Hostage Taker (4 page)

The boy just stared ahead.

“Ask him what he’d like me to call him,” Annie urged. “You can let him know my name is Annie.”

Good. Not Sergeant Martinez. Not even Annie Martinez. Just his friend, Annie—friendly and approachable.

Despite the political game he was playing with the NYPD, Henry had been technically right about one point: It was a common negotiation strategy not to cooperate with the Hostage Taker’s first demand. Stalling for time was the name of the game—and that was what Annie was doing now. She would do everything in her power to string the minutes into hours, and hours into days. Her goal was simple: to tire the Hostage Taker out. If he got sleepy, he might make mistakes. If he got hungry, he might make concessions for food. Then the balance of power would switch and the negotiator would gain control and get results. That was how these crises typically played out.

But on such a public stage, could they afford to let this drag out for more than a few hours? The whole world would be watching. And the shock waves from this situation would grind all of New York City to a halt.

Annie took another step forward. “Why don’t you give me the phone? That way I can talk to him, grown-up to grown-up. You don’t need to be part of this.”

The wind whistled as it gusted up Fifth Avenue. Multiple sirens wailed. At first, Eve barely registered the sound, she was so focused on the boy in front of her. It took her a few moments to realize that more emergency vehicles were approaching from Rockefeller Plaza.

The boy shouted, “Don’t come closer!”

Annie stopped. She nodded. “I’d like to explain to him how we can resolve this. Or if he prefers, he can use my phone. I have a special one that connects directly to me, personally. Will you let him know?”

The boy didn’t reply. He held the phone to his ear.

Emergency vehicles flashed red and blue lights around the secure perimeter. Both Annie and the boy were caught in their reflection.

“I’d like to tell him that we’re working on getting Agent Rossi here. Meanwhile, I can help him.”

The boy closed his eyes, listening.

“He just needs to talk to me.” Annie waited, unmoving. This was all part of the stalling game.

The minutes were slipping by. That was supposed to be a good thing, because time was usually the negotiator’s friend.

Except nothing about this particular situation was usual
.

Annie Martinez was handling the crisis exactly according to textbook. She had focused on calming the hostage and establishing contact with the Hostage Taker. Her body language was relaxed, her voice patient and respectful. With every word, she was conveying her willingness to help.

Paramedics and NYPD officers were jockeying for position next to Eve at Rockefeller Plaza. Everyone wanted to be close enough to help the boy.

Radios squawked and cellphones trilled. In the distance, horns continued to honk and sirens shrilled. The crowd behind the cordons swelled.

But the storm of sound seemed far removed from the boy, who remained mute. He shivered and swayed, buffeted by the wind. Then his
HELP
sign dropped to the ground, clattering down the marble stairs.

Eve usually prided herself on being logical. And rationally, she knew: Everything was going exactly as it should. It took time to learn about the Hostage Taker, to convince him that you understood his problems, to establish yourself as his friend. Annie was doing a great job. Nothing Eve could put a finger on was wrong.

Still, glancing at the sign the boy had dropped, she couldn’t shake the sense that she was watching a tragedy unfold.
This was no fairy tale. There would be no happy ending today.

P
enelope Miller had crossed the Atlantic because of Fulton Sheen. Specifically, she’d come to New York City—and Saint Patrick’s Cathedral—in order to pray with him.

Never mind that the good father had been dead the last several decades. Penny figured they needed each other.

Father Sheen was buried in the Crypt, right under the Cathedral altar, in the company of several other archbishops. The difference was: He was on the fast track to Sainthood, with one miracle already credited to his name. Still, he needed a second miracle if he was going to be canonized.

That was where Penelope came in. Her husband Stu had stage IV lung cancer; he had exhausted all medical treatment. He was a perfect candidate for divine intercession—and if Father Sheen’s first miracle had been to revive a stillborn baby, why couldn’t his second involve curing her husband’s cancer?

So she had made the arrangements: taken her son Luke out of Ludgrove, booked the airfare and hotel, and convinced the Monsignor to meet her last night to take her into the Crypt of Saint Patrick’s.

She supposed she ought to have noticed right away that something was wrong. But she had got caught up in the moment. Felt special because she and Luke had been granted this private visit underground.

The priest had opened the massive bronze doors just for them—as expected, since their visit was after proper closing hours. Luke had dallied, asking questions about the saints on the double doors.

He’d wanted to know about Mother Elizabeth Seton. Specifically, what had she done to earn her place on the lower portion of the door on the right?
Daughter of New York,
her inscription read. There was a rosebush to her right and an inscription to her left.

The priest had sidestepped Luke’s question.

Then Luke wanted to know what the motto next to Mother Seton meant.

Sequere Deum.
Follow God.

Priests knew Latin, so a real priest would have known that. Just like a real priest would have appreciated Luke’s interest. Except
this
priest couldn’t be bothered.

Penelope should’ve grabbed Luke’s hand and left right then and there—but all she could think about was what she planned to say to Fulton Sheen when she reached his vault in the Crypt. She needed the perfect words to make him see that Stu was worthy of help. Otherwise, Father Sheen would ignore her. Just like all the penitents who’d come before her.

They were halfway down the staircase when Luke stumbled.

When he went tumbling, rolling all the way down, landing in an awkward sprawl at the bottom, she thought he must have tripped. She had rushed toward her son and then she felt the bite of cold steel against her neck.

“Freeze,” the priest had said softly. “Or I’ll blow you to Kingdom Come.”

When she awoke
later, she remembered the blinding light when something had slammed into the back of her skull. Now her head was throbbing.

And she was alone.

Somewhere in the bowels of Saint Patrick’s. Hog-tied to a chair—with a set of colored wires running from her to a black box fastened to the paneled door behind her.

She twisted her neck around.

No sign of Luke.

She saw only a small marble room illuminated by a soft yellow light.

She listened.

No voices. No footsteps.

Where had the priest-who-wasn’t-a-priest taken her Luke?

Then she heard a ringing noise that sounded odd. It seemed to echo from within the walls.

Was that even possible—or was she hallucinating? Had her attacker drugged her?

Penelope remembered something Father Bryant at home said once: that every Church had a few hidden passages, hollow walls, and secret doors. A long-standing tradition. The invention of masons alone. Never part of the blueprints.

Because even a Cathedral had its ghosts, and ghosts needed a place to call home.

E
ve watched as Annie continued talking to the boy on the steps in a compassionate, calm voice. “Why don’t you just come down the stairs? Bring me the phone.”

The boy didn’t move. He stood, trembling, holding the phone to his ear. Waiting for his next instructions.

Annie was asking the boy if everyone inside was okay. If anyone needed medical attention. She wanted to know how many people were with him.

The boy didn’t respond. Eve knew that he wouldn’t. Eleven-year-old boys from Yorkshire, England, didn’t go to Mass by themselves. Someone important to this child was still inside—and that meant that he was going to do exactly what he was told.

Eve stepped closer to get a better look. As close as she could get without someone from Tactical objecting.

She noticed that the boy’s wrists were red and chafed. He had been restrained, just like the first victim.

Now Annie was asking if anyone inside needed food or water. Saying it was really important if anyone was diabetic or needed medications.

She was still following the textbook: trying to build goodwill while gleaning important information. If this were a simulation, Eve’s old instructor down at Quantico would have graded her an A+.

The problem was: This was real life, not a test. And this Hostage Taker was not reacting to Annie’s script.

“You have f-four minutes to go.” The boy’s voice was halting.

“Honey, please tell me your name,” Annie responded.

Eve shook her head. The time deadline was a warning. Annie needed to adjust her approach.

Where did Henry go?

“Where is your family?” Annie asked.

Eve needed Henry to clear her to go in, right now. Not because the Hostage Taker had demanded it. Because doing the unexpected was this boy’s only chance.

“How many people are with you?” Annie was still on script.

The boy’s voice trembled. “You have three minutes.”

Eve considered running to join Annie. Then some instinct of self-preservation reminded her: She wasn’t in official dress or carrying a badge. Not one of these sharpshooters knew her. Going rogue would be the fastest way of putting herself out of commission for the duration of this crisis. Or of getting herself killed.

The kid dropped to his knees. Started to pray.
Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name.

Eve cursed under her breath, spun on her heel, and went to find Henry.

He was not with the NYPD lieutenant and his crew.

He was not with the HNT support unit.

He was not with the Homeland Security team.

She found him inside the tactical van, monitoring the action via live video feed. “You need to put me in,” she told him.
“Now.”

He pursed his lips. “Stand down, Eve. From my vantage point, Sergeant Martinez is doing an impressive job.”

Eve didn’t reply. They watched on-screen as Annie asked, “What does the man on the phone with you want? I can’t help him if I don’t know.”

“She’s doing what she’s been trained to do.” Eve jabbed a finger toward the screen. “But that’s exactly the
wrong
approach for this situation.”

“This is why we have training,” Henry replied reasonably. “So negotiators have a script to follow when they are out in the field. If you were out there, you’d do it no differently.”

Eve shook her head. “No. I’d give this guy exactly what he wants.”

“That’s the fastest way to give him the upper hand when the crisis has barely started. You learned that in Negotiation 101.”

“He’s going to shoot,” Eve insisted. “He killed the first hostage. Now he’s going to kill the boy.”

“You’re losing it, Eve. Maybe you’ve been out of commission for too long. Do you know how many snipers we have in position? Not to mention officers on the ground? No way is anyone going to get a shot off to harm the boy. The kid’s safe as can be on those steps.”

For an instant, Eve doubted herself. Then she heard Annie speaking, and she pivoted back to the screen. “Just let me talk to him until Agent Rossi arrives,” Annie was saying.

Eve sucked in a breath. Annie should
never
have reminded the Hostage Taker about his unmet demand. Next to her, Henry squirmed.

The boy had finished the Lord’s Prayer. He listened to his phone, then looked up. “You have one minute to go.” He passed the phone from his right hand to his left. Then he made the sign of the cross.

This can’t be good.

Without another glance at Henry, Eve spun away from the screen and raced out of the van. She turned the corner and then walked briskly to the area right behind where Annie was standing.

“I have information that she needs,” she told an officer holding the perimeter. He had big ears sticking out from his hat; they had turned a painful red from the cold. “I’m FBI. I was briefed with Sergeant Martinez just before she initiated engagement.”

She could hear Henry’s order—
Stop her now!
—bark over the radio
.

“It’ll have to wait,” the officer snapped.

“It can’t,” Eve insisted.

“Orders are orders.”

“That boy’s life depends on it.” Everyone was trying to stick to the script—when they most needed to improvise.

The officer pressed his weapon against her chest. “Lady, back off!”

She looked up at the boy. He was trembling. He dropped the phone, then announced, “Time’s up.”

The officers surrounding the steps divided swiftly into two groups. Half raised their weapons to the sky, bracing to take out any shooter who lurked behind the scaffolding. The other half rushed toward the steps and the boy.

It wasn’t that they were too late. They were simply unprepared.

Not one of them saw the shot. It came from an invisible position on high.

With utter precision, the bullet found its target, right between the eyes. One minute, life was there; the next, life was gone. The body slumped forward and a halo of blood began to grow around it.

People screamed. Others ran.

Officers swarmed and covered the weeping boy with their flak jackets.

Amid the commotion, Eve simply walked forward. No one stopped her this time. She took the marble stairs, one step at a time, toward the bronze doors.

When she reached the lifeless body of Sergeant Annie Martinez, she circled wide.

Right where the boy had been when his life was spared—where officers clustered, their eyes searching the scaffolding—she announced in a loud, clear voice, “My name is Eve Rossi. Pass me that phone on the ground. I want to talk immediately with the guy inside.”