Hostage Taker

by Stefanie Pintoff

  García pointed to her right hand, which clutched the pressure switch between her fingers and palm. “I was talking to her so she didn’t get startled and let go of that.”

  “And I took her bandana off so she could see us tryin’ to help her.” Mace shook his head.

  The hostage’s moans intensified. Mace ignored them. He told her, “Keep pressing hard on that switch ’til I say I’ve got it. Nod if you understand.”

  The woman nodded.

  Mace squeezed her fingers between his own. Inched the switch out of her fingers. Set it to LOCK position. Then bound it eight times around with a thick rubber band.

  “Overkill.” García made the word sound like a synonym for amateur.

  Mace shrugged. “Makes me feel better. What about that?”

  García had removed the woman’s explosive belt. With fast fingers, he neutralized the wires. Then set the device down by the gate. “Tactical can take it from here.”

  Mace helped the woman to her feet as García unbound her legs. She wobbled three steps, then collapsed into his arms.

  He started to remove her gag. Mace stopped him. “Don’t waste time. Tactical can handle that, too.”

  García glanced nervously at the camera. Prayed Eve was doing a good job keeping the Hostage Taker distracted.

  Mace caught the woman’s eye and pointed at the passageway. “Go that way to the end. Take the elevator up. You’ll find plenty of help waiting.”

  Neither he nor García lingered to be sure she made it. They sprinted back up the stairs, toward the High Altar and the main Cathedral.

  García was fast, but Mace’s strides were impressive.

  “When’s the last time you were in this place?” García asked when Mace overtook him.

  Mace grinned. “I just checked out the map.”

  García grabbed him by the shoulder. “Then you’d better follow me. You always said book smarts are no match for street smarts.”

  —

  García crouched low against the wall, not wanting to be a target. Cursing the fact that Mace was behind him—with lumbering footsteps that seemed to echo loudly against the stone. He’d declined additional help from Tactical, telling Eve that he’d rather be nimble. Too many cooks in the kitchen.

  She’d insisted that Mace continue. Didn’t she realize the damn fool might get them both killed?

  The rear of the High Altar was just above. García let his eyes rise to the vaulted ceiling, knowing they were completely vulnerable the moment they reached the altar.

  It was the focal point of the Cathedral, crafted entirely of bronze. Its canopy rose almost sixty feet high, with decorated pillars and spires on its gabled roof. The Redemption of Mankind, García thought, looking at the statues surrounding him.

  He made his way quickly around it. Paused by the window depicting the sacrifice of Abraham.

  Eve thought it was just one man calling the shots. She had promised to distract him.

  Eve could be wrong.

  He turned to Mace. “I’m going up the scaffolding. Cover me.”

  Then he crossed himself again. This time just for good luck.

  Chapter 78

  Mace watched Frank García disappear up the rails of the center scaffold. The guy was small but scrappy, and he moved fast. Mace gave him that much credit.

  He took a moment to look around. The building was shaped exactly like a cross. He knew there were hostages scattered throughout, but all he saw from his current perspective was an ocean of wooden pews. And endless marble. He supposed it was what people called beautiful, but it felt cold to him. Too dark. Too deserted.

  Something caught his eye in the balcony above the vestibule. He couldn’t tell if it was a noise—or a flash of light.

  Frankie wanted to be covered. But the way Mace figured it, taking care of the motherfucker responsible for all this was the best coverage of all.

  He started walking down the long nave of the Cathedral toward the front. He kept close to the center, where the shadows were deepest.

  He felt like he was in a big stone cage.

  One where his every footstep echoed.

  So far, he saw nothing. No sign of life other than stray flashes of light that he supposed were from official activity outside.

  Black. Yellow. Black again.

  He supposed it was a crazy risk he was taking. But he wasn’t the type to stand around. Not when he could get something done.

  Then he saw the movement again. Still felt his footsteps echoed too loudly, but he couldn’t physically move any quieter.

  How to get upstairs?

  He reached the vestibule by the entrance. Turned into the bell tower. Saw the elevator. No way was he going to be a sitting duck in a box. He looked harder and found stairs.

  It took him thirty-three seconds to climb to the top. His eyes scanned the length of the choir loft.

  Empty.

  Just the massive organ, its pipes reaching up to the stained-glass Rose Window above.

  Then a light flashed and he found the source of the movement.

  There was a clock at the rear of the Choir Loft. Every 4.3 seconds, a flash of light hit its dial.

  The clock chimed ten o’clock.

  Somewhere above he heard a noise.

  It sounded like the discharge of a weapon. It was followed by a muffled groan.

  He looked out across the vast expanse of pews below.

  Nothing.

  García had been heading up the scaffolding. The sounds had come from above.

  Mace was at the entrance of the choir loft in a flash. “Frankie?” he whispered.

  “García?” Louder this time. “Are you okay?”

  No answer.

  Shit. And he was supposed to have had Frankie’s back.

  Mace had never liked the guy. Certainly had never felt responsible for him. Until now.

  García might be a dysfunctional pain in the ass, but he was on Mace’s team—and Mace didn’t like seeing him targeted.

  “García!” he called out again.

  Tried reaching him on their shared channel. Then by phone. Finally by text.

  Still no answer.

  His chest tightened as he sent a message to Eve: Shots fired. Possible man down.

  —

  Eve read Mace’s message and shivered as reality shifted. She closed her eyes. Fought the overwhelming sense of helplessness. Then opened her eyes and messaged back: Tactical support?

  The reply came almost instantaneously. Give me 13 minutes.

  She shook her head. She knew Mace considered thirteen his lucky number. Frankie was superstitious and would consider it bad juju.

  Careful. Don’t be a hero, she typed. Then caught herself thinking: Wasn’t that exactly what she wanted him to be?

  —

  Mace took seven steps forward. Peered into the dim stairwell.

  No movement. No sound. No sign of anyone there.

  He knew that outside there was chaos and shouting, sirens and bullhorns, and the incessant noise from the circling choppers. But ten feet of stone and brick and cement formed a noise-proof barrier. Inside the Cathedral, a dark void had swallowed the Church whole. An eerie quiet prevailed.

  He was sure the sound he’d heard was a gunshot.

  Growing up on the meanest streets of Hunts Point, cops were always going by with sirens on account of people getting stabbed, windows getting broken, or guns going off. All sounds he wouldn’t ever forget.

  He thought back to the map he’d seen. Maybe the Church had a fancier name for it, but the large area above was basically like an attic. Even though an attic was the place your aunt in Queens stored her Christmas ornaments and forgotten boxes. Far too ordinary for a grand Cathedral.

  He checked his Glock. Zipped his coat a little higher.

  Then entered the stairwell and started climbing.

  He was feeling the cold. All that stone must trap it inside; it felt like with every step the temperature dropped another degree. And while he wasn
’t a superstitious kind of guy, there was something about the stale musty air and slight stirring breeze that reminded him of old ghosts.

  He continued up the dark stairs. One step, then another. Closer and closer to the top.

  His boots were making too much noise. His breathing was becoming more labored—which was either nerves or something bad in the air, ’cause he was in top shape.

  He sped up as much as he could, climbing higher and higher until he was almost at the top.

  “Frankie?” he whispered. “You there?”

  No one answered.

  He stopped. Listened.

  There it was again. A faint keening sound. It bounced from stone to stone, echoing in the frigid air, until it seemed it came from the Cathedral itself. No, Mace wasn’t a superstitious man. But right now, he felt surrounded by ghosts—and one of them was wailing in protest, already mourning a tragedy just about to happen.

  —

  Eve worried she had gone too far. She had tried to protect García and Mace by distracting Sullivan. Trying to ensure he paid attention only to her—not whatever video surveillance he may have established. But it was always a risk. They had no real idea what kind of eyes and ears he had set up inside.

  She wasn’t just responsible for four witnesses and a still unknown number of hostages inside Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. Two of her own men had put their lives at risk as well.

  Was García down? Where was Mace?

  It was too quiet. Just her—and the worries that taunted her. Telling her that six people had already died that day. That she’d sacrificed one of her own for nothing. That she’d never succeed. That she’d been wrong about Sean Sullivan and played the wrong hand. Just like she’d been wrong about Rusty Morris. She hadn’t been able to establish a connection with the chubby forty-six-year-old mechanic from Yonkers, either. He’d taken fourteen people hostage inside a deli in Queens. She had learned all about him, tried to convince him that she understood his problems, done her best to get inside his mind. But she had failed in talking him down. There had been a tactical assault. Seven people had died in a blaze of bullets. Two of them were children.

  Was this going to end just as badly?

  She had upset Sean Sullivan—probably more than he let on. When he signed off, he’d said he’d call back in five minutes.

  Now nine minutes had passed.

  The longest minutes of Eve’s life.

  Chapter 79

  Mace stepped out of the stairwell and stopped in the absolute black. Listened before resuming course. Keeping his gun close at hand. He pulled out his Maglite and was about to shine it in front of him when he thought better of it.

  He couldn’t see in the dark.

  But no need to make himself a target. Better to avoid light until he knew he was alone.

  He pushed the door open in front of him wider. It clicked. He froze and listened.

  Nothing.

  He took a step forward. There was enough light from a distant window to move faster. There was a stale scent of damp in the air—the legacy of the morning’s heavy rain and a closed-up room, unaccustomed to use.

  Is anyone here now? Where is García?

  The floor was dusty and mottled with footprints. Some recent. Different shapes and sizes.

  Mace went right. Stayed in the shadows against the brick wall. Past the window. He could see writing in the windowpanes, made visible by the lights outside. Messages left by some of the firefighters when visiting the Cathedral for inspections. Before they died on 9/11. It was one of the issues the Church rep had been hassling Henry Ma about. In spite of the massive renovation being undertaken, the Church had refused to clean the panes. They were a treasure—as unique as the Rose Window, the guy had insisted.

  Mace kept moving. He wasn’t going to find either the Hostage Taker or García hiding in all the dirt.

  Mace cracked open another door separating the small room he’d entered from other parts of the attic.

  Stopped. Listened. But there was no sound except for the whistle of air from yet another draft.

  Where is the keening coming from? And the gunshot?

  He saw nothing out of the ordinary. The area by the window was empty except for a box. He walked over to it and opened it. There were tools inside—small winches, covered in dust, that might service the bell apparatus. No one had touched them in weeks, if not months.

  If two hundred men really did show up to work every day on the Cathedral’s multimillion-dollar restoration, they didn’t spend much time in the attic.

  He moved toward a big window near the front of the attic. Someone had wiped this one’s panes clean. In fact, the lower-right pane was cracked, with a small section knocked out entirely. Glass fragments littered the floor.

  Mace stared down Fifth Avenue. Snow was falling, blanketing the world below. It was beginning to cover the streetlights and vans. The MRU and other temporary units. The great shoulders of Atlas. He knew it even covered the big unlit tree at Rockefeller Center.

  He didn’t have much more time.

  Braced close to the wall, Mace surveyed the room. He could see only five feet ahead. He needed to check the area to the right. It was dark, framed by treacherous shadows.

  One step. Then another.

  He found a table with a paper plate littered with food. A half-eaten sandwich. Some chips. A full bottle of water.

  Plenty of unfinished business.

  The Hostage Taker’s hidey-hole.

  —

  Mace’s thirteen minutes were up.

  A phone was ringing somewhere, but not for Eve.

  She couldn’t sit still. She was pacing back and forth, her emotions in a conflicted space between worry and guilt. Her mind trying to focus on strategy.

  Haddox was in front of the computer screen, brainstorming a way to get digital eyes inside the Church. Their best shot had been García’s GPS-equipped glasses. But—in a careless move—it appeared he had discarded them in the Crypt.

  Eli stared at Eve’s two phones—one her own, the other used to communicate with the Hostage Taker. Both remained perversely silent. “What are you guilty of?” he muttered. It wasn’t a question. Eli’s body was trembling and all semblance of confidence was gone out of him. “If I’d said something earlier…it’s all my fault.”

  “Nothing’s your fault. García would still have gone in,” Eve finished for him. “He’s not afraid of risk. Besides, the fact he’s in trouble, inside that Cathedral, is on me. I arranged his release from the hospital. I authorized his exploration of the tunnels. And if Tactical has to breach now, the fact they have access at all is thanks to García.”

  “You gotta give the order, Eve.” Eli shook his head, miserable. “Who knows what the hell’s happening in there! We don’t know García’s condition. What if Mace is down, too? Minutes count.”

  “Well, I’m gobsmacked. Eli Cohen worried—about somebody else’s health and well-being,” Haddox teased.

  “But apparently you’re thinking only about yourself. As usual,” Eli scolded.

  “Me, worry about a six-foot-seven black Adonis and a lethal former Army Ranger? If anybody can take care of themselves, those blokes can.”

  Eve and Eli just stared at him.

  Haddox grinned. “You’re thinking that I really am a cold-hearted bastard. But maybe you don’t give me enough credit. Maybe I just figured something out. Something important.” He tilted the computer screen to show them.

  —

  Mace drew his Glock. His heart hammered hard inside his chest. His muscles tensed, bracing for a fight, as he kept moving. Ahead of him, shadows swayed along an empty stretch of the wall.

  All seemed quiet. Then there was a faint scraping.

  He didn’t dare shine his flashlight beam.

  Mace moved in silence, his broad shoulders just brushing the wall. His gun in his right hand, at waist level.

  Seconds passed.

  Mace stopped. Stared into the dark. The stone-and-brick utilitarian r
oom had something odd in its corner. Instinctively, he hugged the wall.

  Then he took four steps forward. The odd form was taking shape. The slight scraping noise was growing louder.

  Even so, he almost cursed when he heard a faint moan.

  —

  Haddox was keeping his eyes open. “You see that?” He went into the time-lapse record and pointed to a shadow along the Cathedral’s uppermost windows.

  Eli squinted, then shook his head. “What am I supposed to see?”

  “That.” Eve tapped the end of her pencil at a flash of red.

  “I don’t have Superman X-ray vision,” Eli complained. “I can’t see what you’re seeing.”

  “Let me try to zoom in.” Haddox refocused on the fragment of red. Slowly, it took better shape. It was a shadow.

  Except shadows didn’t wear a lucky red bandana around their neck.

  Whereas Frank García did.

  —

  Mace knew: Sometimes offense was the best defense. Not just on the courts, but here in the uppermost reaches of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.

  He took a soft breath, and with his Glock ready in his right hand, he reached out his left. Grabbed his Maglite and shined it—right into the astonished face of Frank García and a hostage bound to a chair.

  Chapter 80

  Eve kept her focus trained on the video, watching. And listening—as though something in the silence itself might give her the answer she hoped for so desperately: the reassurance that García was fine.

  She was distracted by the trill of the Hostage Taker’s phone.

  When she answered, Sean sounded steadier. “Let’s try this one more time. I want to question all four witnesses at once. Bring them online. Tell them: It’s their last chance for redemption before all hell breaks loose.”

  She counted to five, nice and slow, before she responded. If they had truly seen García’s red bandana, then he was close. Right in the Hostage Taker’s lair.

  There was no longer any room for error.

  —

  Next to Eve, Haddox was focused on a different problem. Something was not right.

  He was poring over the notes Eli had left him about crimes the four witnesses may have seen. He didn’t leap to conclusions. He supposed that asking New Yorkers if they’d ever witnessed a crime was like asking an Irishman if he appreciated a pint of Guinness. But there were some odd discrepancies.