The Cage Read Free

and make a friend”—just one of his sales mantras. (Scott was always reluctant to approach customers when they first entered the store, preferring instead to give them time to look around for themselves before offering his assistance, and it had been a point of contention between the two.)
    Jesus, Jeff thought. Jesus Christ, this is really happening. This is really fucking happening.
    “Why did you do that?” Carlos sobbed. “Why would you fucking do that?”
    The gunman shrugged. “I told you. I only need six.”
    “What does that mean?” A long strand of mucous dripped from Carlos’s nose. “You’re fucking crazy, puta.”
    “No,” he whispered. “I’m not the crazy one. You are. All of you are. I’ll show you. Just wait and see.”
    “L-look,” Jeff stuttered, hating the fear and panic in his voice. “We don’t want anymore trouble. Just—”
    “Enough talking.” With the barrel of the shotgun, the killer motioned to the warehouse door. “Let’s go. Everyone into the back. No talking. Step out of line and I’ll kill you all. And I’ll do it slowly, because having to kill all of you would really piss me off. If that happened, then I’d have to do this all over again a year from now, and tonight would be a total loss. He doesn’t want to wait a year.”
    Jeff felt a sick surge of jubilation. The guy wasn’t making a lot of sense, but from what he was saying, it sounded like he might let the rest of them live, and Jeff desperately wanted to do that. But if so, then why had he insisted that he only needed six of them alive? What did that mean? For what purpose did he need them? Everything was happening so quickly. Jeff tried to sort it all out, but he couldn’t decide what was happening. Was this a robbery, a hostage situation, or just some lone nut on a shooting spree? Or was it something else?
    They marched single-file into the warehouse. Clint was in the lead. Their captor brought up the rear. They walked in silence, shoes scuffing the carpet, and none of them turned around to face the gunman. Jeff had never heard the store so quiet. Usually, the televisions and stereos were blaring. After all, you couldn’t sell a high-end surround sound system unless the customer could experience its full power and potential right there in the store. But even when the units were turned off, there was still noise in the store—employees talking or a phone ringing. Now, it was utterly still.
    Jeff glanced down and realized that they’d walked through Alan’s blood. Red footprints marked their passage. When all of them were inside the warehouse, the killer shut the door and ordered them to stop. Jeff stared up at the fluorescent lights and held his breath.
    This is it, he thought. If he’s going to kill us, it will be back here. People will wonder where we are later tonight. Someone will report one of us missing. The cops will show up, and they’ll find our bodies lying back here, bleeding out all over the concrete. Then we’ll be on the news for a few days, until something else happens somewhere in the world. And that will be it. The end of our story.
    “Don’t turn around. Don’t talk. Just do as you’re told. Empty all of your pockets. Everything. Cell phones, pagers, keys, money. Throw all of it on the floor. Now.”
    His voice was still calm, still matter-of-fact, as if he were asking about the difference between plasma and LCD screens or for an explanation of Dolby 5.1 and how to get the most from his center channel. Jeff felt like giggling at the absurdity of it all, but his will to live was stronger, and he suppressed the manic urge.
    The group did as they were told. The warehouse rang with the sounds of coins and keys jingling, of cell phones cracking as they were dropped onto the hard concrete. Jeff went through his pockets, checking each item off his mental inventory as he cast it aside—his cell phone, his key ring, a handful of loose change, a small purple and black stone that he’d