen comfort, and maintaining a suitably heroic image with the press.

  Maxwell, in his phone negotiations with Police Captain Lynch, had insisted the media were allowed onto the estate, figuring he was safer that way. His demands were simple. A helicopter to take him and his hostages to a quiet location, where an unmarked car would be waiting for him to make his getaway. ‘When I’m certain I’m safe, I’ll release the hostages,’ he’d promised.

  ‘Sure,’ Captain Lynch had muttered under his breath.

  This conversation had taken place during the second hour of the siege – once the police captain took charge, and telephone contact began. ‘Who are you? What’s your name?’ was the first question he’d asked.

  ‘George Smith,’ Maxwell lied.

  ‘No way, pal. We had George Smith checked out. He’s only been around for the last couple of months. How about telling us your real name, and saving us all a lot of trouble?’

  Maxwell felt the frustration build. Just who exactly did they think they were dealing with? Did they imagine he was as stupid as they were?

  ‘If I don’t get what I want,’ he’d said, slowly and precisely, ‘I will shoot the hostages, one by one. Do we understand each other?’

  * * *

  Sara’s eyes were red-rimmed. She’d tried to stay on top of it, but finally she’d broken. She couldn’t bear to think of Bobby and what he must be suffering.

  Trudie tried to comfort her. ‘He’s going to be fine,’ she said. ‘They all are.’

  Sara knew it could go either way. Of course it was possible they’d walk free without a scratch. On the other hand something terrible could happen. She remembered the jewellery store incident on Rodeo Drive in 1986. For many hours the police had insisted the hostages, trapped in Van Cleef & Arpel, were okay. It turned out one was killed within minutes of being taken captive, and more died later in a hail of gunfire.

  With a choked-back sob she realized just how much she loved Bobby Mondella. He had become her life, and it wasn’t healthy, because if she were truthful with herself, she had to admit he didn’t give a damn about her. Sure, he made love to her, and was nice when he felt like it. But he wasn’t in love with her, and she might as well face up to it.

  If he gets out of this I’m going to leave him, she thought. He’s a success again – the man doesn’t need me, he’ll be a lot happier without me.

  That decided, she said a silent prayer for his safety.

  * * *

  Maxwell held the glass of water to Rafealla’s lips.

  She sipped it slowly, and asked his name. Somewhere she had read that in a hostage situation it was important to develop a connection with the person holding you prisoner.

  ‘What the fuck has my name got to do with anything?’ he said angrily.

  ‘I’d like to be able to call you something,’ she ventured.

  ‘I know what yo
u can call him,’ snarled Marcus, unbowed by his captivity. ‘You can call him a dumb sonofabitch.’

  This comment incited Maxwell. He turned on Marcus and said threateningly, ‘Nobody calls Maxwell Sicily dumb.’

  ‘There’s your answer,’ Marcus said with a triumphant snort.

  ‘For Christ sake, shut up,’ Kris hissed, flexing his muscles beneath the loose bindings, and trying to decide if he could grab the psycho now. One lunge and it would be all over.

  But what if his bindings didn’t break? What if the creep had time to turn his gun on him and blow Kris Phoenix away? There was something very unsettling about a gun being pointed in your direction.

  Christ! His mum in England must be going crazy. The newspapers had probably called her already. Poor old Avis. She was never short of a bit of excitement with him for a son. And how about Willow and Bo? Willow would somehow make out it was all his fault. And as for Bo – who knew how the kid would react?

  Maybe I’ve been a lousy father, he thought. If I get out of this I’ll try to be better, spend more time with him.

  If I get out . . .

  * * *

  Cybil rested her honey-blonde head on Governor Highland’s sympathetic shoulder. ‘I’m so tired,’ she moaned.

  They were sitting in the main house along with Hawkins, Nova and a slew of other people.

  ‘Maybe you should take a nap,’ he suggested. ‘Nova, is there a spare bedroom Cybil can lie down in?’

  Nova signalled to her assistant. ‘Norton, take care of it.’

  Norton St John escorted Cybil and a concerned Governor Highland upstairs to a spare bedroom.

  ‘Thank you,’ the Governor said, dismissing Norton with a wave of his hand. ‘I’ll see she settles down.’

  Cybil sat on the side of the bed, brushing a weary hand through her mane of hair. ‘This is so awful,’ she sighed.

  ‘I know,’ he agreed, sitting down beside her.

  ‘Poor Kris.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be all right.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Cybil.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re a very lovely young lady.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Clumsily he began to kiss her. She fell back on the bed, too exhausted to resist. All she could think of was that one day Governor Highland might be President, and wasn’t it funny that every man – be it rock star or future President – was exactly the same. Sex crazy. And who was she to object?

  * * *

  Impatiently Maxwell picked up the phone. ‘I’ve waited long enough,’ he said with cold intent. ‘If the helicopter isn’t here in fifteen minutes, I’m shooting a hostage.’

  ‘Come now, let’s think about this. Don’t be foolish,’ the Captain reasoned. ‘It’ll be here.’

  ‘Don’t fuck with me,’ Maxwell warned, his voice rising. ‘You’ve been giving me shit for over an hour. Either it arrives within fifteen minutes, or I’m taking one of them out. This is no idle threat. Am I getting through to you?’

  ‘Yes,’ the captain said, humouring him. ‘I promise you the helicopter is on its way.’ He wanted to add – so is your father, because they had discovered George Smith’s true identity by lifting his fingerprints off his locker at Lilliane’s and running them through the main computer.

  Some discovery. Maxwell Sicily. Only son and heir of the infamous Carmine Sicily. And Carmine had been tracked down to a suite at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, where he was staying on a business trip.

  At first Carmine didn’t want to know. ‘My son? I don’t have a son.’ But when the situation was made clear to him, and he found out who was involved, he said, ‘I’ll be there. Don’t do anything until I arrive. This can be cleared up in seconds.’

  Yes, he’d clear it up all right, Carmine decided – he’d put a hit out on his own son, and get him out of his life forever. The boy was no good, never had been. How dare he embarrass him like this with such important and influential people. Carmine was deeply humiliated. What had he done to deserve a son like Maxwell?

  * * *

  ‘You still okay, luv?’ Kris moved closer to Rafealla, whispering in her ear. ‘The berk won’t do anything. Trust me.’ They’d all heard Maxwell’s furious threats to shoot one of them, and he wanted to reassure her.

  Her voice sounded shaky. ‘I don’t know, Kris. This is like a nightmare, and I keep on expecting to wake up.’

  ‘I know, babe. But don’t worry, the guy’s a loser, he’s all talk an’ no balls – you can see it just by looking at him.’

  Trying to sound brave she murmured, ‘I hope you’re right, for all our sakes.’ Reaching over, she touched Bobby’s shoulder.

  ‘Hey – Bobby, I’d give you a runnin’ commentary,’ Kris said in a low voice, ‘but it’s boring. We’ll be out of here soon.’

  Bobby grunted.

  Maxwell was pacing up and down the room agitatedly, trying to decide what to do next. Everything had been going so smoothly until that cow from the restaurant had gotten in his way. He wished he had her in here with him now. Oh, yes. He’d show her a thing or two. He’d jam his gun in her mouth and blow her head off.

  Surprising everyone, Marcus spoke up in a harsh, loud voice, his lingering accent guttural with intensity. ‘Why don’t you shoot the nigger,’ he urged. ‘Shoot the coon and throw him out of here. Then perhaps we can get this charade over and done with.’

  ‘You motherfucking son of a bitch,’ Bobby said, reacting immediately, and rolling toward the sound of Marcus’s voice.

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ groaned Kris, sensing trouble.

  ‘You’re filth, Marcus,’ Rafealla cried out. ‘You are the lowest slime.’

  ‘And what do you think you are?’ Marcus snarled in return. ‘You’re one of them too. I should have had you thrown over that balcony in Rio along with your friend, you black cunt.’

  The truth at last. Enraged beyond belief, Bobby kicked out toward the sound of Marcus’ voice – feeling the thud of his heel connect with something hard.

  He caught Marcus on the side of his jaw. And with a snort of agony, Marcus retaliated by lifting his hands, still bound together, and smashing them down like a lethal club on Bobby’s head, rendering him unconscious. Meanwhile Kris was struggling to free himself.

  Watching this scene, Maxwell felt like he was losing control. He raised the hand-gun threateningly, and fired a warning shot in the air.

  Kris lunged toward him, tripping on the ties that bound his ankles together.

  Caught off balance, Maxwell fired wildly, hitting Marcus in the stomach with a stray bullet.

  ‘Oh my God!’ screamed Rafealla, watching in horror as blood pumped forth from a gaping hole.

  ‘Help me,’ moaned Marcus, clutching his stomach in vain. He looked toward Rafealla, then desperately his eyes sought out Kris. ‘I beg you . . . help me . . . stop the blood. I’ll give you anything.’ His voice began to fade. ‘All . . . the . . . money . . . you . . . could . . . ever want. Anything . . .

  At that moment the sound of the helicopter hovering above arrested their attention.

  With icy calm, Maxwell said, ‘We’re leaving now. And I don’t expect any more trouble.’

  * * *

  The noise of the helicopter drowned out the sound of gunfire. Captain Lynch had no idea what had taken place when he next spoke to Maxwell.

  ‘It’s time to evacuate,’ he said. ‘The helicopter is here.’

  ‘Get everyone away from the house,’ Maxwell instructed. ‘Just leave one television camera in place. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes,’ Captain Lynch replied.

  ‘Do it!’ Maxwell insisted. ‘I’m watching you.’

  And your daddy is watching you, you little bastard. He’s right here ready to surprise the ass off you. ‘It’ll be done.’

  ‘We’re coming out in five minutes,’ Maxwell warned. ‘And if anything goes wrong – anything at all – I’ll shoot them all. Do you understand?’

  ‘You’re making y
ourself very clear.’

  ‘Good.’

  Maxwell turned to confront his hostages, a sorry-looking bunch. Amazing how you could cut the mighty down to size. Walking over to Rafealla he untied her and said, ‘Go upstairs and bring down a blanket.’

  There was blood everywhere. Marcus was slumped on the floor, ominously silent. ‘I think he’s dead,’ she whispered, staring at Marcus in shock.

  ‘So what?’ Maxwell said callously. ‘The same thing can happen to you if you don’t follow my instructions. Go upstairs now, get a blanket, and come right down. If you don’t – he gets it next.’ He waved his gun at Kris.

  ‘Big fuckin’ man with a gun pointed at my head, ain’tcha?’ Kris jeered. ‘I’d like t’see what’d happen if it was just the two of us.’

  Maxwell ignored him. He wasn’t about to be drawn into a confrontation. Kris Phoenix was nothing. They were all nothing. And if he killed one of them, he might as well do away with them all. It didn’t make any difference.

  But not now, not until they’d finished being useful. At this moment they were his only protection.

  * * *

  Captain Lynch had his sharp-shooters in place. He also had Carmine Sicily standing in the shadows behind him. The helicopter waited in the middle of the vast lawn at the front of the house. At the controls was a trained member of the SWAT unit.

  The press had been cleared, moved far back on the estate, all except one television camera crew.

  Nova Citroen hovered in the background with Hawkins by her side. She’d changed into a warm brown jumpsuit, boots, and a loose mink coat. She was surprisingly calm.

  The Hawk said, ‘When they come out, the captain is going to tell this Maxwell character to drop his weapon and surrender.’

  ‘What makes the captain think he’ll comply?’

  ‘Because at that stage of the game he’ll be vulnerable, out in the open. And then his father will step forward and reason with him.’

  ‘He can still shoot his hostages.’

  ‘No,’ the Hawk said sharply. ‘They’ll have him under such strict surveillance that if his hand even tightens near the trigger, they’ll take him out. One bullet through the head.’

  ‘It’s dark.’

  ‘They have special equipment.’