Hostage Taker

by Stefanie Pintoff

  “It’s okay,” she called up to the priest. “We just did what you asked. What he asked.”

  Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight.

  “You can stop counting now. It’s over.” She stretched out her hands. “You need to come with me now, Father. You’ll be safe.”

  The SWAT team was on standby. Men in full gear with shields. She had only to give the signal and they would whisk the hostage to safety.

  What was stopping her?

  She supposed the hostage himself. She could feel the priest’s fear and apprehension; it was as palpable as if it were her own. As though she herself stood exposed on those steps, trembling in the crosshairs of a sniper’s rifle.

  As she had been, not so long ago.

  Twenty-six. Twenty-five.

  She empathized with the hostage—and reminded herself that empathy was a large part of what made her very good at her job. It wasn’t just her ability to study people—to read their body language and intuit their thoughts. It was her ability to understand their fears. That formed the root of all her strategy—and it was what the instructors at Quantico had never been able to teach in the training room.

  Her training.

  In that instant, she recognized her problem. All her empathetic impulses were being misdirected to the hostage, not the Hostage Taker. For a negotiator, that was a mistake. A sometimes fatal mistake. Her training had taught her to assume all hostages were “homicides in progress.” To be rescued, if humanly possible. To be sacrificed, if not.

  Her empathy belonged solely to the Hostage Taker right now—and yet she felt lost, unable to reach him. The last time she’d been unable to connect with her opponent, too many people had died.

  She needed to try harder.

  “They’re in full retreat, Eve. Teams Alpha and Delta.” Eve didn’t even recognize the voice that shouted the information.

  Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen.

  “You can stop counting now,” she told the hostage. “Come to me. You’ll be safe.”

  He didn’t move.

  Fourteen. Thirteen.

  He had to be in shock.

  The FBI’s own snipers were in place. Forensic analysis was complete—so now their crosshairs were trained on the exact spot, a gap high in the fragmented scaffolding, from which the last two bullets had come. Upon seeing the slightest movement, they would fire.

  Ten. Nine.

  Eve gave the order. The SWAT members rushed the hostage.

  Covered him with their flak jackets. Protected the air space above them with their shields.

  Began moving him down the steps, away from the Cathedral and the bronze door.

  Eve could still hear him counting. Five. Four. Three…

  She was seized by a panic—an overwhelming sense of approaching calamity. She wanted to turn away. She did not want to watch.

  Two…

  Had she heard the count? Or only imagined it?

  She felt the shock wave. Even though the men and women surrounding her were all seasoned professionals, she heard their collective gasp. Then somebody screamed—and the noise seemed louder than the explosion itself.

  She didn’t focus on the victims—although she knew there were three.

  She was teetering at the edge of reality and memory—unable to shake the image of Zev and an explosion three months ago on the banks of the Hudson River. When the scream that had sounded had been her own.

  She looked down at the priest and his would-be rescuers. She remembered Zev. All of them now in a place she could not reach.

  Choking on the smoke, she collapsed to her knees in despair. Her pulse was pounding, her blood humming, her mind struggling to filter the chaos. In the split second before reality was permanently clouded by memory, she felt strong hands lifting her up—half dragging, half carrying her away.

  Haddox.

  HOUR 8

  3:22 p.m.

  This just in.

  You are looking at a live shot of smoke rising from the front of Saint Pat’s Cathedral. We are receiving multiple reports of an explosion there within the last few minutes.

  We repeat, there has been an explosion in front of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.

  We have no details yet on the extent of the damage or possible injuries.

  We have no official word on whether this is believed to be an act of terrorism.

  On the line, we have Rob Nichols, a retired FBI counterterrorism agent. What can you tell us, Rob?

  NICHOLS: I’ve been listening to your newscast for the past hour, and I know what everybody’s worried about. We see smoke rising over the New York City skyline, and after 9/11, we all worry about terrorism. We hear there’s a hostage situation at a beloved landmark, and we worry about the number of lives at risk inside.

  But in my opinion, what we’re seeing here is not the hallmark of terrorism. What tells me this is the timing. A terrorist would have aimed for maximum impact later in the day—when the Church was filled with hundreds of tourists, and Fifth Avenue was swarming with shoppers. In my opinion, this situation speaks of someone who very likely has a grudge against the Catholic Church.

  Chapter 34

  Thirteen minutes passed in a blur of screeching sirens and dashing paramedics. Eve was aware of serious blue eyes watching as she sipped ice water, sagged against a makeshift wall of coats in the deserted MRU annex.

  Those blue eyes confused her. And memory merged with reality all over again. She fought back tears.

  “I’ve got questions,” Haddox said soberly.

  “A pint of Guinness. A fast car. A room at the Four Seasons.”

  Haddox shot her a quizzical look.

  “You’re the one who told me those were all the answers you’d ever need.”

  “Right. Usually they are.” He half smiled at the memory. Then immediately grew serious again. “You were thinking of Zev out there.”

  She nodded. Her whole body seemed to sway with the motion. “Hard not to. Did anyone—”

  “Notice?” he finished for her. “Only me and Mace. Everyone else was a little preoccupied. What day is it?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Just making sure you’re here. Not off in some other place.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” she snapped.

  “Because for a few minutes there, I lost you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “But you haven’t been fine,” he insisted. “Not for a while, luv. Am I right?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “When was the first spell?”

  Rome, she thought. Two boys—one in a blue-striped shirt, one in yellow—playing in the Piazza Navona. Giggling. Teasing each other. Then suddenly standing up and running away—as the firecracker candle they’d lit flew thirty feet into the air. She’d heard the noise. Smelled the smoke. She had practically fallen into the Fountain of the Four Rivers—and emptied the contents of her stomach into its waters.

  Haddox was talking nonstop, not even waiting for her answer. “It’s why you didn’t come back to work, isn’t it? Too many potential triggers.”

  “You’re overreacting.” This wasn’t about her—or his appraisal of her during the past three months.

  “Your leaving me in Rome? Your nonstop tour of the world?” His brow furrowed. He was making the connections.

  Time to end this discussion. “Maybe your ego just can’t accept that I left you.”

  Haddox raised his chin. “You’d never have left without a damn good reason, luv.”

  “Because what woman would leave you without one?” she mocked him.

  “You said it, not me,” he replied with a careless grin.

  “Chalk it up to commitment issues,” she said, finding a smile. “Mine.”

  “More like trust issues.”

  “You can’t complain. You’re the guy who doesn’t stick around in one place, since the wrong people might find you. Who won’t keep a regular cellphone, since the government might track you.”

  “Not might, would,” he c
orrected her. “Besides, life is short—and best spent on the move. How about we debate this over dinner tonight? When the crisis is ended?”

  “That sounds overly optimistic.”

  “That you’ll have dinner with me? Or that the crisis will end?”

  “No chance this crisis will be over.”

  “But if it is?”

  “My answer’s still no. Maybe we’ll talk when you stop calling me ‘luv.’ ” She turned serious. “Did either of the agents surrounding the hostage make it?”

  Haddox shook his head.

  Her heart sank with a thud. She had known it; after all, they’d borne the brunt of the blast, saving others. But it still hurt, hearing it. “Omega Team?”

  “All members safely back at home base.”

  “What puzzles me is this: He didn’t shoot this time. Why change his methods?”

  “Your sharpshooters had uncovered his position. So he changed his tactics.”

  She took a few seconds to think about it. “He cheated, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “The Hostage Taker. We did what he asked. We recalled Omega Team.”

  “He didn’t give a tinker’s damn.”

  “He wouldn’t answer my call.”

  “You broke his trust.”

  “He’s a terrific shot. If Omega Team’s breach was what bothered him, why not take one of them out? Why punish his hostage?”

  “Because your Special Ops forces put their lives on the line all the time. It’s their job. Whereas killing a hostage—an ordinary civilian? That makes headlines.”

  Stubbornly, Eve crossed her arms. “He cheated another way, too. The victim was counting down—but never made it to one.”

  “Kinder that way, don’t you think?”

  Mace poked his head in the door. “All good?”

  Eve managed a wobbly smile. “C’mon in. Tell me what you wanted to, before, about the weapons taken from the Midtown West storage lot.”

  “Gotta get one thing off my chest first. No disrespect, Eve—but after what just happened, do you really think you’re gonna be able to talk this motherfucker down?”

  Am I? she wondered. When the connection I thought I’d made was just undone in a blast no one saw coming?

  “There’s still a chance,” she said.

  “ ’Cause if we end up needing to get inside that Cathedral, I’m thinking you gotta call Frankie.”

  Frank García—whose PTSD terrors from service overseas had landed him in treatment. A smile played on her lips. “You—asking for García?”

  “Don’t get me wrong: I can’t stand the guy. Don’t want to work with him, don’t want to be in the same room with him. But he’s the only bastard I can think of who’s got the chops to get into that Church without the Hostage Taker noticing.”

  Eve squeezed her eyes shut. What Zev’s violent death had done to unsettle her, she wouldn’t wish on anybody. Whatever haunted Frankie, she knew, was much worse.

  Then she remembered how the hostage had trembled.

  How the Hostage Taker hadn’t taken her last call. She’d been foolish to think she could trust him; she’d been arrogant to believe she could predict his moves.

  Omega Team had failed. If Eve and those helping her were going to succeed, then she needed someone whose abilities were as unpredictable and unconventional as her adversary’s.

  She turned to Mace. “You’re right. We need García on this one. I’ll handle it.”

  VIDOCQ FILE #Z77519

  Current status: INACTIVE

  Frank García

  Nickname: Frankie

  Age: 41

  Race/Ethnicity: Hispanic

  Height: 5’10”

  Weight: 185 lbs.

  Eyes: Brown

  Hair: Black

  Prominent features: Triangle of three tattooed dots on knob of right wrist (the symbol of Mi Vida Loca, My Crazy Life, the motto of the Latin Kings); tattoo on left arm (I will never quit, warrior ethos).

  Current Address: 3884 Broadway (Washington Heights).

  Criminal Record (U.S. Army): General court-martial for involuntary manslaughter, resulting in dishonorable discharge plus forfeiture of all pay and allowances. Sentence: ten years.

  Related: Military record makes clear that he loses respect for the chain of command when a superior fails to meet his exacting standards.

  Expertise: Member of elite team of Army Rangers (75th Ranger Regiment). Specialized hand-to-hand combatives expert (including knife-fighting training by experts in Apache knife techniques). Weapons expert and trained sniper.

  Education: Graduated South Bronx High School.

  Personal

  Family: One of seven siblings (four brothers, two sisters). Two brothers, Jesus and Alex, are current members of Latin Kings. A sister, Emelina, died of lung cancer in 2006.

  Spouse/Significant Other: Divorce finalized from spouse, Teresa. One son, Frankie Junior, age nine.

  Religion: Devout Catholic.

  Interests: Devoted to Frankie Junior and his extended family. Passionate about vintage muscle cars.

  Profile

  Strengths: A warrior who will fight to uphold his personal code of honor.

  Weaknesses:

  • Belief in irrational superstitions is a frequent distraction and cause for concern.

  • Significant risk of PTSD meltdown or alcohol addiction relapse. Judicial order for inpatient treatment established October; future shared custody of Frankie Junior depending on successful completion of program.

  • Isolated and distrustful of others.

  Notes: A highly skilled individual with serious personal liabilities. García mistrusts alliances, having been burned first by the Latin Kings and then by the Army Rangers. Change his perspective and the result will be lethal—a Special Ops expert who will run through walls for his team.

  *Assessment prepared by SA Eve Rossi. Updated by ADIC Henry Ma. For internal use only.

  Chapter 35

  I have their undivided attention now. I feel like an orchestra conductor, making sure each different instrument in my symphony performs its individual role. Ensuring that the whole will be far greater than its parts.

  From my perch on high, in the great choir loft over the front portals, this Cathedral spreads before me. An entire city’s block of stone and stained glass, sheathed in scaffolding. I can’t see them all, but I know the people I’ve positioned are waiting beneath.

  They have no choice.

  I reach into the back pocket of my pants and draw out a narrow vial of powder, sprinkling some on my hands, creating a perfect circle pattern. I rub my hands together, grab the nearest scaffolding pole, and begin climbing.

  I go higher and higher, above the massive organ’s thousands of brass pipes, until I reach a part of the wall where I know there’s a gap. I peek through and see Fifth Avenue. It’s closed to ordinary citizens, but NYPD and FBI and emergency responders are everywhere, like crazed ants.

  Traffic uptown and downtown must be a nightmare. A mind-boggling standstill. Families will be disappointed—there will be no tree lighting at Rockefeller Center tonight.

  A group of officers stares up—but I know they can’t see me. They are watching the scaffolding. Maybe even admiring the twin spires of Saint Patrick’s.

  The world outside is chaos.

  The world in here is peaceful.

  My own eyes drift up the wall, focusing on each individual block of stone. Each layer of mortar binding them together.

  I imagine my father’s grandfather hard at work here with his brothers and cousins. All of them stonemasons from County Cork who came to a land of golden opportunity—and a city rising as fast as immigrant labor could raise it. My great-grandfather watched as the cornerstone of Saint Patrick’s—now missing—was laid.

  I wonder if I will be remembered for rediscovering that lost cornerstone. If they fail to follow my instructions, it may reveal itself.

  Amid the rubble.

  PART THREE<
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  * * *

  HOUR 8 CONTINUED

  3:47 p.m.

  MAYOR: I’ve just gotten off the phone with the governor, who is en route by helicopter to the city this afternoon as the continuing crisis at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral escalates. Both he and the president have personally assured me that this city will get whatever resources we need to bring this terrible situation to a safe resolution.

  UNIDENTIFIED REPORTER: Can you comment on the explosion?

  MAYOR: As I’m sure you can understand, since this is an ongoing crisis and investigation, we can’t comment at this time.

  UNIDENTIFIED REPORTER: What about casualties?

  MAYOR: There have been casualties, but until all loved ones have been notified, we cannot provide further details. Our focus right now is to make sure all available resources are being deployed and that everything possible is being done to save lives.

  UNIDENTIFIED REPORTER: How many people are inside? Have you confirmed their identities?

  Chapter 36

  Three hours, eleven minutes to go.

  Eve finished issuing instructions.

  As her highest priority: She wanted the five witnesses on-site before the deadline. She wanted the Hostage Taker identified, with full background. She wanted to identify any and all secret access tunnels leading to Saint Patrick’s. It might prove the only way to end the crisis without further cost to either innocent life or the Cathedral itself.

  And they had confirmation of some of those innocent lives: A number of people had now been reported missing. People believed to have gone to Saint Patrick’s for early-morning Mass. People who later missed meetings and appointments. People who never made it home.

  The first name had always been on Eve’s list of potential hostages: Monsignor DeAngelo, who was to have presided over the Mass.

  So had the second: Penelope Miller, Luke’s mother. A cousin in Philadelphia had arrived to take charge of Luke; she confirmed that no one in the family could reach Penelope.