A knit ski mask covered the man’s face. With one hand, he held Katrina’s long hair. In his other, he held a three-foot machete. Light glinted from the curved blade. The man pulled back on Katrina’s hair exposing her throat.
“You have thirty minutes,” he said. “After that…”
His voice trailed as he raised the machete. Hassan gasped as the man swung it in a chopping motion. At the last moment, he moved his hand to one side and sliced a cane-backed chair cleanly in half.
“That will be your lovely daughter’s neck next time we have to send you a message. Wire the money now.”
A disembodied hand held up a sheet of paper bearing an alphanumeric code.
“Write that down, mother-fuckers. You send my cash to the wrong place and that chair ain’t gonna be the only wreckage. I’m out.”
The screen went blank.
“Did you get the number?” Hassan asked.
Syed held up a small notebook. “I have it.”
“Send the money – send it now!”
Syed moved to speak, but Hassan held up his hand. “By all that is sacred, you will wire the funds now or the consequences will be dire. You are one of my oldest friends, but Katrina is my blood.”
Syed picked up his phone and began to dial.
***
“We’ll try one more time,” Davis said. “You go south. I’ll head north. Stay in the shadows as best you can. I don’t think these guys will play nice if they see you – even if you did used to help with homework.”
“Yes, sir,” Jimmy said.
They were about a hundred yards apart when they both heard it – a shout – small, quickly stifled, but unmistakably the scream of a woman. Jimmy pedaled toward the sound. Davis slammed his car into reverse and floored it.
They reached the corner of a warehouse in time to see two men struggling to get a woman into a black Expedition.
“Katrina!” Jimmy instinctively charged ahead on his bike.
“Police!” Davis called. “Hands in the air.”
In answer, one of the men – Jimmy recognized Tango – raised a handgun and fired. Jimmy felt the bullet whiz past his head. He momentarily lost his balance and went sprawling along the asphalt.
Tango ran to the driver’s side, started the SUV, and hit the gas. The huge vehicle lurched forward with surprising power, its tail sinking as the spinning wheels sought purchase on the slick pavement.
Davis keyed his radio. “All units – Wharf 3-5. Two suspects in black Expedition. There’s a woman in the car – probably Katrina Radha. Approach with caution – suspects armed and dangerous. Shots fired … repeat, shots fired.
Jimmy was back on his bike and pedaling for all he was worth. He was not going to let the SUV out of his sight.
Katrina stuck her head forward. “You need to surrender. They’re going to catch you.”
Tango’s right fist caught her under the chin and sent her sprawling across the back seat.
Jordy protested. “Hey man, that ain’t cool. Don’t be hittin’ the merch, man.”
“Keep her whiny ass in the back then, fool,” Tango said. “I ain’t got time for her bullshit.”
He spotted a police cruiser three blocks ahead.
“They got the exit blocked. Gotta try another way.”
He cut left, hard. The SUV fishtailed, then gained traction and roared down the street toward – another flashing light.
***
“Mr. Radha,” Special Agent Ferguson’s voice was tired and thin. “The United States does not negotiate with terrorists. I strongly advise you not to send any money to these people. The FBI will do everything in its power to retrieve your daughter.”
“She’s not a FedEx package or a set of golf clubs, Agent Ferguson.”
Ferguson decided it was not a good time to remind Radha that his title was “Special Agent.”
“I am not interested in retrieving Katrina – I want her freed. I want her to be safe. I want my daughter back.”
“I understand,” Ferguson said.
“Mr. Ferguson,” Radha said, further demoting Ferguson. “I am not a profane man – my religious frowns on foul language. But, as they say in this country, you don’t understand jack shit about anything. To begin, no terrorist has anything to do with Katrina’s disappearance. There is no chatter on the Internet. We have not received a single, political demand. This is a snatch and grab for cash. The people who have my daughter want money, so – for the second thing – I followed their instructions an hour ago. There are ten million dollars in an offshore account waiting for someone to show up with the correct access code.”
“You paid?”
“Yes, I paid. What are you going to do? Put me in prison?”
Ferguson felt his blood pressure rise. Most people lived in fear of the three initials on his cap. But Radha did not worry a bit about F.B.I.
“Sir?” It was one of the younger agents.
“What, Johnson?”
“We have a report of a pursuit in progress down in the wharf district. The NYPD is chasing two armed suspects. Report says they have a girl with them.”
“Katrina,” Radha said. His face drained of all color. “They specifically said if I involved the police this time, they would kill her.”
“We’ll get her,” Ferguson said. “I have every confidence she will be fine.”
He didn’t feel confident at all. Nor did he feel happy. As he stormed out of the room, he muttered, “Goddamn it. Biggest case of my entire career is going to be solved by some beat cop.”
***
The Expedition swerved around another corner. Tango could not find a way out of the wharf district– too many blocked streets – too many container trucks – too much traffic - too many damn cops. Jordy was driving from the back seat. “Third time we’ve been this way, brother.”
“Shut … the … hell … up.” Tango was starting to panic. He’d never been this close to a major bust.
“I’ll be damned if I’m going down for this bullshit,” he said.
He looked in the mirror. “Shoot that stupid honky on the bike, man.”
Jordy pulled out his .9 mm Ruger and leaned out the window. “Can’t get a clear shot with you zig-zagging around, man.”
“I don’t care if you shoot a nun and three Baptists,” Tango said, “Pop a cap in that white boy’s ass.”
Jordy fired. He missed Jimmy by fifty feet.
“You get him?”
“Just missed!”
Sirens screamed from the left and from in front of them. Tango jerked back toward the dock.
“We’re circling again, brother.” Jordy sounded worried.
“I got a plan,” Tango said. “We’re gonna use that little piece of tail to get us out of here. No one wants her hurt. We’ll hole up in the warehouse and demand a chopper.”
“Good idea,” Jordy said.
Jimmy was running out of steam. He’d only been able to stay close because Tango couldn’t open the throttle. Jimmy’s legs screamed, but every time he thought about stopping, he imagined Katrina’s smile in his view finder.
“I won’t let them hurt you,” he said into the wind.
When he saw the Expedition turn, he knew where they were going.
“They’re headed back to the warehouse.”
He cut down an alley between buildings.
As he cleared the alley, he saw the huge vehicle bearing down at him. He pushed the bike to one side and leapt to the other. The Expedition crushed the bike like it was a bug.
Jimmy tumbled to a stop behind a roll of drums. The Expedition screeched to a halt. Jordy jumped out and ran into the warehouse.
Instead of pulling into the building, Tango put the SUV in park and stepped out onto the pavement.
“Jimmy,” he said. “Jimmy Nolan. Man, you are one persistent little mother.”
“Let her go, Tango,” Jimmy said without raising his head. “Let her go and ge
t out of here. The cops will be here any second.”
“I’m counting on that, old friend. They are gonna get me the hell outta here.”
Jimmy poked his head up like a prairie dog looking out of his hole. “You really need to go. You have the money. What else do you want?”
“What do you think, bro – mo’ money! They paid me $10 mil for this little bitch. They’ll give me twice that once I send them one of her fingers.”
Jimmy thought about charging – one heroic effort. Maybe he’d get lucky and Tango would miss. Tango fired.
He didn’t miss.
The bullet hit Jimmy’s left shoulder. The force from the .45 Colt spun him sideways, which is the only reason the second bullet missed his head my a few inches.
Davis skidded to a halt fifty feet from the Expedition, smoke billowing from his tires. Tango tossed the Colt on the seat and reached for another weapon. Davis dove across the front seat as Tango opened up with a Mac-10. Bullets at the rate of 1250 a minute shattered the windshield and rocked the car. Davis wanted to return fire, but he knew if he raised his hand, Tango’s weapon would amputate it at the wrist. Jimmy cowered behind the row of 50-gallon drums.
I hope the hell whatever’s in these isn’t flammable, he thought.
He crawled to one side. Tango was changing clips, struggling with the notoriously balky Mac, slapping it with the palm of his hand. Davis took the moment to fire three quick shots from his service revolver. The return fire made Tango duck and Jimmy, using the cover fire, darted across the open space to the Expedition. He yanked open the door and jumped inside. Katrina was curled in a ball on the seat, clearly terrified. Her wrists were bound, but her feet were free.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“No … no … no. He’ll kill us.”
“We’re both dead if we stay,” Jimmy said. “Show me the same fierce you did when you were modeling. You’ve got it inside. Find it and … let’s … go!”
Katrina shook her head as if to clear it. Her eyes snapped into focus.
“Damn right,” she said. “If we’re going down, let’s at least put up a fight.”
Tango had not seen Jimmy getting into the Expedition, but he saw him crawling out.
“White bread,” he said, his voice an angry growl. “You fucked up, son. I’m gonna have to cap your ass.”
Tango stayed in a crouch, his weapon pointed at Jimmy’s chest. The thug yelled over his shoulder. “Yo, Mr. Cop. Come out, come out or I will plaster bicycle boy and his Disney princess all over the side of this warehouse. You’re gonna get me a chopper. You have twenty minutes. I ain’t playin’.”
Jimmy glanced to the bullet-riddled car and saw Davis backing out of the driver’s side.
“Hands in the air, Mr. Po-po,” Tango said. “And … ah … gun on the seat, please.”
Davis tossed the .38 into the car and slowly raised his hands.
“You look at me sideways and I will cut these two in half,” Tango said. He spoke toward the warehouse. “Yo, Jordy. Get your ass out here.”
Jordy appeared from the giant, sliding door. He walked toward Tango.
“You good, Boss,” he asked.
“Yeah,” Tango said. “Need a little help though. I’m tired of fuckin’ around. I’m going over there (he jerked the barrel of the automatic weapon toward Davis) and deal with the 5-0. Take these lovebirds into the warehouse and waste ‘em.”
“You said you would let me go,” Katrina said.
“And, I am a lying asshole. You guys are a pain in my entire life.” Tango said. “’Sides, you seen my face. You can pick me out of a line-up. I ain’t never done serious time, and I ain’t going to. You three will disappear and I’ll be in Brazil before anyone finds your bodies.”
Katrina slumped into Jimmy’s arms.
“Ain’t that sweet,” Tango said. “Ain’t that sweet, Jordy.”
“Yeah, Boss, real sweet. You sure you want me to kill ‘em.”
“Deader than Elvis,” Tango said. “Two to the head – each one.”
“Two to the head.”
“That’s right, boy – you deaf or stupid?”
“Neither one, Boss – just making sure I do as you say.”
“Well, get on with it, fool.”
Jordy reached in his waistband and extracted his .9 mm Ruger from behind his back. He pulled back the slide – one in the chamber. As he walked past Tango, he raised his arm and fired two quick shots into the thug’s head.
Tango slid to the pavement like a melting popsicle.
Jordy stood over the body.
“Oh, I forgot something,” he said. “Freeze, fool – NYPD!”
Davis reached back in his car and retrieved his service revolver. Before he could say anything, Jordy had his hands in the air.
“Don’t shoot, Detective. I’m Jordan Stewart of the four-six on special assignment. Been undercover with this – ah – master criminal for three years. Badge number 840398. You want to cuff me while you call it in, fine. Just don’t shoot me. It would be a big disappointment to the guys a One PP.”
Other radio cars pulled up, sirens blaring and lights flashing. Everyone had a gun – and everyone pointed it at whomever they thought they should.
Davis held up his shield. “I’m Detective Clyde Davis. I’ve got this – I’ve totally got this.”
Jimmy fished into his pocket and came out with a small knife. He sliced away the zip ties around Katrina’s wrists. She threw her arms around him, sobbing.
“Take me home,” she said. “Take me to my father.”
Another flotilla of SUVs arrived, each black, each with flashing blue lights. Special Agent Scott Ferguson jumped from the lead car waving his badge like a cheerleader shaking a pom-pom at Homecoming.
“FBI,” he said, “Everyone, stand down. Johnson, secure the scene.”
-19-
Satellite trucks, cables, camera crews, and over made-up “on site reporters” dotted the sidewalk outside the Waldorf like so many ants. Another group arrived seemingly every five minutes. The airways were rife with speculation, rumor, and outright fiction – but every last detail, real or imagined, was delivered with breathless intensity by a man or woman with a microphone while the on-screen banner over his or her head read, “Breaking News.”
Inside the main ballroom, the hotel had set up a briefing room.
Sitting in a hotel room down the hall – now an impromptu office – Ferguson scanned the Internet and laughed.
Terrorist Plot Foiled by Local Photographer
Fifty Million for Saudi Princess.
“How the hell did anyone come up with Saudi?” Ferguson said.
Love Triangle – the Princess, the Thief, and the Cyclist
Police Look for Missing Body Parts – Diplomat’s daughter loses fingers in attack!
“Jeez, get the facts people.”
Someone spoke from the door. “Time, boss.”
Ferguson stood, put on his jacket, walked down the hall, pushed through the ballroom door, and stood behind the podium. Microphones sprouted from the dais in every possible angle. Flashes popped. He held up his hands for quiet.
“At approximately 1630 hours this afternoon, FBI agents, assisted by local police, rescued Ms. Katrina Radha from kidnappers. Ms. Radha is the daughter of Mr. Hassan Radha of Kashmir (he paused for effect) who is in New York representing the government of India at the special World Peace Summit. Mr. Radha has been working to forge an agreement between his country and the nation of Pakistan.”
A young woman jumped to her feet. “Was the ransom fifty or a hundred million dollars?”
Ferguson took a deep breath. “The details of the case are not available to the press. But I can tell you two things. One – that amount is wildly exaggerated and two – no one was ever paid any money. Crimes of this nature never work out the way the criminals imagine. The Federal Bureau of Investigation is extremely proud of our expertise in the area of abduct
ions. We pursue lawbreakers with zeal and with excellence. Those who seek to break the law are swiftly and inexorably brought to justice.”
“What about the dead young brother?” The question was from a youthful African-American reporter.
“An investigation is underway at this time to determine the facts of the shooting. I have been authorized to release the name of the deceased – a Mr. Tango Cash. Yes (he grinned) his mother was apparently a movie fan. Mr. Cash fired on a duly sworn officer of the law and was killed in the ensuing exchange. As an eyewitness to the event, I can and will affirm – under oath – that the shooting was necessary and justified to protect the public and to preserve the safety of the officers and civilians present.”
“Agent Ferguson,” one of the reporters asked.
“That’s Special Agent,” Ferguson said.
“Special Agent, who exactly solved the case? I heard it was a kid on a bicycle.”
“The FBI oversaw the entire operation and coordinated efforts with local police and several citizens.”
In the back of the room, Clyde Davis and Jimmy Nolan exchanged eye rolls. Jimmy’s arm was in a sling.
“He wasn’t an eye witness,” Jimmy said.
“Don’t tell him that,” Davis said. “It’ll ruin his entire day.”
Another reporter shouted a question.
“What did the terrorists want?”
A vein at Ferguson’s temple pulsed. “If you are listening, you will note I never used the word terrorist. This was a local criminal enterprise organized and orchestrated by individuals who wanted money – this case has zero international or political overtones.”
“How’s the arm feeling, kid?” Davis asked.
“Shoulder feels like an elephant stepped on it, and the doctor told me I’d never pitch for the Mets, but I’m okay.”
Davis chuckled. “Kid, the way things are going, the Mets would be lucky to have you.”
“Thanks.”
Davis nudged Jimmy. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, “Before someone puts a microphone in our faces.”
Jimmy nodded and put his cap on his head. Davis flashed a thumbs up to Ferguson. He wasn’t sure if the special agent saw it.
The last thing they heard was a question.
Family Ties Mystery Series Box Set Page 33