Hostage Taker (25 page)

Never mind how that life was falling apart. His wife was divorcing him. By all accounts, he had a rocky relationship with his thirteen-year-old daughter. He had filed for bankruptcy. He was on suspension from the NYPD, the subject of an Internal Affairs investigation.

That last part fit, but not what Sean was accused of stealing. Drugs and money. Easy to pocket. Even easier to deal on the streets.

One more thing: Sean had trained to serve in one of the NYPD’s elite counterterrorism units. That training had taken him to Afghanistan, Egypt, and Pakistan, where he and other team members had liaised with numerous military operations. He’d have learned about explosives and received sniper training. But was his learning sophisticated enough?

Sean had plenty of issues. But he lacked the clear sense of anger—and motive—that Paulie had.

Yet one fact troubled Haddox. Angus MacDonald—the one true witness they had at this site—claimed to have seen a cop entering the Cathedral.

Angus’s description was vague. It centered on a raincoat and a certain bearing to a man’s walk. Plus, the timing was all wrong—because the hostage crisis was well under way by the time the cop allegedly entered the Cathedral.

It was equally likely one of New York City’s forty thousand Finest had wandered into early-morning Mass and found himself entangled in a situation he hadn’t bargained for.

Haddox decided: He would present all these facts to Eve. She was the expert. Let her decide what she thought.

Assuming the Hostage Taker wasn’t talking a load of lies and blarney, Haddox was convinced: The man causing so many problems inside Saint Patrick’s Cathedral was Paulie Corsillo.

The profile fit. More important, the data fit. And in Haddox’s experience, the data never lied.

Eli ran the
database search Mace had requested, but he needed time to think about the results. Especially now that Haddox had forwarded the two names he had uncovered.

This was all shaping up in a way that made Eli uncomfortable. He honestly wasn’t sure what it meant. It didn’t help that John kept calling him on the job. He’d now ignored two voicemails and five texts. He wasn’t feeling very well.

Eli breathed in and out, tried counting slowly to sixty, but the urgency couldn’t be ignored. He stepped away from his computer. Lurched out the door of the MRU. Half ran, half walked toward an area ten yards behind Atlas, where a big gray Rubbermaid trash can had been brought to handle the trash generated by a few hundred agents and officers.

He leaned over and emptied the contents of his stomach.

When he finished, an NYPD tech officer was standing beside him, offering a tissue.

“Thanks,” he mumbled sheepishly. “Sorry.”

She shrugged. “Happens at pretty much every crime scene I’ve ever attended. Not a big deal.” She pointed. “There’s a water station over there. Might help you feel better.”

Eli nodded miserably. Nothing was going to make him feel better.

6:59 p.m.

We continue to talk with Cliff Raymond, internationally renowned security expert and former FBI agent. Mr. Raymond, we know the FBI has the lead here and must have a top-notch negotiator on the job. What can you tell us about what’s happening?

But hypothetically speaking, what happens if talk fails?

We also have a representative from the Catholic Church on the line—Monsignor Bill Geve.

What can you tell us about the Church’s concerns, Monsignor?

E
ve watched the clock tick seven. Then she waited for the call that was sure to come. It was deadline hour, and the Hostage Taker would want his witnesses.

The Hostage Taker.
Paulie.
No reason she couldn’t start calling him that.

When Haddox presented his findings to her, she found herself in complete agreement: It had to be the Marine. Paulie Corsillo. She felt she recognized his signature in all the events of this day. The careful planning. The knowledge of explosives. The sniper training. The way he’d buttoned up Saint Patrick’s like it was an ordinary HBIED. The fact that he had significant, unresolved anger against the Church.

He was also missing.

Corsillo worked part-time as a building super. But no one had seen him for four days—and the tenant complaints were mounting. That had been a pattern in recent months.

She stared at the Hostage Taker’s cellphone, sitting on her desk. A cheap little Nokia throwaway. Silent, like the proverbial pot of water that never boils when it’s watched.

What would Corsillo want with these witnesses—the four individuals she’d sworn to protect?

Would he recognize the fifth as an agency plant—a substitute for Luis Ramos, who’d vanished?

The cellphone sat silent.

Eve glanced at her watch.
7:02 p.m.
It wasn’t like him to be late. She supposed his earlier punctuality was a Marines thing. Something that got drilled into them during basic training, just like making hospital corners or running a five-minute mile. Kind of like how at Quantico, she’d learned to shoot a Glock 23 and decipher basic forensic analysis—whether she liked it or not.

She felt rather than heard the gasp of surprise when the immense bronze door to Saint Patrick’s opened—and another figure stepped outside. She grabbed the phone that wasn’t ringing, shoved it into her pocket, and raced out of the MRU toward the Cathedral steps. If anyone followed her, she neither noticed nor cared.

The man on the step was maybe mid-thirties, maybe mid-forties. He had a dark-brown buzz cut, a thick five-o’clock shadow on his face, and his blue suit looked cheap. No coat. But he wasn’t shivering in the cold. In fact, he was sweating. Profusely.

He paused at the top of the steps and looked around. He was blinking, hard—the aftereffect of a blindfold? Finally, his gaze locked on Eve’s and he said, “My name is Ethan Raynor.”

Eve frowned. This was different—and change from the pattern wasn’t a good thing. No names had been given before.

She turned away from Raynor long enough to pin a wire on her collar and give a crisp order: “I need everything we have on him.” Then she turned back. “My name is Eve Rossi. I’m a special agent with the FBI. I’d like to help you, Mr. Raynor.”

He wore a pair of dirty, beaten-up sneakers. Blue-and-gray Nikes, easily two sizes too big. Not his own.

This man was a hostage; she was certain of it. Not just because his name was among those reported missing, presumed to be held inside, but because his body language betrayed both fear and bewilderment.

She took a step closer. She thought she saw the telltale red marks on his wrists. The sign of having been recently bound.

She squinted, trying to see what he was holding in his right hand. There was something—some small device—between his fingers and the palm of his hand. “Someone try to find out what what he’s holding. It may be a pressure switch, so this is important:
Hold all fire,
” she said into her piece.

“I’ve been instructed to tell you,” Ethan said. “Your time is up.”

Haddox’s voice was in Eve’s ear.
Assuming he’s who he says he is, this kid is from Chicago. He’s come to New York to work as a chef. He handles vegetable prep at the Café Bonne Nuit in Midtown. No girlfriend—or boyfriend—but based on comments from his Facebook page, he’s well liked. There’s only one odd thing: He was in the news, maybe ten years ago. He was the boyfriend of a girl who disappeared. A young coed he’d been seein’ for a couple years. He claims he didn’t walk her home after a party one night. No one ever found her—and suspicion fell pretty heavily on him.

To Ethan, Eve said, “He gave me a deadline. I’ve met it. So why isn’t he calling me directly? Why is he talking through you?”

Ethan ignored her questions. “He wants to remind you that nothing is negotiable. That I will die—that he will detonate all his munitions—if his demands aren’t met. You must do exactly as he asks.”

This time it was Mace’s voice in her ear.
That switch in his hand looks legit, Eve. Time to be super-careful.

“I need to talk with him directly,” Eve told him. “Can you tell him that?”

But Ethan gave no sign of wearing a wire. His speech seemed pre-rehearsed. “You are to bring each witness forward. One by one. For identification confirmation.”

Eve’s eyes raked the scaffolding high above.
How was he going to confirm these IDs? Through his sniper’s lens?
“His witnesses are here,” she told Ethan. “But I must guarantee their safety.”

Eve looked around. She had no advantage, anywhere. Never mind the threat of the switch in Ethan’s right hand. There were too many civilians. Too many cameras. Too many saints and stained-glass windows to worry about.

She closed her eyes. Remembered the Hostage Taker’s voice. Struggled to put her finger on their past connection. Tried to
know
him.

She took four steps backward and grabbed the bullhorn with her right hand. Maybe it would be a one-sided conversation. But like it or not, he was going to listen to her.

“I know who you are,” she shouted. “Your name. Your background. Your motive. I’m going to announce this information to the media—unless you contact me directly, right now.” She held up the cellphone with her left hand.

Waited one second. Two. Three. Four.

Nine seconds in, the cellphone bleated.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice was low, angry, strained. “There’s too much at stake here for you to ad-lib the playbook.”

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” she lied. “Tell me—”

The phrase
Should I call you
Paulie?
was halfway out of her mouth when she looked again at Ethan Raynor—and thought of Luke Miller instead.

The boy who’d been let go.

Her gut clenched. She reminded herself of all the evidence. How it was solid and convincing. How Paulie Corsillo had documented sniper training and explosives experience. Then she thought:
The Hostage Taker let the boy go.

Paulie Corsillo was childless. Alone.

Sean Sullivan was a father—with a thirteen-year-old kid.

“Time’s up, Eve. Either bring one of my witnesses out now—or Ethan Raynor is going to die.”

“All right. Let’s talk about how we’re going to handle these witnesses.” She took a deep breath. “Do you mind if I use your first name, Sean? Or do you prefer Captain Sullivan?”

Inside the MRU,
Eli listened to Eve’s conversation. He recognized that things had taken a turn he would never have anticipated. What he didn’t understand was what it all meant.

He did know one thing that he resolved to tell Mace. NYPD Captain Sean Sullivan was stationed at the Midtown West Precinct. The same place where the stolen goods Mace was tracking had disappeared.

Eli saw clusters of cops and Feds converging on the holding unit where the witnesses were being held. Trying to decide if any were going to be permitted to go outside the secure area. Figuring out if it was possible to protect them, if they did.

They’d known for the past eight hours that there was likely a cop inside the Cathedral. They’d worried that he was disabled—but assumed he was a friend.

The cop was no ally.

And Eli had a secret others now needed to know.

García crouched low
as he made his way down the narrow passageway. He was surrounded by Manhattan bedrock.

Wide in some spaces, giving him room to breathe. So narrow in others that his tight mental control threatened to vanish.

Breathe in. Exhale out.

His footsteps made loud echoes, but he didn’t hear them.

He was too busy maintaining focus.

The reality in front of him was dank and stale and crushingly narrow.

His mind’s eye manufactured an image that was sunny and expansive. Wide skies. Vast beaches. Waves that stretched for miles.

García crept forward. His own demons were chasing him—and the only way out was to make it to that imaginary beach, hidden behind the secret door accessing the Cathedral.

Sirens filled the
air. Choppers—from different media outlets—made wide circles overhead. Kept back only by the FBI chopper that held the perimeter. Rumors were spreading that the mayor was en route.

With all eyes on her, Eve steeled herself for Sean Sullivan’s response. For whatever would come next. A tornado of fury? Or just a calculated request?

Seconds ticked by.

She was half surprised that the world didn’t end. That time marched on. The Cathedral stood. The hostage lived.

Then she heard Sean’s voice cut through the chaos.