Hostage Taker (31 page)

T
he hostage had barely cleared the bronze door when she noticed the two-man tandem that was Team Alpha rushing directly at her. It took her one and three-quarters seconds to register what was happening.

“No!” she screeched. “There’s a bomb!”

Team Alpha slowed. Behind them, Beta and Theta came to a complete halt.

Two clusters of Feds, in full body armor with raised weapons and shields, continued to creep toward her.

“No!” she repeated. “Do not come closer! I am wired!”

She adopted a defensive stance, planting her feet a shoulder’s width apart. Then she raised her left arm out to her side. “Don’t you see? I’m wearing explosives. I have a wireless pressure switch.”

Eve noted it, between the woman’s fingers and the palm of her hand. The other officers and agents observed it, too. The effect was the same as though the hostage had shouted
freeze!
—and stopped both time and action by merely lifting her finger.

Eve stood, stunned. Not surprised that Henry had ordered the attempt to breach the Cathedral. But shocked that he hadn’t seen fit to tell her about it.

What the hell was he thinking?

She could have told him this sort of attempt would be a disaster.

“If I am interfered with—and my fingers no longer put pressure on this switch—I will die,” the hostage shrilled. “Then he will kill the others.”

Eve stared at the woman’s face. Despite the cold, it was flushed and beaded with sweat—which accentuated the raised scar on her left cheek.

The woman continued talking. “The man who took us hostage is in complete control. If you attempt to interfere with cellphone signals, the detonators are programmed to activate immediately.”

Eve moved her hands away from her sides, where the panicked woman could see them. Then she began inching to the right, taking deliberate, measured steps. She needed the woman to acknowledge her—but she didn’t want to move in a way that anyone might perceive as threatening.

The woman’s head snapped toward Eve.

Eve froze. “I won’t come any closer,” she promised. “I’m going to stay here. But I need to get a message to him. Tell him I’m sorry. I didn’t know about this, and I need to talk with him.”

The woman didn’t answer.

Is she even listening?

“Please ask him to call me,” Eve urged. “I want to apologize.”

The woman looked straight ahead. Sweat dripped down her face. It ran the length of her scar, almost like tears.

The wind howled and gusted, and a stray plastic cup, accompanied by a rag of newspaper, scuttled down the sidewalk in front of Eve. It created a lopsided pattern in the light snow that was beginning to stick.

Were the woman’s lips moving?

An instant later, Eve’s phone trilled.

“Want to tell me what’s going on, Eve?”

Eve stepped back—toward the MRU, toward Rockefeller Center. In a position where she could be seen, assuming Sean was watching. “I had no advance notice of this, Sean. I’m sorry.”

“You’re SORRY?” The word exploded from his mouth. “An assault team attempts to breach my Cathedral, right under your nose, and all you can say is SORRY?”

“I’m your negotiator, Sean. I want to talk, to find some peaceful agreement of terms, to see you walk away from this. To keep more people from getting hurt. But we have a lot of people here, from all different agencies, people who are getting impatient. They don’t understand what you want. Why you’ve brought witnesses here. What you have planned.”

“They don’t have to. They just have to understand that if they don’t mind their manners, people will die. And this building will be destroyed. Eve, I picked you for a reason. Get control of the fucking situation.”

“That’s like telling the prime minister of England that he needs to have better control over Spain. I’m in charge of
my
team, Sean. If outside interference worries you, then let’s settle this now. What will it take to make you walk peacefully out of that Cathedral with no further bloodshed?”

“Don’t you understand anything yet, Eve? It’s far more complicated than that.”

“Then explain it. I’m listening.”

“Just keep asking questions. Like in that personal story you were telling me.”

“Questions are good, but I like answers, too. Why did you choose me for this? I need to know.”

“You’re becoming tiresome.”

“I keep hoping eventually you’ll answer me.”

“Here’s your answer: You bring headlines, Eve.”

“Only if I screw up. What’s the real reason?”

“Maybe I like your voice. People told me it was low and sexy and sweet all at once. They were right.”

“Who told you that?”

“I haven’t forgiven you, Eve.”

“Enough of this. I thought you didn’t have much time.” Eve swung away from both the Cathedral and Sean Sullivan, cursed under her breath, and glanced at the MRU. “Are you ready for Sinya Willis?”

The phone link
to the MRU rang exactly fifty-three seconds later.

“Hello? Is this Sinya?”

“Mrs. Willis to you. I turned sixty last month. I deserve some respect.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. And as long as we’re talking about names, I expect you to call me
sir.
”

“I’d call you worse names than that for what you’ve done today, you bastard. You’re a murderer!”

“Well, aren’t you feisty? But you got it all wrong. We have to talk about what
you’ve
done. What are you guilty of,
Mrs.
Willis?”

“Nothing. I’m sixty years old and I’ve got no regrets.”

“Don’t lie to me. Everyone has some, and you probably more than most.”

“I take care of kids, Mr. Sullivan. That means I make bottles. Change diapers. Cook mac and cheese. Read
Goodnight Moon
more times than you can count. I locate lost toys and bandage hurt knees. I wake up exhausted and I fall into bed bone-tired. I stay busy and I don’t have time for moral dilemmas.”

“And this has been your life for how long? Thirty years?”

“More than. Ever since I came to this country.”

“See that woman on the steps in front of you? Unless you can tell me about your past sins, I’m going to detonate the bomb that she’s wearing around her waist, under that coat. You’ll be fine in your bulletproof trailer over there. But plenty of people on the street will die. Do you want that on your conscience?”

Sinya tugged her yellow cardigan sweater tighter around her. Then she whispered, “You ain’t really going to kill her.”

“No? My body count isn’t high enough yet?”

“I imagine a life I’ll never have. I spend hours looking at listings for homes I’ll never buy, in cities I’ll never live, imagining what it must be like to live on my own, without tantrums and spit-up.”

“Doesn’t exactly sound like a sin to me. More like a vice. Like how some women can’t stop shopping for pairs of shoes. Although I don’t picture our Eve here addicted to shoes. She prefers things built for comfort, not style. Isn’t that right, Eve?”

“Sometimes when Mr. and Mrs. Abrams are out, I put the kids to bed early. Much earlier than their normal bedtime. And I escape online.”

“You’re not confessing anything here.”

“The point is that I let them scream. The little one had a nightmare. Must’ve cried for twenty minutes before I went to him.” She set her jaw and crossed her arms. There was no real regret in her demeanor. Just a tough exterior shell that she would protect at all costs, Eve suddenly realized.

“You’re really disappointing me, Sinya.”

“I regret plenty. It’s just none of your business.”

“The woman will die—in fifteen seconds—if you don’t confess. Counting now:
fifteen…fourteen…thirteen…twelve…”

Tears were running down her cheeks.

“…eleven…ten…nine…”

“Stop!” She swiped at her eyes with a balled fist. “Nobody’s dying on my account.”

Sean stopped his countdown. He waited.

A lot was happening in just those few seconds. Teams of officers in pairs were staking out positions. NYPD. FBI. Interagency cooperation at work. Their radios were crackling. A new plan was being exercised. Eve took it as a sign: Henry’s patience—or perhaps it was the mayor’s—had nearly run out. Eve was on the verge of losing control. Her heart thudded into her chest.

“Tell me, Sinya. Tell me who’s died because of you.” His voice was low. Seductive. Trying to convey:
I’ll be your confessor. I’ll understand.

“It happened back in Jamaica, before I came here. I was young. Had no experience with children, really—except for my own brothers, sisters, and cousins. But I needed a job—and Mrs. Palmer had three kids: The twins who were four years old and a six-month-old.” She looked around hesitantly to see who was listening. There was fear and guilt in her face; tears continued running down her cheeks.

“Go on, Sinya.”

“Not too long after I started with the family, Mr. and Mrs. Palmer had a business dinner out. I put the twins in the bathtub, and the baby was in his crib. Suddenly, he started screaming at the top of his lungs. Not his usual
I want out
or
Change me
or
Feed me.
No, he was yelling like something was seriously wrong.”

Her tears were streaming, her nose started to run. She ignored it. “I only left the twins in the tub for a few minutes. I checked on the baby. He was fine. He’d rolled over onto his stomach for the very first time and it scared him. I comforted him and put him to bed on his back. Then I returned to the bathroom and the twins.” Now her voice was a croak. “The girl was fine. But her brother? Just resting there—under the water.”

“Did the child live?” Sean asked.

She shook her head and turned away. She didn’t bother wiping her eyes anymore. “Once he was taken to the hospital, I ran. And I kept running. Found a boat to Cuba and took it. I never looked back. I never said a word.”

There was silence. But by the time Sinya Willis lifted her head and looked around, the EMS workers were no longer watching. The NYPD officers were back on their phones.

The truth was: They’d seen worse. They’d heard worse. And compared to what they were facing today inside the Cathedral, this was old news—and they just didn’t care.

The woman on
the steps spoke one last time. “I am going to return inside the Cathedral. You will not interfere with me. You will not interfere with the next hostage who comes out. If you do, we will all die.”

But before she turned, she raised her face to the wintry sky, breathing in the light falling snow, as if she wanted to enjoy this final moment of freedom. To savor it completely—while she could.

D
eep in the tunnels surrounding Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, Frank García kept moving.

It wasn’t by choice. It was an imperative. If he stopped, even for a second, his hyper-senses would take over. Instinct would rule over all rational thought.

The underground passageway was proving interminable. He half regretted having hung up on Mace. Nothing Tony had said indicated the secret passage was this long. He guessed it was all a matter of perspective.

He already tasted the smoke. It burned his eyes and his lungs. Telling himself it was all in his head—just a distant memory better off forgotten—didn’t stop him from choking on it.

The acoustics down here were unsettling. The sound of his boots reverberated back to him in odd echoes. His shoulders scraped the ceiling. His brain scrambled for a strategy to defeat the panic rushing at him.

For no apparent reason, one of his former commanding officers came to mind. Burrows had been a man with a full head of gray hair kept in a tight buzz cut. He was stocky, medium height, and his accent was pure Texas. He’d been to West Point, where he’d become thoroughly disillusioned with bad leadership and reductive thinking. He was famous for breaking their every mission down into his one mantra—KISS.
Keep It Simple, Stupid.

García reminded himself of that now. What he was doing really wasn’t that hard.

Follow the tunnel to the Cathedral.

Get inside.

Avoid the booby-traps.

Neutralize the Hostage Taker.

KISS.

Simple enough for a guy like him. Couldn’t be more than another two hundred, three hundred feet.

Is it my imagination, or is this passageway actually growing larger?
He still smelled and tasted the smoke that triggered his panic attacks, but he also recognized the taste of fresh air.

In. Out.
He steadied his breathing.

Until the moment he came not upon a door. But an entire room. A chapel of sorts.

Smaller. Much simpler, with no ornate stonework or decorations. Polished stone. Deep red and royal-blue tapestries. A small altar with a dozen candles on it—unlit.

Big enough that a person six feet tall would be comfortable standing in it. At five-foot-ten, García actually had room to breathe. Which he did—greedily. And relished the fact that he tasted air that was cool, damp, and without a hint of smoke.

Probably not religious—but it felt holy to him, so he crossed himself all the same.

What had Tony told him? That many of the stonemasons involved in building Saint Patrick’s had also been Freemasons. And the Freemasons were obsessed with secrecy. Noted for ciphers, communicating with invisible ink—and building unbelievable tunnel systems underground, complete with hidden rooms, to ensure members would be protected from the outside world.

García lifted his face up toward the ceiling—embraced the sensation of air and space—and smiled.

A
nother hostage emerged onto the steps of Saint Patrick’s: a woman with clipped dark hair. Asian—probably Japanese. And young—early twenties at the latest. She wore a black T-shirt and jeans. No coat. And a waist pack with wires poking out at odd angles.

A message,
Eve decided.

This hostage carried no detonator, and Eve instantly understood why: This woman was a bundle of nerves, swaying and trembling. Unable to exercise any measure of control.

The woman said nothing.

There was no reason to. Her appearance said it all.

Eve’s handset was rigged to take Sean’s call directly. She stood next to Atlas, in the same area where the witnesses had previously appeared.

Sean didn’t bother with hello. He asked, “Where’s Luis Ramos? Don’t tell me he’s still puking his guts out?”

“He’s very ill,” Eve replied. “You’ve spoken with the other four. Upset them. Humiliated them. Let’s move on to whatever’s next.”

“What’s next is the fact that none of them has truly confessed their sins. So I want to see them again—this time, together.”

“You’ve done enough today, Sean.”

“I require Ramos.”

“He’s not able.”

“Wrong answer.”

“Enough with the witnesses. What do you
really
want?”

“To talk with Ramos.” Sean’s breathing was coming faster. His voice was pitched higher.

“Why?”

“What kind of trick are you trying to pull on me, Agent? Just put the damn witness on the line.”

“Seems to me that you’re looking for something from people who’ll never give it to you. They don’t understand—so they can’t begin to help you.”

“Put Ramos on the phone. ASAP.”

Haddox’s voice came into Eve’s ear:
We have a Hispanic agent here with acting experience from college. He’s ready to go.

“Calm down, Sean; there’s no need to yell.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Eve. Put Ramos on the line or the hostage dies.”

Eve had exhausted all attempts to reason with him. Maybe it was time to figure out what was the truth. Whether Sean Sullivan really knew the witnesses he claimed to want—or if they were only here because they represented something to him.

“I’ll get him. Just give me a moment.”

“Put Ramos on RIGHT NOW, or I’ll blow this hostage into so many pieces you’ll still be digging her out of Fifth Avenue come Easter.”

“Go ahead,” she directed Haddox. Then she stepped to the right, and the projected image appeared next to her. Life-size, towering five inches above her. Dark hair. Sturdy build. The hint of a five-o’clock shadow on his chin. Wearing a red-checkered shirt and dark jeans. She supposed he could pass for a day laborer. She wished he looked a bit more weather-worn. “Patch him in.”

“Are you there, Luis?” she asked after a moment.

“Sí.”

“Do you feel any better?” It wasn’t a question. It was a reminder to the Ramos substitute of his role.

“Sí.”

“Luis Ramos?” Sean interjected.

“Sí.”

“Speak English.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to confess your sins.”

“I’m an illegal. To your government, it’s a sin—and for that, they wish to deport me.”

Eve heard a sound that might have been the grinding of teeth. “What are you guilty of, Luis?”

“Nothin’.”

“Where were you working last July?”

“Midtown. Downtown. Harlem. Wherever I got work.”

“I don’t think so.” Sean said it coldly. “Tell me the last time you sent money home.”

“Friday before Thanksgiving.”

Sean exploded. “Wrong answer. Where the fuck is the real Luis Ramos? You’re outta time.”

“This is Luis Ramos,” Eve intervened calmly. “But there are plenty of men named Luis Ramos in this city. Did you mean a different Ramos?”

“YOU THINK I’M SOME STUPID IDIOT?”

“Calm down, Sean. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is that you’ve got some fucking Fed pretending to be Luis Ramos.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because of the jeans. The shoes. You thought I wouldn’t notice? Even after I told you the story of the homeless man?”

“Notice what?”

“The real Luis Ramos doesn’t wear brand-new denims. He wears old jeans, broken in, washed a thousand times by the man who eventually got tired of them and dumped them in a Goodwill box. And look at those shoes. The real Ramos wears beat-up sneakers.”

“I can ask my agent. It’s possible we cleaned him up for today,” Eve said.

The hostage on the steps began counting down.
Sixty. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven.
Her face was blank with terror.

“Okay. Stop. He refused to come,” Eve said, telling him the truth starkly. She explained how Luis had run away. How he had been scared, given his immigration problems. Especially given his wife and young daughter. “You of all people should understand that. You have a daughter, too.”

Forty-three. Forty-two. Forty-one.

“You’ve made a few mistakes, Eve.” His tone was cold, unyielding.

“Is your daughter with you inside, Sean? Or have you hidden Georgianna somewhere else?”

But he was breathing faster now. “First the assault team. Then the missing witness. Mistakes always have consequences.”

Thirty-two. Thirty-one.

“No,” she said firmly. “No, Sean. Mistakes happen, but then we fix them. There’s nothing that’s happened today—nothing you’ve done—that can’t be made better.”

Twenty-five. Twenty-four. Twenty-three.

“There’s no way out. I have no choice—none at all.” He was losing his composure.

Fifteen. Fourteen.

“Talk to me, Sean. Do it for Georgie. How do we fix this situation? What will it take for you to give up and come out? To let those people go?”

Nine.

“I’m not sure we ever—”

There was a blinding flash of light. Then a rumble of sound.

Eve heard nothing but an eerie quiet.

It was the sound of the world closing in all around her.