He shrank into the shadows.
Definitely not good.
They would be coming up now.
Two seconds later, the intercom buzzed from the street. Haddox waited—then hit the button and ran his fingernails over the microphone. He said nothing—and the voice that answered was unintelligible.
Bridget lived on the third floor of a walk-up. That meant four flights of stairs and two landings.
He could count on sixty to ninety seconds. No more.
What do I know about you, Bridget, darlin’?
Everything with a place. And everything in its place.
The purse had been in the kitchen.
He turned back into the kitchen.
Think, he told himself.
More noises. Voices. Coming this way.
He slid open drawers. One for silverware. One for dish towels. And one for exactly the thing he needed.
It was a charger drawer—equipped with its own electric outlet.
Clever, he thought.
There was loud creaking from the stairs outside the apartment.
He hadn’t wanted to steal her phone. It was the information on it he was after, nothing more. Problem was: He had to get out of here. Fast.
He pocketed the phone and headed for the window. Flicked the lock clasp to the left. Tugged.
Nothing.
Looked down. Saw the window was painted shut.
He still heard stairs creaking. Voices coming closer.
He slid his pocketknife out of his jeans. Ran the blade around the perimeter of the window.
The six men were heavy. The stairs and landings groaned under their weight. Their wet shoes made loud squeaking noises.
He heard them make the turn. Reach the final landing.
He pushed at the window—hard. It resisted—then gave.
He slipped out onto the fire escape, into the downpour, at the exact moment they rang the bell.
Shut the window behind him. They’d figure it out—but maybe beautiful Bridget would take a while to answer the door. And buy him a little more time.
Most people would have gone down, made for the street. So Haddox went up. He practically tiptoed up the slick metal stairs—but they still clanged under his weight.
A giveaway.
He decided if he couldn’t be quiet, then he’d better be fast.
He clambered up the escape, past the fourth and fifth floors, and onto the roof. He cleared it before he heard the sound of Bridget’s kitchen window being opened.
He froze. Listened.
Nothing.
His shoes were full of water. His leather jacket was ruined.
Better his clothes than his life.
His eyes scanned the horizon. Five-to-six-foot brick walls separated this building from the three next to it. Nothing he couldn’t manage. But then he’d need to find a way down. The fourth building, with its slippery slanted roof, was beyond his skill level.
Haddox was a Level One computer hacker—someone with expert coding skills, an intuitive understanding of how machines operated, and a unique ability to infiltrate impenetrable targets. He’d gotten where he was for one reason only: He always did the unexpected. It was the rule he’d lived by—so he applied it here, too.
When they figured out that he’d gone to the roof, they’d expect him to run as far as he could—to Building 3—before finding a route back down to the street. Or to be so impatient as to risk Building 1. So he made a different choice: He picked Building 2.
He swiftly scaled the first brick wall and crossed rapidly through someone’s private roof-deck garden. It was washed by the rain and nicely landscaped with teak furniture and a propane grill that probably was illegal. The renter must pay a pretty penny for so much green in an urban jungle, Haddox decided.
He scrambled up the second brick wall and found himself on a roof that was exactly the same size with exactly the same view but a completely different approach. Nothing there but asphalt and a single lawn chair and a small telescope. Someone’s simple urban retreat, just sky and stars.
He stole a glance down the street. The six guys had split up. Three were in front of Bridget’s building. They’d be checking the side alleys soon. Which meant three would be headed to the roof.
The fire escape down was right there. Haddox thought he had time to make it—assuming he hurried.
Haddox wasn’t entirely wrong. He set foot on the ground in plenty of time, splashing into a puddle. But he couldn’t escape the back alley where the fire escape had taken him. One of the six was pacing by its entrance. Smoking. Moving like he was waiting for instructions.
Or company.
Haddox wasn’t a fighter—not in a traditional sense. He’d weathered the occasional barroom brawl without too much damage, but he didn’t fancy his odds against the six large men who worked for Jimmy Malone. But against one guy, and with the element of surprise, he’d take his chances.
He made his way down the alley toward the street. He knew he’d have to be quick. He’d have one hit only—because a long battle would invite company.
Hit the guy once and take off running. That was the plan. He rehearsed it in his head.
He moved to the mouth of the alley. Saw his opponent was about two hundred fifty pounds of muscle.
Kept moving forward. Out of the alley, into the open.
When he was right where he wanted to be, he said, “Got a light?”
The man turned as expected—but he had no time to formulate a plan.
Haddox jerked forward and kicked the guy full-on in the groin.
The move folded him in half.
Just for good measure, Haddox followed with an elbow full of torque to his head. That brought him down into a heap.
Haddox took off running. Past the three Explorers, around the corner. Saw Bridget’s yellow Mini with the racing stripe. Right where she’d parked it last night.
He pulled out a small device the size of a cellphone. Wet, but still working.
He ducked into a second alley—and sent the wireless signal.
Most new cars today were just computers on wheels. And Haddox was in possession of a device—made of parts costing less than twenty bucks—that allowed him to seize control of a car’s internal network. Last night, he’d used the Mini’s Bluetooth connection to install the malware while Bridget was driving them home.
The small device connected to the car’s controller area network. Haddox sent the signal to unlock the doors. Then started the car. And made a run for it.
He leaped over a puddle.
Heard footsteps running behind him—but not gaining.
He had just enough time to slide into the driver’s seat and start moving.
In fact, he’d have had plenty of time—except for one problem.
Bridget Malone’s car wasn’t empty.
Jimmy Malone was already sitting in the passenger seat with a gun with a silencer pointing right at Haddox through the window, looking plenty pissed off. Haddox backed away from the car. Five thugs filed behind him, forming a tight arc. They looked equally unhappy.
“Shite,” he said.
“Shite indeed,” bellowed Jimmy Malone. He muscled his three-hundred-pound frame out of the tiny car. “Feckin’ piece of shite. You skip-tracing bastard low-life scum, taking advantage of my daughter. Using her to find me.” He came around the front of the car, spread his meaty hands wide. “Well, you found me, you bastard. Happy now?”
Five thugs were closing the arc behind Haddox. He was out of options.
Someone snapped his head back. Haddox felt his spine turn to jelly. This was not going to go well.
He was dimly aware of his cellphone—ringing—as it clattered to the street.
Someone clipped his jaw with a powerful right.
Haddox lost his balance, fell into a second guy. Started scrabbling at the thug’s shoulder. No way was he going down without a decent fight.
Suddenly a large, fleshy hand was on his shoulder. Spinning him arou
nd. “What’s this?” Jimmy Malone thrust Haddox’s own phone into his face. Raindrops streaked its screen.
There was a missed call. His caller ID said it all: Eve Rossi—FBI.
“You a Bureau informer? Is that why you’ve been after me?” Jimmy doubled him over with a savage punch to his gut.
Haddox coughed and spat into cement. Jimmy had it wrong, but Haddox didn’t think it would help the situation much to admit he was working for Billy McCourt. Jimmy’s nemesis.
“You want us to get rid of him?” Haddox heard one of the thugs ask. He felt arms keeping him still while the others landed enthusiastic blows. He lurched toward a storm sewer; it was clogged with dead leaves, overflowing with water.
“Not yet. Let’s see what he’s got on us first.” Jimmy delivered another bone-and-flesh-crunching blow. “And I thought you were just a dumbass liar for hire.” He swiped the rain from his brow. “Take him to the warehouse,” he ordered.
Haddox couldn’t move. He could barely think. But he could recognize an opportunity when he saw it.
“Call the lady back,” he managed to choke. “Tell her you made me. She just might make a deal you’d be interested in.”
VIDOCQ FILE #Z77271
Current status: NEWEST RECRUIT
Corey Haddox
Age: 39
Race/Ethnicity: Caucasian/Irish
Height: 6’1”
Weight: 178 lbs.
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Brown
Prominent features: cleft chin
Current Address: Unknown.
Criminal Record: Convicted under the Gramm-Leach-Bliley Act of multiple counts of computer hacking, bank record pretexting, and identity theft. Sentence: twenty-five years.
Related: Though never charged, Haddox was suspected of killing his brother-in-law—a habitual drunk, wife-abuser, and leader of the splinter paramilitary Real IRA (RIRA). In retaliation, the RIRA has issued a death warrant for Haddox in Ireland.
Expertise: A rare talent in the world of computer hackers. Combines personal charisma with cyber-genius to become the ultimate skip tracer and con artist.
Education: Trinity College, Dublin, B.Sc. (honors), Information Systems.
Personal
Family: Father, Duncan (in Dublin nursing home with multiple ailments), and sister, Mary. Mother, Emily, deceased.
Spouse/Significant Other: None. Commitment issues.
Religion: Catholic, lapsed.
Interests: When not immersed in the cyber-world, plays guitar with whatever Celtic blues band he can find.
Profile
Strengths: Motivated by the need to expose hidden secrets and codes—the more complex, the better. Follows the thrill of the chase, which takes him job to job and place to place.
Weaknesses: Unpredictable. He resists being pinned down to anyone or anything. Deep-seated fear of flying.
Notes: Haddox is extremely comfortable in his own skin and extraordinarily perceptive. He cannot be motivated through traditional means. He’ll be more likely to stay in the game if he’s kept off-balance. He exhibits compassion for women in need, but will easily find any effort to play the “damsel in distress” transparent.
*Assessment prepared by SA Eve Rossi. Updated by ADIC Henry Ma. For internal use only.
Chapter 13
“Let’s see if I understand.” Henry scowled at Eve. “Getting your team back together has just cost me fifteen grand?”
“Not including the private helicopter from Boston. Or—”
He cut her off. “I don’t want to know. When do they get here?”
“I expect Eli and Mace within the hour. Once Haddox reaches the heliport, it’s a seventy-five-minute trip.”
“Just get the job done. Assuming you can.”
“Always appreciate the vote of confidence.”
Henry’s rigid smile contained an understanding that chilled her. “The fact that this Hostage Taker took control of the Cathedral at all has demonstrated superb planning. Yet he’s murdered a hostage and a negotiator. Most troubling of all, he’s made no demands.”
“Except to talk with me.”
“You know what this means.”
“He’s taking the kind of risks that suggest he’s willing to die in there—never mind who else goes with him.” She closed her eyes and thought yet again how the Vidocq Unit was designed exactly for these kinds of desperate situations. Sometimes it took a criminal to stop a monster.
And failing that, her team of ex-convicts was expendable—as Henry and the top brass had already proven.
No, she did not trust Henry and the FBI. Not anymore.
Henry turned to leave. “I have to go talk to a representative from the Church. Someone sent to be sure we mind our P’s and Q’s and don’t destroy any part of the Cathedral. Meanwhile, EMS says the boy is ready for you. His name is Luke Miller and he’s eleven years old. They got that from his passport. Because the kid himself? He isn’t talking.”
—
Six minutes later, Eve was sitting across the table from a child.
The boy with the spiked hair had been brought to her by a protective senior agent with a sour face and a box of tissues. Luke Miller sat down, fidgeted uncomfortably, and stared at Eve with reproachful eyes.
He looked small—his thin frame swallowed whole by an oversized NY Yankees sweatshirt. And scared—his smoky gray eyes churned with fear and hurt. Complex emotions Eve would never fully understand. Her degree in psychology and advanced training in criminal profiling had taught her a good deal—and her own sense of empathy filled in the rest—but the truth of someone else’s pain would always be a mystery. Every person, she knew, experienced it uniquely.
But Eve could guess: Luke wanted this all to be over. He wanted to go home. Most of all, he wanted his mother. And right now, Eve probably symbolized everything that was getting in the way of all that.
EMS had given Luke a cursory medical check. It was their opinion that the boy had not been harmed while held hostage inside Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.
Not physically, anyway.
Running his passport number had turned up his mother’s name: Penelope Anne Miller. She had checked herself and Luke into the Holiday Inn Midtown two days earlier. A search of their room had turned up ticket stubs showing their recent activity. They’d toured Ellis Island. They’d seen The Lion King. They’d visited the dinosaurs at the American Museum of Natural History. Eventually, of course, they’d ended up at Saint Patrick’s.
Despite having no ID as of yet on the first victim, Eve at least knew it wasn’t the boy’s mother. Penelope Miller’s passport photo bore no resemblance to the woman shot and killed this morning.
Luke clutched an uneaten bag of peanut M&M’S—what some agent had scrounged up to help him feel more at ease. Eve had the harder task: finding the right words. Especially when there were no right words. Not for this situation.
Eve moved her chair so it was at a diagonal. She crossed her legs. Struck a conversational pose. “My name is Special Agent Eve Rossi. And I’m told you’re Luke Miller—come all the way from Sheffield, England. That’s South Yorkshire, right?”
Luke’s gaze flickered down.
“How old are you, Luke?”
Silence.
“Eleven?”
Nothing. Luke wasn’t talking.
Eve was the stepdaughter of a CIA spook, but she was also the child of a classical musician, and she had learned: Listening could be even more powerful than talking. To be a good listener, Eve knew you had to understand more than words. You had to observe. To pay attention to what excited people—or frightened them. To notice where they hesitated—as well as where they rushed ahead. To watch as a person revealed himself in hundreds of different ways. Hands. Eyes. Gestures. Expressions. Movements. Body language made it possible to figure out almost exactly what someone else wanted. Even if that person never uttered a word.
Now she watched as Luke ripped open the M&M’S bag and dumped its contents onto the ta
ble. He made one large pile of browns and yellows, reds and blues, oranges and greens. He shored up its sides until he had created an M&M’S mountain.
Luke began dividing the M&M’S by color into six separate piles. The brown pile was largest, followed by the yellow and red.
“The brown ones were always my least favorite,” Eve remarked casually. “But I’d eat them fast because there were so many of them. Did you know, scientific studies have shown: There are more brown M&M’S in every bag?”
Luke didn’t answer, but she noticed that his thin shoulders relaxed.
He separated the three smallest groups from the others. Orange, green, and blue circles were moved to his far left. Red and yellow partnered in the middle. Brown—the largest circle—stayed to the right.
Little. Medium. Big.
The tale of Goldilocks and the Three Bears flashed into Eve’s mind: Papa Bear, Mama Bear, and Baby Bear.
She was still only watching. But now she had a plan.
She’d never spent much time around children, so she didn’t pretend to understand them well. But she recognized something in Luke’s M&M’S game. Not just an affinity for patterns. A certain precision of thought. She had no idea if all kids organized their thinking this way—but she thought this kid might. Because when she was a child, she once had.
She had been seven years old when she irritated her mother by insisting that no, she did not have Gym on Tuesdays. What she had was PE—which her mind classified as an entirely different activity. Some children focused on the literal. Maybe that was just what was required.
“I understand you’re here with your mother.” Eve made it sound conversational. “I know she’s still inside the Cathedral. I’m going to get her out, but I could really use your help to do it faster. I believe you want to talk to me—but the man inside the Church threatened to hurt your mom if you did.”
Luke looked up, cautiously.
“If I have it right,” Eve suggested, “would you move one of your M&M’S toward me?”
She recognized his deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression for what it was: pure panic.
“He said you couldn’t talk. But I’ll bet he said nothing about M&M’S.”
Hostage Taker Page 7