Hostage Taker (29 page)

H
addox lit another cigarette and drew on it slowly, staring at Eli as he exhaled. Really studying him for the first time since he’d arrived almost nine hours ago from Boston. Eli had put on even more weight in the past three months and was now pushing the boundary between big-boned and obese. His hair had grown longer. His shirt was still perpetually stained, his glasses were still held together with tape and safety pins, and he still could barely manage to keep his shite together. But there was something new: Eli seemed content. Maybe not happy, but fulfilled in a way he hadn’t been before. Haddox was puzzled. What had changed in his life?

“You’re not supposed to smoke here,” Eli scolded, a little shrilly. “Maybe this unit is only a fancy sardine can on wheels, but it’s still technically a government building.”

“Do you really want to go there, mate? Besides, a good smoke helps me think.”

Then he remembered Eve asking:
Killing brain cells helps you think?
He shook his head, banishing the memory. There was a simple explanation for why he couldn’t get her out of his head. The Irish loved a good story—and every story needed three acts. First, you introduced your characters. Next, you explored their conflicts. And finally, you resolved their issues. Problem was: He and Goldilocks’s story had no proper ending. Not even a good-bye and good luck.
So am I here for closure—or because I owe Eve for saving my sorry ass?

He blew smoke into Eli’s face. “Your little secret’s given me something serious to think about.”

Eli grimaced. “I told you, it’s not a secret. It’s just personal business that I don’t particularly want to share with the world.”

“How do you know Sean Sullivan?”

“I don’t. I met his ex-wife at a Christmas party.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

“Tell me about it.”

“There’s not much to tell. She told me nothing that you don’t already know.” Eli began ticking off the relevant facts on his fingers. “He went to Saint John’s; that’s where he met Meaghan. He’s with the NYPD, but currently on suspension; Internal Affairs suspects him of pilfering money and drugs from the evidence locker. Meaghan doesn’t care about any of that.”

“No?”

“She only cares about whether he’s too messed up to take care of their thirteen-year-old daughter. They have joint custody.”

“And if Sullivan’s a thief, that means he can’t take care of his child? If that were true, half my friends in Dublin would have grown up without parents.”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“It always is.” Haddox mentally reviewed the details of Sean’s file. “He’s not an addict. No one suspected he stole the drugs for personal use.”

“No,” Eli agreed thoughtfully. “But I think he had problems that broke up their marriage all the same.”

“You still haven’t explained how you got that mobile number—and why you were interested in it.”

“Because Meaghan was freaking out. As you know, the number belongs to her daughter, Georgianna Murphy. Georgie hasn’t returned calls, and she’s usually glued to her phone. And she didn’t make it to school today. In fact, she disappeared day before yesterday. Sometime between noon and two p.m.”

“Why is Sean Sullivan’s daughter named
Murphy
?”

“It was part of the divorce settlement. Georgie took her mother’s name.”

“So Georgie’s phone saw
Kinky Boots
last night? And then it went dead.”

“That’s what you told me. So I told my friend not to worry.”

“Sounds like you spoke too soon. And keeping this secret? You’re either an idiot or living in complete denial.”

“Believe me,” Eli said miserably, “I know.”

Haddox let his gaze wander out the window toward the Cathedral. Thanks to the dark and the swirling flakes, he could barely make out its gothic lines—but they were stunning. Literally sugarcoated with snow. “The lass is an added complication we don’t need. Would Sullivan really keep his own daughter in there? We need to figure out if anyone saw her since she disappeared from school.”

For the first time, Eli looked hopeful. “Sounds like a good idea.”

“And one last thing.”

“You name it.”

“
You
have to tell Eve.”

H
enry Ma’s eyes lifted from the message he was reading on his phone and acknowledged the Omega Team leader.

“Think he’s got a chance?” The officer nodded to Ethan Raynor, still standing, miserable and shivering, on the steps.

“He killed the others,” Henry said bluntly. “Sent them out, then shot them, or blew them up unawares.”

A horn blasted somewhere north of them.

“A coward’s way. Just give me five minutes alone with him.” The officer shook his head. He’d removed his headgear, exposing his thinning crew cut.

“My negotiator is holding steady for now. But she’s going to have a big problem soon. She’s missing a witness.”

“Missing, sir?”

“They found him, then he disappeared down the rabbit hole. The Hostage Taker is going to blow when he figures it out—and I’m not sure my negotiator can contain him.”

“In my experience, sir, there’s some people you just can’t reason with. Talk all you want, but talk won’t solve your problem. A semiautomatic twelve-gauge will. I take it you want to proceed with plans for a breach.”

Henry’s lips twitched. “You know I used to be a criminal profiler before I became a desk jockey. I have my own thoughts as to this Hostage Taker.”

“What’s your assessment, sir?”

“He’s doing a lot of this for show. Killing hostages in public. Demanding these witnesses as opposed to making more normal requests, such as money or political leverage. I think he’s a religious zealot who’s going to kill all his hostages eventually.”

“So what are your orders, sir?”

“You mentioned an eight-second window, when the bronze doors would be unarmed. Next time that door opens, I want you and your team to be ready to breach.”

The team leader nodded. “There won’t be much time. It’s a small, unpredictable window of opportunity. Am I to understand this is your official authorization to move in and secure the premises?”

Henry nodded. “When the opportunity presents itself, you’re authorized to do whatever you deem necessary to secure the situation.”

“Yes, sir. Is your negotiator in the loop?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else?”

The question was almost drowned out by the approach of a chopper in the air overhead. One of their own. Keeping a close eye on the situation from above.

“I’m counting on you. This whole city—this country, even. We need you to save those hostages and save Saint Patrick’s.”

García continued making
his way through difficult terrain, but there were signs he was getting close. He was still surrounded by stone—the bedrock on which the island of Manhattan had been built. But the passage had become taller if not wider. He was able to half-stand. Another fifty feet. Seventy-five. A hundred. García crept along sideways and shuffled his way through the narrow passageway.

The panic inside him was swelling once again, but so far he was keeping it at bay.

Not because Mace was still on the line with him, jabbering about everything from his last girlfriend to his first ball game to his newest dog to how the weapons trade in New York City was changing because of Iraq and Syria and even Gaza. If he succeeded in making it inside, he had no doubt Mace would take all the credit.

But the real reason? He’d reached a point in the rock where he heard water. Not rushing water, like a waterfall. Not crashing water, like ocean waves. Just the steady hum of water flowing, almost like a babbling brook.

It was calm and soothing. Kind of like those overpriced Zen spas Teresa had taken such a liking to after he came home, when too much time around him stressed her out.

The water babbled.

Mace babbled, too—something about an opponent with a sweet left hook.

And from somewhere else—perhaps inside the Cathedral—he thought he heard voices.

García crept toward them as fast as he could.

The Omega Team
leader stood twenty feet to the left of the bronze door, in the shadows of the scaffolding that surrounded Saint Patrick’s. With the floodlights unlit, the Cathedral was shrouded in darkness. The team leader hoped it would provide enough cover. He felt visible and exposed—but he knew that was just a state of mind. He hoped that the Hostage Taker hadn’t positioned cameras that would track the movements of his team. The fact that reconnaissance had identified none didn’t reassure him.

Immediately behind him, the fifty-one-story Olympic Tower was dark. He knew sharpshooters were positioned behind its glass windows.

On the opposite side, on the roof of Saks Fifth Avenue, another crew was ready for action.

Tandem units Alpha, Beta, and Theta were well camouflaged. Hiding in the shadows, armed to the teeth.

Alpha was prepared to secure the hostage Ethan Raynor.

The signal would be the instant he took a step forward. That movement was to initiate their assault plan.

Beta and Theta would commence action the moment the bronze doors opened once again.

For now, they stayed put. And watched.

Alpha Team had the visual. Beta, Theta, and team leader followed a grainy live feed on their wristbands.

They saw Ethan Raynor stand a little straighter and tilt his head to the left, toward downtown. Almost like he was anticipating instructions.

Team Alpha tensed for action. Waiting on the fourth level of the scaffolding, they threw the rope and rappelled down the left front side of the Cathedral. Then they began crawling toward the bronze door. Alpha leader kept his eyes on Raynor as he moved toward him. Waiting for the exposed hostage to take a step forward. Ready to drop and secure.

Instead, just as the bronze door opened, Raynor turned abruptly on his heel.

He disappeared inside. Another figure stepped outside.

The door closed again.

Ethan Raynor was inside. A middle-aged woman stood outside.

Exactly four and a half seconds had elapsed, and a hostage switch had been accomplished.

Right under Omega Team’s nose.

Three seconds later,
Henry Ma’s voice shrilled in the team leader’s ear. “What the hell just happened? I thought your boys were ready.”

The team leader didn’t show anger, even if inside he felt like a volcano ready to explode. Any show of emotion had been drilled out of him through extensive training, when he learned the only approach in dealing with superior officers was to stick to the facts. He did that now.

“We didn’t have the angle, sir. To intervene, we needed the hostage to step forward, just beyond the scaffolding. And two hostages simultaneously passing through the bronze door—not just one—limited our access and impacted the eight seconds we have to make breach.”

“Damn it. It’s like this Sullivan
wants
to frustrate us at every step!”

“Yes, sir. This is the first hostage to come out, then go back in, right?”

“That’s right. Why?”

“Seems like he’s making a point of being unpredictable.”

C
assidy Jones was blond, beautiful, and not exactly unhappy to be the center of attention for the next ten minutes. Even if the price of fame was a conversation with a madman.

Eve watched as Cassidy’s projected image preened in front of Atlas, striking her best Marilyn Monroe pose. She guessed no one had told Cassidy there was a media blackout in effect and all cameras were on the other side of the blockade fifteen blocks away.

Then again, Haddox was watching. Eve had seen the way Cassidy looked at him. Perhaps Haddox was audience enough for her.

Eve’s phone trilled. Sean Sullivan was dialing in.

“How’s my favorite waitress?” he asked. Eve thought he sounded surprisingly upbeat.

Cassidy’s face was first crestfallen, then angry. “I’m an
actress.
”

“Really? You’ve served drinks at a diner within the last twenty-four hours, but when’s the last time you acted a part?”

“I have an agent at William Morris,” she retorted, indignant now. “That’s better than a lot of working actors can say.”

Sullivan laughed softly. “Sure, ’cause that’s what they’ll write in your obituary when they list your accomplishments. Landed agent at William Morris.”

Eve could see that Cassidy’s cheeks were burning a brilliant red.

“But today it’s not your accomplishments I want to talk about. It’s your sins,” Sullivan continued.

“Don’t have any,” she answered pertly.

“That’s not what the priests always told me. Everyone has sinned.”

“Then Jesus has died for us, so it’s all good.”

“Not very religious, are you?”

“No. Are you?”

Eve hadn’t bothered to make suggestions for what Cassidy should say. It wouldn’t have mattered. Cassidy was headstrong and young; she wouldn’t have listened anyway.

“A couple days ago, I’d have said no. But spending time in this Cathedral, contemplating my own mortality? Maybe I’m reevaluating things.”

“Is that why I’m here: to help with your reevaluation?”

“No. But are you aware that right now, at this very moment, a hostage is standing on the steps of Saint Patrick’s?”

“Um…I can’t see anything from in here.”

“Tell her, Eve.”

“The hostage is middle-aged—heavy-set, with a medium-build. She has a plain gold wedding band on her finger and a bracelet made of string on her right wrist. It looks like the kind of thing a boy might make in art class for his mom. I think she’s Luke’s mother, Penelope Miller.”

“Correct,” Sean said. “And you’re here to save her life, Cassidy. Now, Eve, tell Cassidy what happened after Blair confessed to my satisfaction?”

“The previous hostage out front—his name was Ethan Raynor—returned inside. But, Sean, I thought our deal was that once I brought you the witnesses you wanted, you’d let the hostages go.”

“Wishful thinking. Your actions have allowed the hostages to
live.
”

“You released Penelope Miller’s son. You could let Penelope go.”

“Let’s see how Cassidy does.”

“I don’t know what you want.” The preen was gone. Cassidy was standing there, in a white dress too thin for the winter weather, looking terribly young.

“I want to know: What are you guilty of?”

Cassidy looked down, mute.

“Consider your failings. The things you’re sorry for. Where you’d have done something differently.”

“Ummm…”

“Think! That woman’s life is in your hands,” Sullivan thundered.

“I was mean to a girl in high school,” Cassidy said in a rush. “She was pretty and a good dancer and I was jealous. I made sure none of my friends ever sat with her at lunch or invited her to our parties.”

“That’s a start,” Sullivan jeered. “But I want more. For the woman opposite you to live, I need to know your deepest regret.”

Cassidy was silent.

“Or are you going to have to live with the fact that you’re responsible for a little boy losing his mother? I wonder if they’ll bury her with his art project still wrapped around her wrist?”

“I cheated on my boyfriend by sleeping with my agent,” she blurted out.

“You mean your savior at William Morris?” Sullivan sounded almost amused.

“NO. This was before I signed with him. I was new here, and I met this small-time guy with what I thought was a legitimate agency but was really a scam. He promised he could get me a role in a major motion picture. He said Sandra Bullock had already signed on, but I would be perfect for the supporting female lead. He was a liar!” Cassidy’s voice wobbled.

“Now we’re getting somewhere. So you were a cheat. Did you ever tell your boyfriend?”

“No. But I wrote to the advice column at
Cosmo,
and they said if I loved my boyfriend, I shouldn’t hurt him by telling him,” Cassidy managed to say. Tears were now rolling down her cheeks.

“Dispensation by
Cosmo.
You’ve got to love it.” Sullivan chuckled. “What else are you guilty of, Cassidy, honey? What are your sins of omission?”

“I guess not going to Church every week with Aunt Dani and Uncle Rob. My mother wanted me to, but I haven’t managed it once.”

“Why not?”

“Because I like sleeping in, I don’t like Church, and I’ve got nothing in common with Aunt Dani or Uncle Rob.”

Sean heaved a disappointed sigh. “All right, Eve. We’re done with this one. Let’s see Alina Matrowski.”

“One question before I do, Sean. Last time we talked, I shared a story with you. Now it’s your turn. People reported seeing a cop entering the Cathedral this morning just before seven. Was that cop you?”

“I’m still asking the questions, Eve. And because you asked that one, any chance of Penelope Miller joining her son just went up in smoke.”