“Heat seekers, cameras, microphones, anything you can use covertly,” Eve explained to the Omega leader. “But if you blow our cover, we’re screwed.”
“You got it, Agent Rossi,” the lead man promised. “Just hope what’s up above is different from down below. We’ve never been stalemated like this before. The Hostage Taker’s got every access point we can think of either locked down or loaded up with explosives.”
“You had no luck with the sewers?”
“No, ma’am. We talked with Church officials and used the incomplete blueprints on file with the city. Checked every single drain and supply line listed. But he’s poured concrete down every damn pipe. Didn’t miss even one.”
“So let’s keep looking for something the Hostage Taker hasn’t thought about,” she told him. “The main thing is to figure out what’s going on inside. In particular, we need to confirm how many people he’s holding. And to your point, how many bad guys we’re going to have to take out.”
“Acknowledged. I’m sending the men up in groups of two—Team Alpha and Team Delta. Twenty minutes to green light order for Team Alpha.”
Then Eve heard him talking to his Special Ops units. “Ready? This is terminal countdown: five, four, three, two, one…mark.”
Chapter 30
The whole point of Mace’s visit to the Midtown West Precinct had been to find out who they suspected of stealing that mother lode of explosives that had gone missing from the evidence locker. The same mother lode that—just maybe—had been used to booby-trap Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.
Then he realized: He didn’t need one of New York’s Finest to tell him about it. In fact, better to avoid the precinct house altogether—since his own odds were about fifty-fifty whether he would end up dealing with a standup guy or a total prick. And he didn’t have time for bullshit. The deadline was going to expire. There were only four hours, two minutes to go.
It just so happened a better option was waiting for him outside.
Mace had noticed the girl sitting on the stoop of the plain squat five-floor building next door. She looked about ten years old.
All alone.
Just her and a deflated basketball that had lost its bounce.
Mace hadn’t made the connection before. But then the lightbulb had gone off—and the timing couldn’t have been better. The kid was the daughter of Vernon Brown. A guy the fellas in the Bronx called “the merchant of death” because he controlled virtually all arms deliveries to rival violent narcotics gangs in Morrisania. Mace made it a point to know the family members of all the kingpins of NYC. Never know when that connection could come in handy.
The girl watched Mace approach, tracking him carefully.
“Hey, kid. What’s up?” Mace kept his tone casual.
“The sky.”
Mace stopped. Made a show of looking up into pewter-colored clouds that threatened snow. Then looked down with a delighted grin. “What d’ya know? You’re right. You play?” He pointed to the ball.
A scowl. “No.”
“How come? ’Cause that ball don’t work no more?”
The girl was quiet for a second. “No. ’Cause I’m too short. And I’m a girl.”
Mace nodded. He’d gotten it wrong. The kid’s face and voice were about fourteen. It was her body that had gotten stuck at ten. “Short don’t mean you can’t play ball.”
“Means I can’t play well.”
“You kiddin’ me? Tell that to Muggsy Bogues. You know who he is, right?”
The girl looked down.
“He’s only five-foot-three. Shortest player ever in the NBA. But he was the number-twelve draft pick his year out, and he played point guard in the big leagues for fourteen seasons.”
“How’d he do that?”
“He was lightning fast, with great instincts. A ball hawk. Maybe you could learn to play like him. Your name’s Ashley, right?”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve heard your dad talk about you. There a court nearby where I could show you a few things?”
“Maybe.” The girl flushed. “You any good?”
“I ain’t LeBron James—but I can hold my own. Couldn’t live without it, if you know what I mean.” Mace pointed to the precinct house. “Your dad in there?”
“Yeah.”
“When did they come for him?”
“Early this morning. Like they always do. Before sunup.”
“He told you to come wait?”
“Nah. I just wanted to.”
“School?”
The girl looked down. “I missed all morning anyway.”
Mace lifted an eyebrow. “Guess you didn’t wake up early enough, huh?”
“Dad needed me to do stuff.”
“Who’d he tell you to call?”
“Snoopy.”
That changed Mace’s view of things considerably. If Vernon was guilty of what they’d brought him in for, he’d have wanted the message to go to Juice Gomez. Juice knew how to tidy things up. Essentially do damage control. But Snoopy? He was the guy whose job was to dig up dirt. Calling Snoopy meant Vernon had no intention of doing time for somebody else’s crime. “How ’bout we play some ball—then you take me to Snoopy? I might have some info that would help him out with your dad.”
For the first time, the kid’s eyes lit up. “Cool. But Snoop’s supposed to come here. In another”—she scrunched up her face, checked the time—“twenty-five minutes.”
Mace nodded, then reached for the ball. He picked it up like a grapefruit, in the span of his right hand. “Just enough time to put some air in this baby and teach you a cool trick or two. Why don’t you text him? Tell him to come to where we’re playin’ hoops.”
Mace knew Eve would probably think he was playing around in the middle of a crisis. Not doing his job.
He liked to call it networking. It was important work.
Guys with suits did it at places like the Yale Club or Jean-Georges.
He did it with a basketball and a fifteen-foot jumper on the court.
—
Before Eli placed the call he’d been putting off, he popped a Tums into his mouth—hoping it would remedy the indigestion his pastrami and corned beef had given him.
“Principal Grady’s office.” The voice that answered was flat and uninterested. Definitely not wanting to be bothered.
Eli got straight to the point. Rattled off his name and FBI credentials. Then said, “I’m conducting a welfare check on one of your students.”
“Name?”
“Name’s Murphy. Georgianna Murphy.”
“You got a warrant?”
“I just need to know that the kid showed up to school okay this morning.”
“We don’t share information about our students. Period. Not without a court order or a warrant.”
“Perhaps I could speak with Principal Grady,” Eli offered.
“She won’t tell you anything different.”
“Maybe not. But if this student is in trouble, she’d probably like to know. Sooner rather than later.”
Eli watched the second hand sweep around the clock. He knew managing a school was one of the most important yet completely thankless jobs in the world. Administrators were overburdened, underpaid—and yet still keenly invested in the success and well-being of their students. Otherwise they couldn’t do what they did every day.
Problem was: This receptionist was taking a helluva long time to remember that.
The second hand revolved seven times around the clock face. Then Eli heard a series of beeps as the transfer went through.
—
Three witnesses down. Two to go.
Haddox was grateful for small things. In this case, the fact that the Hostage Taker had been proactive in telling Eve that the Luis Ramos he wanted had a middle initial, J, and worked as a window washer at Trump Tower. Based on that, Haddox had his records in seconds. It seemed Luis had been caught committing a minor traffic violation. The problem was: Luis was a
n illegal immigrant, so he had been formally charged and threatened with deportation. Which had sent the window washer underground, where his trail went ice cold.
Three hours, fifty-two minutes left until deadline.
Haddox knew it wasn’t going to be easy. But that was just the way he liked it.
—
The principal was named Julie Grady. Second-generation Italian, married to an Irish cop. Fourteen years on the job.
“Thanks for talking,” Eli said, repeating his FBI credentials and emphasizing that he was calling on behalf of the Murphy family. Specifically, the mother.
“Mrs. Murphy needs to call me herself,” Julie Grady said. “Student records—and that includes attendance records—are confidential. I’m sure you understand. I’m not authorized to talk with you.”
“I know that,” Eli said, “but she’s already panicked. Listen, this isn’t really about the child—or her record. It’s about her mother. Just tell me she has no reason to worry.” Eli explained about the ex-husband having custody, which blocked all official intervention until his custody period ended. How cops needed a better reason than “my daughter won’t call me back” to issue Amber Alerts and warrants and take other preemptive action. “Do you have kids?” he asked the principal.
“Three. Where’s this going?”
“Well, imagine we’re talking about your daughter—and one day she just didn’t check in. Even though she always made a habit of it.”
“How about we trade some information?” Julie Grady said without hesitation, to Eli’s surprise. “An answer for an answer. But completely off the record.”
“Deal. We never spoke,” Eli vowed. “You first.”
“I’ve got reason to believe that Georgianna’s home life is causing her difficulty. Am I correct?”
“Both parents appear to be facing some personal and professional challenges. To say that in English, Mom and Dad had a bitter divorce, Mom’s unemployed, Dad’s been suspended from work. Now my turn.” Eli doodled with the pen on his desk. “Is Georgianna in school today?”
“No. However, Georgianna has a history of cutting class. In recent weeks, quite frequently. We left another message this morning with her father.”
“So you’re saying we shouldn’t worry?”
“I didn’t say that. Her teachers have been concerned. Very concerned.”
“When did she go missing?”
“Day before yesterday. Sometime between lunch period and her two-o’clock history class.”
Chapter 31
Still three down, two to go.
Finding Luis Ramos was going to take ingenuity. So Haddox briefly turned his attention to Sinya Willis. It turned out to be a smart move—since unraveling her whereabouts was almost child’s play.
Sinya Willis had worked as a nanny for every single one of the forty-three years since she’d arrived in New York City. From Jamaica. Haddox didn’t talk with her—at least, not right away—but he did talk with Claire Abrams, who lived with her large family in a Classic Seven on West End Avenue at 104th Street.
Sinya’s employer.
Sinya had cared for the three Abrams boys for about eight years, ever since the oldest was born. Claire was distressed to think the FBI might need anything from Sinya. She assured Haddox that Sinya was here legally. That she paid all her taxes and got nothing under the table; there were no nannygate issues. Sinya had had a little medical problem a few years ago, and that caused some debt to build up, but they were helping her and it would disappear very soon. Claire Abrams was clearly freaked that she was under investigation for either tax fraud or illegally employing a foreign national.
Haddox didn’t have the heart to tell her that the truth was far worse.
Four witnesses down. One to go.
—
Eli crossed over to the MRU where Haddox and Eve were working. He’d lost what Mace called his Welcome Back, Kotter sport jacket. Now he just wore a crumpled dress shirt with the front left pocket—normally filled with a pocket protector and pens—stuffed with candy. He pulled out a roll of Life Savers and offered a cherry one to Haddox, who shook his head.
“Do me a favor?” Eli asked Haddox.
“Depends on the favor,” Haddox said automatically. He didn’t lift his eyes from his computer screen.
“You know how to track a cellphone, even if it’s not on, right?”
“Aye. Assuming its battery is still inside—and hasn’t died.”
“Can you try? Here’s the number.” Eli passed him a crumpled sheet of paper. Somehow during its time in Eli’s pocket, it had acquired a red stain. Eli managed to control his instinctive panic that he was bleeding to death. Then he realized that it was just a nasty concoction of sweat and atomic fireballs.
“Who does this number belong to?”
Eli lowered his voice several decibels. “It’s personal—sorry. Don’t tell Eve.”
Haddox shrugged. “No worries, mate. I’ll run it in the background while I do the official heavy lifting.”
—
The last witness.
The official file on Luis J. Ramos was paper thin. What little there was came courtesy of U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services.
The Ramos file at least contained a list of LKAs—meaning Ramos’s few last known associates. There weren’t many. Luis had kept to himself: Worked hard and sent money home to Oaxaca, Mexico, which was one of the poorest regions in the country. It was also where his wife and five-year-old daughter still lived.
Haddox decided that was the key. Luis might have vanished underground to avoid his deportation hearing. But wherever he was, he was still working—and sending money home.
Assuming Luis had stayed in New York—and Haddox thought it was a fair assumption, given the number of no-questions-asked jobs to be had—there were several options for a Mexican worker to send money home. But one of the most popular was a remittance house. There was a section of Broadway in Harlem where there was a whole line of them—each advertising in Spanish how they had the cheapest rates to wire money straight from NYC to Mexico.
He’d have to visit, ask around, and see where a little luck and some charm took him.
That was as far as his planning extended. He’d have to improvise as needed from there.
Still four down.
Still one to go.
Three hours, thirty-two minutes until deadline.
Chapter 32
Mace bounded into the MRU, where Eve, Haddox, and Eli were glued to a video screen. The Omega Team had just authorized the first team to take the roof.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“We’re watching Special Ops Team Alpha go fishing,” Eli explained.
“I caught a big one on my own fishing expedition.”
No one said anything.
“I spoke with a guy who knew about a major stash of stolen weapons and explosives. The inventory seems to be a match with what we’re dealing with here,” Mace added triumphantly. “It’s all straight from Iraq. A clear echo of the kind of explosives and techniques the guys use over there.”
“Iraq,” Eve said absently. Then stood up straighter. “Look—he’s almost in!” She pointed to the screen. A man from Team Alpha was scaling the roof.
Everyone watched. No one seemed to be able to breathe.
“So looks like we’re dealing with a vet. Specifically, a disturbed vet,” Mace persisted.
No one turned.
“Or some wacko insurgent who’s bringin’ his fight to America,” he added.
No one paid attention.
“Or a flying monkey with flames shooting out of his ass.”
Nothing. They had eyes and ears for nothing but the men on the video screen.
“Problem is: Even the NYPD’s got no proof how a big shitload of explosives got stolen. They just know it’s gone.” Mace cursed. “Not that any of you seems to give a damn.”
He strode out of the MRU, slamming the door behind him.
Damn if
he was going to waste time on shit nobody cared about. Life was too short.
He had just turned the corner, circling around Atlas, when he stopped short.
Another hostage stood on the steps.
He looked like a priest. At least, he was wearing a priest’s collar and robes. He had to be freezing.
Really a priest—or just dressed to look like one? No way to know.
He was white, maybe early thirties. Brown hair, slightly curly, fell into his eyes. His face was a little too round, his body a little too soft. A guy with no discipline. A guy who hadn’t visited the weight room in years, if ever.
The hostage looked around. Held up an index card. Started to read.
His hands were shaking. His voice was trembling.
“You have exactly ninety seconds for your assault team to reverse course!” he shouted. “If they do not, I will die! In Ninety. Eighty-nine. Eighty-eight. Eighty-seven…”
Chapter 33
Fifty-six. Fifty-five. Fifty-four…
Eve stood in front of the hostage, on the street at the base of the broad marble steps, phone to her ear. “Stand down! Stand down! I repeat, Omega Team stand down!”
There was no acknowledgment on the secure line.
The priest didn’t move, but only continued looking around. Uncertain. Counting. Forty-nine. Forty-eight…
Eve ignored the chaos around her. Radios were crackling. Officers in full body armor were crouched eight feet away. In the periphery of her vision, she was aware of sharpshooters in position.
“I need confirmation, Omega Team.”
“Roger that.” In the background, she heard the Omega Team leader repeat the order.
She heard Eli’s shout from the MRU. “Team Alpha in full retreat. Team Alpha in full retreat.”
She exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She dialed the Hostage Taker’s number. It rang—once, twice, three times, four times.
She redialed it again. Still nothing. She wondered if he’d switched to a different burner.
She took a step toward the hostage.
He seemed barely able to stand. His voice quavered, Thirty-three. Thirty-two…
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