Hostage Taker

by Stefanie Pintoff

  He wasn’t worried about the booby-traps. He knew about weapons and explosives. Nothing was going to take him by surprise and blow him to Kingdom Come.

  Chapter 74

  I came home a month after Stacy was killed. I’d been given medical leave—which was what they called it when you suffered psychological trauma, but not so bad that you couldn’t go back to work in a few weeks.

  That was fine with me.

  I am never one to stay home sick. Excuses are for the weak.

  Eventually, I figured out how to make it through the day without blaming myself for Stacy’s murder. But Muna blamed me enough for both of us. I hadn’t been good enough for Stacy before our wedding. I hadn’t protected Stacy overseas. I was a failure, through and through.

  I lasted seventeen days in the same house with my mother-in-law. The same house Stacy and I had once shared. I couldn’t live with the bitch.

  I wasn’t like Stacy, who had been able to shrug off every slight and insult the world offered.

  Still, I knew Stacy would want Muna taken care of.

  So once a week, I bring her groceries.

  I pick up and refill her medications.

  I make sure she has clothes to wear.

  I’m still terrible at ignoring her insults. But now I close the door to the basement, where I keep her breathing in a five-foot-square cell. And I take satisfaction in the thought: She probably wishes she were dead.

  Shortly around the same time, I developed blue car syndrome. You know how once you buy a blue car, suddenly you notice blue cars everywhere? After Stacy was murdered, I saw the indifference and apathy all around me.

  It had probably been there before.

  Except now—my eyes are open.

  Chapter 75

  García had never officially worked as a sapper, but that didn’t matter. Anyone who spent more than a single tour of duty in the Middle East learned how to deal with an IED. Even if the soldier in question wasn’t part of the Explosive Ordnance Disposal Unit.

  You needed just two skills.

  The first was flexibility—for the simple reason that IEDs were by definition improvised. Created by different minds and taking all kinds of different forms. Sure, most of them were buried in the roads where convoys of troops traveled. But García had seen them in cars and radios and cellphones. Some were strapped to suicide bombers themselves.

  Some had dangerous chemicals inside. Some were hidden in children’s toys. It helped to be able to think creatively about all the possible ways the bad guys wanted you dead.

  The second skill was the use of all the senses. Sure, robots or water cannons were great if you were in the right circumstances—a nonpopulated area where you didn’t care if the device blew up. But where prudence was required, nothing beat the five senses. Sight—to identify what you were dealing with. Smell—to determine whether chemicals were involved. Taste—to identify the type of chemical. Hearing—to make sure one of the motherfuckers wasn’t going to come up from behind and shoot. And finally, a soft touch—for disabling the detonator.

  García had both these skill sets in spades.

  He also had a healthy sense of perspective. People had been defusing bombs for years, since well before World War I. Before there were robots or bomb suits or explosive lockers. Sure, it was better not to do it manually. But there was nothing magical about it. You just needed a method and a clear head.

  He stared at the door. On the other side was Mace. He took a soft breath. Paused for a moment to appreciate the challenge he was going to tackle.

  And froze.

  His eyes had followed the wire.

  It led to a spot about seven feet from the door. There, almost obscured in the dark void, García saw the hostage.

  He or she was bound in a chair: hands and feet tied, a bandana over her eyes, explosives around her waist, a switch gripped between her fingers and the palm of her right hand. There was a wire leading to the door García needed to disarm.

  As if he needed even higher stakes.

  There was also something else.

  It was just ahead and above him. A small device mounted above the hostage, pointing downward. Every 3.5 seconds, it emitted a blue electronic visual signal.

  A security camera.

  Part of the Cathedral’s system—which he thought had been disabled? Or a device planted by the Hostage Taker?

  He had no idea. But surely Haddox could figure it out.

  García stepped back into the shadows.

  And since he didn’t want the hostage or the camera to hear him speaking, he typed a message into his phone.

  Chapter 76

  García’s headset vibrated and suddenly Haddox’s voice was in his ear. “Just listen, don’t talk. I’ve confirmed that the camera in the Rectory corridor is not part of the Cathedral’s security system. That means the Hostage Taker installed it—and while I have the capability to disable it by taking down all data service in the vicinity, Eve and I are concerned that could trigger a chain reaction detonating the explosives. At a minimum, it would alert the Hostage Taker to the intrusion. But Eve thinks she can distract Sullivan. Make him look outside. Long enough for you to disarm the door. Free the hostage. Let Mace inside. Then, together, you need to track down and neutralize this bastard.”

  “What if he checks his camera? What if there’s another asshole, whose job is to watch the video? The hostage will blow,” García whispered.

  “No risk, no reward, right? Guess you’d better move fast once I give the all-clear.”

  —

  Eli sat across from Cassidy Jones, feeling inadequate for the task at hand. It was true that he had a great eye for details. He could find the patterns that told hidden stories. But he did that by analyzing data, not talking with people. Especially not women. Even if the woman in question was a ringer for his long-ago idol, Marilyn.

  He’d tried to break the ice by telling her that. She hadn’t appreciated the comparison.

  Cassidy drummed her fingers against her knee. Eli felt her stress, her burning desire to get the hell out of there.

  No, he definitely wasn’t a people person.

  But Haddox—who’d originally planned to handle this conversation—had been called to help García. It was all up to him.

  “So we’ve confirmed that you have no arrest record,” he told her. “You’ve never served as a witness in a trial. You’ve had no dealings that you remember with the police. But I need to ask: Have you ever witnessed a crime—even if it didn’t lead to making a formal report?”

  “I used to witness Art Dexter steal candy from Mr. Lloyd’s shop when we were in middle school. I never told on him—and when Mr. Lloyd went out of business later, I felt really bad. I’m sure the penny candies Art took would’ve made no difference, but still…”

  “That was in Atlanta, right?” Eli made the notation in her file. “What about since you came to New York?”

  She sat up straighter. “Just a couple Fridays ago, I reported something weird at the movie theater. I was out with a group of my friends, and one of them—Alexis—always has to sit in the center seat. I got stuck at the end of the row, next to a single empty aisle seat. I fought with Alexis about it and asked her to just move over one. Since it was a popular movie, I didn’t want some weirdo coming to sit next to me.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.” Except Eli was thinking about all the times he’d gone to the movies alone. And he’d been the weirdo in the lone aisle seat.

  “What happened was worse. A guy came by and asked if the seat was taken. I said no, and he dropped his gym bag in the seat. Then he left. I assumed he went to get popcorn or use the bathroom or check if there was a better seat elsewhere.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “He never came back. We watched the ads and then the previews, and when the movie started, I poked the bag. There was something hard inside. So we went to security and reported it. I don’t know what happened after.”

  “Did you finish the movie
?”

  “Only after security said it was safe.”

  “So there wasn’t an actual crime?”

  Cassidy studied him with disappointed eyes. “Not officially.”

  “Sure,” Eli said. He highlighted the notes he’d just taken. Pressed delete.

  “If there’d been a weapon in that bag, I assume they’d have evacuated the whole building. It was still weird.”

  This was going nowhere fast.

  “Anything else since you’ve been in New York?”

  She furrowed her brow. “Let me think a minute.”

  —

  Inside the holding unit, there came a sound of a chair falling over and cans and silverware tumbling to the ground. The witnesses were arguing among themselves, with Blair raging between the desks. Alina Matrowski stepped in front of him, stabbing her finger in his direction. “It’s fine if you want to risk your life, but I’ll be damned if you risk mine.”

  Blair responded with a chilly stare. “You saw how that protective barrier worked. Agent Rossi was standing there, and she was fine. Seems to me there’s not much risk, but a huge payoff.”

  “You don’t know that. I won’t risk an injury. My hands—my fingers—are my livelihood,” Alina spat.

  “As are my looks,” Cassidy piped up. “I don’t want to risk it.”

  “Don’t you want to go home?” Sinya Willis fixed her with an icy stare. “I say we all calm down and do what needs to be done.”

  “And what needs to be done, exactly?” Cassidy asked. She righted the toppled chair. Picked up a Coke can and tossed it into the garbage.

  “We need to end this thing.” Sinya crossed her arms. “They’re saying the Hostage Taker wants to ask us something when we’re together.”

  At the opposite end of the room, Eve and Haddox were discussing strategy.

  Haddox seemed amused by the clash of personalities. “They have a point. Switch up the game and we might wrap things up.” He made it sound optimistic and perfectly logical, all at once.

  “We’ll continue to use video feed,” Eve said. “Just like before.”

  “We need to distract him now. Physical bodies outside would help do that.”

  “They’re my responsibility.”

  “So are Mace and García.”

  “You’ve already given me my backup plan: his daughter.”

  “Whom you know nothin’ about.”

  “I’ll use her to get under his skin.”

  “You don’t even know: She may be in there, right beside him.”

  “And if she is, I’ll figure it out—just from the way he handles himself talking about her.”

  “That’s just brilliant.” Haddox shook his head. “A man’s daughter doesn’t strike me as the sort of thing you bluff about.”

  “I have to distract him. Figure out what he wants to talk about right now—whether that’s witnesses or hostages or priests or his daughter. What do you think will grab his attention?”

  Haddox pulled a new pack of Marlboros out of his shirt pocket. He leaned against the table with a NO SMOKING sign above it. Pulled out a smoke and rolled it between his fingers. “I think I have the perfect idea. Just about foolproof.”

  —

  Haddox settled in front of the computer screen; Eve took the chair next to him. He knew exactly what needed to be done. That didn’t mean he couldn’t also have some fun. He found the site, flexed his hands together, and then let his fingers fly.

  He needed something original. Because what’s never been seen before has the greatest power to shock.

  So he bypassed all the traditional sites.

  His search engine of choice was ICREACH. This was the NSA’s baby, Big Brother crossed with Google. Perfect for the task at hand. Law enforcement loved it because its 850 billion bits of metadata allowed you to truly know your subject: track their movements, map their friends, and reveal their religious or political beliefs. All you needed was a single piece of data: A phone number. An email address. A Twitter account.

  Today Haddox wanted it for one simple reason: It was a repository of forgotten data. Even mining data from apps like Snapchat or Whisper. Places where messages ostensibly self-destructed within moments of being shared.

  He devoted four and a half minutes to finding the perfect file. When he uncovered it, he felt like a heartless bastard.

  He enlarged it on the screen, angled it toward Eve. “What do you think?”

  Her eyes were locked on the screen. “If it doesn’t hold his attention, then I don’t know what will. I just hate the idea of it.”

  “Hate it more than the death of another innocent victim?” Haddox waited. “Didn’t think so. I’ll put it on-screen. Wait thirty seconds. Then green-light Mace and García.”

  —

  The moment he received the signal from Haddox, García took out his tools and began methodically disarming the detonator.

  He worked quickly but cautiously. Found the wires forming the circuit.

  Closed his eyes. Said a hasty prayer. Ran a finger over the detonator and tasted it—to be sure there were no chemical components.

  There wasn’t any magical how-to formula for disarming a detonator. Each one was unique—the product of its maker’s imagination. So García spent the better part of three minutes, thirty-one seconds determining what this bomb’s maker had done.

  García was impressed. It was sophisticated work. And familiar—so probably developed in Afghanistan, if not Iraq.

  He identified the first wire.

  And there wasn’t any rhyme or reason to the wire colors, either. It was a matter of sequence, not color.

  He identified the second wire.

  Guys in the field tended to practice with detonators containing only one color wire. It kept their skills sharp.

  He identified the third wire.

  So it actually helped to be a little bit colorblind—which García always was where explosives were concerned.

  He identified the fourth wire—and took out his wire cutters.

  Seventeen minutes later, he had completely finished. He wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead. Swung open the door.

  Chapter 77

  A new image was projected onto the screen next to the giant bronze Atlas. The girl was a chestnut-haired teenager wearing black jeans with a sparkle design, a T-shirt that read PEACE OUT, and a crimson scarf. She was sitting on her knees.

  Next to her, a series of screen shots—each a confession—began to rotate.

  Each bore text that was superimposed on a different photo of her.

  Each revealed a code linked to her cellphone number or email account.

  I hate being a teenager. I don’t like mean girls, hormones, weird parents—or the way I look in the mirror.

  Eve placed her phone on the table. It didn’t ring.

  The next was superimposed on a close-up of her wrist. A photo the girl had taken herself.

  I’ve been clean for ten days. Every time I want to cut, I remember I don’t want to have scars when Dad takes me to Miami for New Year’s.

  “He’s going to call any second,” Haddox said.

  They both stared at Eve’s phone. It didn’t ring.

  The image rotated again. This one focused on the girl’s eyes.

  I drew all over my old scars today. Mrs. Roth was right. It did relieve my urges.

  The phone stayed silent.

  A new rotation. Full face.

  I relapsed. It was at school. I faked a smile after. So nobody noticed that I had been crying in pain just ten minutes before.

  The phone didn’t ring.

  “Dammit, where is he?” Eve muttered.

  I am more scarred inside than my arm is outside.

  The phone trilled.

  Sean Sullivan was on the line. Eve braced for his reaction. “Who put you up to this?”

  She listened to his breathing. It was rapid, indicating his elevated heart rate.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where did you
get these photos? Who gave them to you?”

  There was no anger in his voice. Just naked panic. Eve had his full attention.

  She was giving him only half of hers. Through her earpiece, she was listening to Mace and García’s progress. Waiting for word they’d made it past the camera.

  “So you’ve never seen these images?” she asked Sean.

  “Is this some kind of damn trick?”

  “It’s disturbing material, I know. But your daughter shared it herself, online.”

  “When?”

  Eve looked at Haddox. He had been listening to the conversation. Now he held up two fingers.

  “Within the last two weeks,” she said. “Over multiple Internet postings.”

  “There’s no way anyone could know…Meaghan and I never…” There was raw pain in the statement.

  Eve listened, slightly stunned. She thought: I hear the ring of truth in his voice. He’s not acting. He’s worried sick about his daughter.

  —

  Mace crouched his basketball-player frame low and headed down the corridor linking the Rectory to the Cathedral. He spotted Frankie just as he approached the Sacristy entrance.

  He’d been as good as his word: The door was disarmed and open.

  Problem was: There was a hostage. Still wired to the hilt. Just sitting there with a blindfold covering his eyes—while García spoke to him in a hushed, hurried voice.

  Mace had no time or patience for García to pussyfoot around. They had a Cathedral to take back.

  He gave a brief nod to García.

  “Let’s get you out of here,” he said to the hostage. He reached forward and tugged the bandana from the hostage’s eyes.

  Revealing that he was a she. Specifically, a middle-aged woman with gray-streaked hair, now plastered to her face with sweat.

  Mace looked down. She wore a wedding band and a funny string bracelet around her wrist. Her eyes were big blue round pools of confusion. She was still gagged—but she managed to make a high-pitched, moaning sound.