A Soldier's Revenge: A Will Cochrane Novel (34 page)

The woman at the front of the queue whimpered, “Please don’t hurt my husband,” as she opened the door and exited.

Five seconds later, they were gone. I locked the door and said to the remaining thirteen men, “Put your hands flat on the table. Keep calm. Do exactly what I tell you to.”

One of them stuttered, “What . . . what . . . are you going to do to us?”

“That depends on you and the police.”

Another asked, “What’s going to happen now?”

I replied, “Now we wait.”

K
opa
ń
ski was at the back of the restaurant. Alongside him were twelve squad cars and thirty officers. The front of the restaurant had an even bigger police presence. And the helo above him wasn’t going anywhere, its searchlight fixed on the restaurant. The released hostages were farther up the street, being cared for next to a large police truck. Next to them was a SWAT van. Ten officers from the unit were interviewing the hostages, getting an exact layout of the Chinese restaurant. One SWAT sniper was already in situ, watching the back of the restaurant through the scope of his rifle. Another was covering the front.

The detective called Painter. “He’s holed up. Ain’t going anywhere. You’d better get down here.” He walked over to the SWAT commander and asked, “What’s your assessment?”

The commander took off his helmet. “I don’t like it. Thirteen male hostages in there. So far we’ve no visibility of where they’re positioned. Only two ways in and out. And the room’s quite small, so the chances of collateral damage if we go in are significant.”

“Do you have any other options?”

“Nope. If we get the green light, it’ll be door breaches and flashbangs. Still, the chance of our bullets going through Cochrane and hitting hostages is significant. Let’s see how the negotiators get on first. One thing’s for sure—dead or alive, there’s no way out for Cochrane.”

The SWAT commander motioned to one of his men. Together they lifted a heavy piece of machinery out of their vehicle. It contained gas canisters, tubes, and a drill. Kopa
ń
ski knew it was a very sophisticated piece of equipment that could drill holes silently while suctioning all debris. Pinhole cameras could then be inserted through the holes. This was SWAT’s means to take a peek inside the restaurant.

“S
tand up—all of you.” I told the three chefs to join the hostages. “I want you to upend tables and put them against the walls. There should be enough of them to completely cover the perimeter. But leave a six-inch gap between wall and table.”

One of the men asked, “Why do you want us to do that?”

“Pinhole cameras.”

A TV was in the corner of the restaurant. I turned it on to a news channel. Live reporting showed the restaurant from the air. It was surrounded by an army of cops and a sea of flashing blue lights. Above the restaurant, a police helo was hovering. I flicked through other media channels. They too were covering the siege, some from the ground, others from the air. The media was scrutinizing the event. This was good, because it meant the police had to play by the rulebook. And that meant they had to be seen to try to negotiate me out of the situation. Providing I didn’t start killing hostages.

And I wasn’t going to do that.

The tables were now in position, leaving empty floor in most of the room.

I said, “Get in a circle, close to the tables.”

“Why?”

“Just fucking do it!” When they were in position, I said, “Now start walking around in a circle. Don’t stop unless I tell you to.”

“This is crazy.”

“For you, maybe. But not for me.”

I didn’t want SWAT to pin down the location of the hostages before storming the place.

I
n the building next door, the SWAT officer got off his knees and whispered to his commander, “That’s the third hole I’ve drilled. There’re barriers in the way of all of them. Something wooden.”

“Tables?”

“Looks that way. The bastard knew we’d try to use cameras. You want me to go in from higher up?”

“Too risky. Try from the other side of the building. But if it’s more of the same, we’ll have to make do with thermal.”

But the thermal imagery wouldn’t tell them who was Cochrane and who wasn’t.

T
he telephone at the reception desk rang. I just knew it was the police.

I answered. “Yes?”

“Am I speaking to Will Cochrane?”

“You are.”

“This is Lieutenant Ames, NYPD. I’m the guy outside the building who wants this to end peacefully. I’m your friendly voice.”

“You’re a hostage negotiator?”

“Correct.”

“Your priority is the safety of my hostages. My welfare comes a big second. That hardly makes you a
friendly voice
.”

Ames laughed. “Well, we can get to know each other and work around that.”

“Listen, Mr. Negotiator. There’s only one law enforcement official I will speak with. Her name is Detective Thyme Painter.”

I hung up.

P
ainter arrived at the scene and approached Kopa
ń
ski. “What’s the latest?”

Kopa
ń
ski replied, “SWAT tried to put in covert cameras through the walls. But Cochrane’s blocked their view. They’re now trying to go through the ceiling. Cochrane will be looking for them.” He held out a cell phone. “You need to take this.”

“Why?”

“It’s a hotline to the restaurant. Cochrane won’t speak to the negotiator. Only you.”

“But I’m not a trained negotiator.”

Kopa
ń
ski shrugged. “Guess we don’t have a choice.”

She took the phone.

I
watched the men continue to circle the restaurant. Two of them were my height.

I tapped them on the shoulder. “You two stand in the middle of the room.”

“Please—”

“In the middle of the room.” When they were there, I said, “Remove your outer clothes.”

They looked confused.

“Now!”

They got undressed.

I kept my gun trained on them as I removed my jacket, boots, and pants. “Now we’re going to mix and match.” I smiled. “The end result will be that not one of us will be wearing identical clothes to those we wore coming into the restaurant.”

One of them said, “But . . . you can’t change your face.”

I ignored the comment. “What size are your shoes?”

“Twelve.”

“Same as me.” I tossed him my boots. After getting dressed and ordering the men to get back into the mobile circle, I pulled one of the Chinese chefs aside. “In the kitchen, do you have bags?”

He looked quizzical. “Bags?”

“Grocery bags. Preferably paper.”

The chef nodded.

“And rope? Or strong string?”

“For hanging chicken and duck. Yes, we have that.”

I told him to retrieve the items and that if he picked up a meat cleaver when in there I’d shoot him in the head.

The phone rang.

I picked it up, silent.

“Will Cochrane?”

“Hello, Detective Painter. May I call you Thyme? It would be so nice to jettison formalities.”

“I’m liable to say the wrong thing to you.”

“Because you don’t have a certificate saying you successfully completed an NYPD hostage negotiating course? Tut-tut, Detective. You do yourself a disservice.”

“Will—there’s no way out of this. It’s the end of the line for you.”

“I don’t expect a way out of Manhattan. You know why I came back here?”

“I thought you’d stay away from major cities. No, I don’t know why you came back.”

“Think, Detective.”

Painter was silent for a few seconds. “It’s where your sister died. For some reason you were drawn to be close to where that happened.”

“Correct.” I was lying. I had no idea where Sarah’s body had been taken. Being here would have given me no closure—whether I was a grieving brother or her murderer. But I had to disguise the real reason I’d returned. “I had to take a risk. And now look what’s gone and happened.”

“Are you going to let the hostages go?”

“As long as the police don’t do anything rash, yes. All of them. Unharmed.”

She said nothing.

“SWAT will be trying to get a look inside here. I might have fucked them on pinhole cameras, but they’ll be using thermal imagery. It’ll show them that I’m keeping the hostages constantly on the move.”

“I guess you know all about storming buildings.”

“Of course.” I added, “If SWAT’s told to end this, they’ll breach both doors, toss stun grenades, and teams will enter front and back. They’ll be armed with Heckler & Koch submachine guns, and will have handguns as secondary weapons in case there’s a malfunction. Probably they’ll kill the lights a split second before entering. Their guns will have flashlights attached. Half of them will cover the left side of the room, the rest the right. When they see me, they’ll shoot to kill. But I’d say the chances of them hitting a hostage are above fifty percent. Do you know what they’d prefer to happen?”

“No.”

“They want me to try to escape. That way a sniper can take me out. Or I just walk into a volley of NYPD fire.”

Painter sounded genuinely concerned when she said, “You can’t escape. Don’t try that. You’ve killed cops. The guys out here will be justified in shooting you if you try to get away. But while you’re in there and not killing anyone, we have a chance to cool things down.”

“It’s a bit late for that. But I need to decide what to do. I hadn’t planned for this to happen. Call me back in sixty minutes.”

The chef placed brown paper grocery bags and several balls of twine on the kitchen workbench. I moved behind the bench, facing the restaurant. Placing my handgun down, I grabbed a knife from the kitchen, cut the string into equal lengths, and started braiding it into rope.

P
ainter said to the SWAT commander, “He wants sixty minutes to decide what to do. Providing he does nothing before then, I say we give him that time.”

“That’s fine by me.”

A thought occurred to Painter, prompted by something Dickie Mountjoy had said to her in the Manhattan interview room. She called Detective Inspector Toby Rice from the United Kingdom’s Metropolitan Police. After explaining what was happening, she told him what she had in mind. “Can it be done? Urgently? We’ve got less than sixty minutes.”

She walked to Kopa
ń
ski. “Why the hell doesn’t he give himself up?”

Kopa
ń
ski was leaning against a police car, his gun trained on the restaurant. “I don’t think he wants that. He just hasn’t decided yet how he wants to die.”

T
hirty minutes later, the restaurant phone rang.

“I said leave me alone for an hour.”

But the woman on the phone wasn’t Painter.

“Will—it’s Phoebe.”

“Phoebe?”

Her voice was hesitant. No doubt she had police with her in her London home, or she’d been picked up and taken to a station. “They told me what’s happening. They want you to give yourself up. They’ve said that if you do that and don’t hurt any hostages, they won’t shoot you.”

I hadn’t expected this to happen. Despite being in an unbelievably shitty situation, hearing Phoebe’s voice was like getting a call from an angel. “Phoebe,” was all I could say.

“You must give yourself up, Will. There are no alternatives.”

I felt myself getting emotional. “There are. I could just walk outside and get my head blown off. Better that than spending the rest of my life in prison, or going on death row.”

Phoebe was sobbing. “I didn’t have to call. They couldn’t force me to. But I wanted you to hear from me that there are people out there who still love you. No matter what they say you’ve done.”

“There are only three people left alive who love me—you, David, and the major. And you might as well be on Mars for all the difference that makes to me right now.”

Phoebe was silent.

I breathed deeply. “But I do appreciate the call. However this ends, it’s so good to hear your voice. How are you all?”

“Will, it’s . . .”

“What?”

“It’s Dickie. He flew to the States to put in a good word for your character. It was the last good deed he wanted to do.”

I had a sinking feeling. “The last?”

She was now openly crying. “His heart gave out. They flew his body back. We buried him today.”

“Oh, dear Lord.” I gripped the reception table.

I had a mental image of Dickie. We were trying to fix a leak under his kitchen sink. The job complete, he’d said, “Let me fix us a nice cup of tea and bore you about why people of your generation are soft compared to my lot.”