by Matthew Dunn
I was motionless.
“But I don’t want either of you to pull your triggers. I want you to live.”
“A life of hell?”
“Yes.” Carley picked up an asparagus spear and bit its head off. “Or you can take the coward’s way out, shoot me, and commit suicide. You choose.”
I gripped my gun tighter. “Your brother was a traitor to America. I did nothing wrong by highlighting that fact.”
Carley stared at me. “My brother was stupid, greedy, and vain. But he was still my brother. He’s dead. Your sister’s dead. Now you know how I feel. I suggest you get off my property.”
My every instinct was to pull the trigger. But I knew Carley wasn’t bluffing about having a sniper watching me. And Antaeus had predicted the same in his note to me. Someone like that will always have people watching over him.
I lowered my gun. “One day, you’ll die.”
Carley smiled. “As a former medical man, I can tell you your statement is wholly accurate. The mystery is always when it will happen.”
My gun bobbed as anger coursed through me.
“Good-bye, Mr. Cochrane. Welcome to the life I’ve gifted you.”
“What you did to my family and friends is unforgiveable.” I spun around and walked off the yacht, knowing my every movement was being scrutinized through crosshairs. I exited the jetty, and ten minutes later was in Simon Tap’s vehicle. As I drove away from the harbor, I took an erratic route, to ensure that the sniper had no chance of keeping me in his sights.
Two minutes later, the bomb I’d placed under Edward Carley’s dining table erupted and sent more than a thousand pieces of Carley’s brain and body into the sea.
Chapter 31
Three hours later, I was in New York City.
Back where it had all started.
I’d parked my car on the outskirts, leaving my backpack inside. I’d only taken one hundred dollars of the money Antaeus had given me, one SIG Sauer, and a couple of spare magazines. The other handgun, rest of the cash, and everything else I’d left in the vehicle. The chances of me getting back to the car were probably nonexistent.
But there was one more thing to be done, and I had to see it through.
No matter what the cost.
I got on the subway and headed for lower Manhattan, wearing my hood over a baseball hat that was tilted over my eyes. My head throbbed, partly from stress and partly from spending the last week driving in daylight and sleeping in my car at night. If I could, I’d willingly give half of Antaeus’s three hundred thousand dollars just to get a bed for the night and undisturbed sleep. But that luxury would have to wait, if indeed I would ever experience it again.
After alighting from the train at Park Place, I walked up Broadway. Traffic was slow moving and heavy; throngs of people were still on the street despite the late hour. Many of them looked like tourists—smiling, laughing, carrying shopping bags, having a good time. Never in my life had I felt so removed from the people around me. I guessed that was how it would always be now. Me versus everyone else. No friends or colleagues. The last remaining member of my family allegedly murdered by my own hand. A leper apart from society.
A wanted fugitive.
I had to make that end.
My destination was nearby, but I couldn’t get too close yet. First, I had to turn lower Manhattan into chaos. Everything had to look natural, as if I’d been found out and pushed to the brink. But if I survived that chaos, the thought of what would happen next made me want to vomit.
I needed a trigger to set things in motion. I scoured the crowds around me. There. Two cops on foot, about seventy yards away. They were slowly walking in my direction, oblivious to their proximity to America’s most dangerous criminal. I stopped and turned my back to them, using the reflection of a store window to watch behind me. I couldn’t see them now, only the nearest people moving around me. If the officers were no longer coming toward me, I’d soon find out. If that happened, I’d find them or other cops and repeat the drill until my plan worked. Getting caught off guard was key. It didn’t have to be perfect. Appearing momentarily careless was fine. All that mattered was that I got law enforcement’s blood boiling and rushing to their head.
I saw them.
Sauntering ten yards behind me.
If I were a religious man, I’d probably have made the sign of the cross over my chest. It wouldn’t have helped me.
Five yards.
Time to make this happen.
I removed my hood and baseball cap, turned while rubbing my hair, froze, and shouted, “Shit!” as I stared straight at the officers.
For two seconds they didn’t seem to know what the problem was.
Then they recognized me.
And reached for their pistols.
“Get your hands on your head!”
I whipped out my handgun, fired two shots over their heads, and ran across Broadway, leaping onto the hood of a car, jumping down and swerving around other cars, my gun still in my hand. People were screaming and shouting, drivers leaning on their horns. I yelled at people to get out of my way and spun around. The two cops were halfway across Broadway, guns unholstered, one of them on his radio calling for backup. I fired two more shots into the air.
They sent all of lower Manhattan into a frenzied panic.
Kopański ran into Painter’s midtown precinct office. “Sighting of Cochrane on lower Broadway. One hundred percent it’s him. Shots have been fired.”
She immediately got to her feet. “I’ll slow you down. Get out there. I’ll coordinate units from here.”
As Kopański ran to the basement parking lot, Painter ripped down a wall map of lower Manhattan and picked up her police radio.
I switched direction, moving south down Broadway, dodging petrified pedestrians. The cops were still behind me, screaming at me to stop and hit the ground, yelling at people to get out of the way. Two more cops were ahead of me, in body armor, sweeping their arms left and right to tell people to move out of the line of fire. People complied. There was a forty-yard clear channel between me and the cops. Time to up the ante. Without slowing, I shot them both in the chest, causing them to crash to the ground. They’d live. I ran over their supine bodies and swerved left onto Worth Street.
“I want a helicopter in the air, now.” Painter was leaning over the map on her desk. “Where is he?”
An officer on the radio responded breathlessly, “We’re pursuing on foot on Worth Street. Heading east. He’s just shot two of our men. They’re okay. Vests saved them.”
What the hell was Cochrane doing back in New York? she wondered as she ran her finger over the map. She asked for the location of mobile and foot patrols in the immediate vicinity and then gave each patrol specific instructions.
“Block off the east end of Worth Street. Two mobile and one foot patrol follow in from the west. On-foot units head to Worth from Lafayette, Centre, Baxter, Mulberry, Mott, and Elizabeth Streets. Mobiles head north to Worth along Centre Street.”
Painter called Kopański. “Where are you?”
“Driving down Broadway. I’m getting updates on the radio.”
“If you can, take him alive. But if you see any threat to civilian life, go for a head shot.”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.”
A police car turned onto Worth Street and came hurtling toward me, its lights flashing and sirens wailing. I stopped, took aim, and fired four shots. All of them entered the engine block and stopped the vehicle. But the cops were out of the car quickly. One of them had a shotgun. Shit. I had to change direction. Glancing back, I could see twelve cops on foot, running toward me. The only reason they hadn’t opened fire was because there were too many pedestrians around me, all of them crazed with fear, their movements erratic and confused.
I glanced up a side street. Other cops were coming down it, guns in hand. Police were converging from all directions. My plan had gone seriously awry. It was time to improvise.
A small Chinese restaurant
was to my left. It was at capacity, diners staring out of the windows. No doubt they were wondering what all the sirens meant. I ran in.
A man shouted, “Oh my God, he’s got a gun!”
I shouted, “Anyone tries to leave—I shoot!”
People dropped their cutlery. Some screamed.
At the far end of the restaurant, a middle-aged Chinese woman in black tunic and pants looked like she might be the restaurant owner. She had her hand to her mouth; her eyes were wide.
“Are you in charge?”
She nodded emphatically.
“Lock the front door.”
Customers were begging me not to hurt them as I pointed my gun at the proprietor’s head. “Do it now!”
Outside, stationary police cars were everywhere, officers on foot and using the car doors as protection while they aimed their weapons at the restaurant. I could hear a helicopter drawing closer. Its searchlight bathed the police units. The back of the restaurant would have similar coverage.
I was completely surrounded.
“Close the curtains.”
The restaurant owner was speaking to herself in Cantonese as she complied, her hands shaking.
“Mister, we don’t want trouble,” said one of the male diners.
“Shut up!” I paced back and forth, deliberately looking like I was a desperate man capable of anything. It wasn’t far from the truth.
There were twenty-two customers in the restaurant, three chefs in an open-plan kitchen that was visible to all diners, and two waitstaff. In total, there were six children and nine women.
I pointed at a back door and asked the proprietor, “Does that lead out onto a street?”
She nodded.
In a loud voice I said to everyone, “Are any children here only accompanied by a male?”
No one replied in the affirmative.
“Give me your set of keys,” I said to the proprietor.
She did as I asked. “All right. Listen up. All women, including female members of staff, plus all children are to leave by the back door. Now!”
Mothers ushered their kids, all of them shooting horrified looks at their male partners.
“Move! Now!”
The kids were crying, mothers and female waiters sobbing, as I waved them toward the back door.
“When I open the back door, move fast.”
They were in a line, ready to go.
The restaurant owner was in the back of the line. I asked her, “Which key locks the back door?”
She pointed at one of the keys on the bunch.
“When you leave, you slam the door behind you. Got it?”
“Yes, yes.”
I put my back flush against the wall adjacent to the back door, my gun pointing at the center of the restaurant and the men. “Right. Get out of here.”
The woman at the front of the queue whimpered, “Please don’t hurt my husband,” as she opened the door and exited.
Five seconds later, they were gone. I locked the door and said to the remaining thirteen men, “Put your hands flat on the table. Keep calm. Do exactly what I tell you to.”
One of them stuttered, “What . . . what . . . are you going to do to us?”
“That depends on you and the police.”
Another asked, “What’s going to happen now?”
I replied, “Now we wait.”
Kopański was at the back of the restaurant. Alongside him were twelve squad cars and thirty officers. The front of the restaurant had an even bigger police presence. And the helo above him wasn’t going anywhere, its searchlight fixed on the restaurant. The released hostages were farther up the street, being cared for next to a large police truck. Next to them was a SWAT van. Ten officers from the unit were interviewing the hostages, getting an exact layout of the Chinese restaurant. One SWAT sniper was already in situ, watching the back of the restaurant through the scope of his rifle. Another was covering the front.
The detective called Painter. “He’s holed up. Ain’t going anywhere. You’d better get down here.” He walked over to the SWAT commander and asked, “What’s your assessment?”
The commander took off his helmet. “I don’t like it. Thirteen male hostages in there. So far we’ve no visibility of where they’re positioned. Only two ways in and out. And the room’s quite small, so the chances of collateral damage if we go in are significant.”
“Do you have any other options?”
“Nope. If we get the green light, it’ll be door breaches and flashbangs. Still, the chance of our bullets going through Cochrane and hitting hostages is significant. Let’s see how the negotiators get on first. One thing’s for sure—dead or alive, there’s no way out for Cochrane.”
The SWAT commander motioned to one of his men. Together they lifted a heavy piece of machinery out of their vehicle. It contained gas canisters, tubes, and a drill. Kopański knew it was a very sophisticated piece of equipment that could drill holes silently while suctioning all debris. Pinhole cameras could then be inserted through the holes. This was SWAT’s means to take a peek inside the restaurant.
“Stand up—all of you.” I told the three chefs to join the hostages. “I want you to upend tables and put them against the walls. There should be enough of them to completely cover the perimeter. But leave a six-inch gap between wall and table.”
One of the men asked, “Why do you want us to do that?”
“Pinhole cameras.”
A TV was in the corner of the restaurant. I turned it on to a news channel. Live reporting showed the restaurant from the air. It was surrounded by an army of cops and a sea of flashing blue lights. Above the restaurant, a police helo was hovering. I flicked through other media channels. They too were covering the siege, some from the ground, others from the air. The media was scrutinizing the event. This was good, because it meant the police had to play by the rulebook. And that meant they had to be seen to try to negotiate me out of the situation. Providing I didn’t start killing hostages.
And I wasn’t going to do that.
The tables were now in position, leaving empty floor in most of the room.
I said, “Get in a circle, close to the tables.”
“Why?”
“Just fucking do it!” When they were in position, I said, “Now start walking around in a circle. Don’t stop unless I tell you to.”
“This is crazy.”
“For you, maybe. But not for me.”
I didn’t want SWAT to pin down the location of the hostages before storming the place.
In the building next door, the SWAT officer got off his knees and whispered to his commander, “That’s the third hole I’ve drilled. There’re barriers in the way of all of them. Something wooden.”
“Tables?”
“Looks that way. The bastard knew we’d try to use cameras. You want me to go in from higher up?”
“Too risky. Try from the other side of the building. But if it’s more of the same, we’ll have to make do with thermal.”
But the thermal imagery wouldn’t tell them who was Cochrane and who wasn’t.
The telephone at the reception desk rang. I just knew it was the police.
I answered. “Yes?”
“Am I speaking to Will Cochrane?”
“You are.”
“This is Lieutenant Ames, NYPD. I’m the guy outside the building who wants this to end peacefully. I’m your friendly voice.”
“You’re a hostage negotiator?”
“Correct.”
“Your priority is the safety of my hostages. My welfare comes a big second. That hardly makes you a friendly voice.”
Ames laughed. “Well, we can get to know each other and work around that.”
“Listen, Mr. Negotiator. There’s only one law enforcement official I will speak with. Her name is Detective Thyme Painter.”
I hung up.
Painter arrived at the scene and approached Kopański. “What’s the latest?”
Kopański replied, “SW
AT tried to put in covert cameras through the walls. But Cochrane’s blocked their view. They’re now trying to go through the ceiling. Cochrane will be looking for them.” He held out a cell phone. “You need to take this.”
“Why?”
“It’s a hotline to the restaurant. Cochrane won’t speak to the negotiator. Only you.”
“But I’m not a trained negotiator.”
Kopański shrugged. “Guess we don’t have a choice.”
She took the phone.
I watched the men continue to circle the restaurant. Two of them were my height.
I tapped them on the shoulder. “You two stand in the middle of the room.”
“Please—”
“In the middle of the room.” When they were there, I said, “Remove your outer clothes.”
They looked confused.
“Now!”
They got undressed.
I kept my gun trained on them as I removed my jacket, boots, and pants. “Now we’re going to mix and match.” I smiled. “The end result will be that not one of us will be wearing identical clothes to those we wore coming into the restaurant.”
One of them said, “But . . . you can’t change your face.”
I ignored the comment. “What size are your shoes?”
“Twelve.”
“Same as me.” I tossed him my boots. After getting dressed and ordering the men to get back into the mobile circle, I pulled one of the Chinese chefs aside. “In the kitchen, do you have bags?”
He looked quizzical. “Bags?”
“Grocery bags. Preferably paper.”
The chef nodded.
“And rope? Or strong string?”
“For hanging chicken and duck. Yes, we have that.”
I told him to retrieve the items and that if he picked up a meat cleaver when in there I’d shoot him in the head.
The phone rang.
I picked it up, silent.
“Will Cochrane?”
“Hello, Detective Painter. May I call you Thyme? It would be so nice to jettison formalities.”