by Rick Mofina
He considered calling 9-1-1 or Cordelli, anybody, but there was no time. The driver had glanced nervously at his side-view mirror. Jeff glimpsed a sedan approaching slowly from some distance behind them. The street was too narrow for it to pass. They’d soon be blocking its path.
“Get in now!”
As Jeff stepped up into the van, one of the masked men tucked his gun, grabbed Jeff’s shirt and yanked him inside before pulling the door shut.
The van proceeded down the street.
Jeff got on his knees opposite Sarah.
She was gaunt. Fear had gouged stress lines into her face. It shone with sweat, snot and tears.
“Where’s Cole?” Jeff asked.
His question triggered an explosion of muffled crying and as he moved to comfort Sarah the gunman shoved him down, searched him for weapons, found none, but seized his phones and passed them forward. The gunman moved back beside Sarah and held Jeff at gunpoint.
“Where is our property?” the man in the passenger seat asked.
* * *
Keeping half a block behind the van, Detectives Finnie and Maynard followed in their unmarked Ford sedan for the next few moments.
They’d already sent in the van’s license plate.
“Subject is now eastbound on West Eighteenth. Traffic is light,” Finnie said into his phone.
“The tag comes back out of Hockessin, Delaware, registered to a 2010 Ford Mustang,” Renee Abbott responded. “R.O. reported plates stolen two weeks ago.”
“It’s a stolen tag,” Finnie said.
“Big surprise.” Maynard kept a lock on the vehicle.
“How do you wish us to proceed?” Finnie said into his phone.
“Stand by,” Renee said. “We’ll go to the leads—they’ve been monitoring.”
* * *
As the van rolled through midtown, Jeff continued his rapid inventory.
Remember every detail.
Sarah was wearing the same clothes she’d worn for their walk to Times Square. That was yesterday. That was a lifetime ago. Aside from her anguish, Jeff could not tell if she’d been hurt as alarm screamed in the back of his brain for their son.
God, where is Cole? Don’t let him be dead! Please!
He looked into Sarah’s eyes and battled to let her know.
I’m here with you. We’re going to be okay. We’re going to fight.
There were four captors. Two were in the back: one holding a knife on Sarah and the other pointing a gun at him.
In the front, the bearded man in the passenger seat, who’d so far done the talking, had an accent. His English was good but he sounded European.
He was in charge.
The driver had a ball cap, full beard, dark glasses, practically a twin to the leader. The driver was smooth at the wheel, vigilant, constantly scanning the traffic and mirrors. Drawing on his expertise as a mechanic, Jeff figured the van had a powerful Vortec V8 motor.
On the floor behind the console dividing the two front bucket seats, he noticed a duffel bag, partially opened. He saw and heard a digital emergency scanner squawking with police dispatches. There were walkie-talkies, his phones and others, folded maps, along with other items.
Were those bullet tips?
Sarah’s masked captors had dark sweatshirts, with their hoods up, dark pants, work boots. They were wearing earpieces. At times Jeff heard leaked dispatches in a foreign language. The air smelled of strong cigarettes and spicy food. The van was clean other than some take-out food wrappers and empty take-out coffee cups with colorful logos. The van creaked as they traveled through the West Side. In the fraction of a second Jeff had to think, he tried to retain every detail before time ran out.
“Where is our property?” the leader demanded again.
“I have it,” Jeff said.
“You lie. Cut her!”
“No! Wait! Please! I put it in a safe place! You said I would see my wife and our son! What have you done with him?”
“He is insurance. We want our property now! Or we will kill your son and wife in front of you, starting with the boy!”
“This is a mistake! Return my family and I will tell you where to find the plane. Please, we’ve already suffered so much.”
“You have suffered?” The man in charge whirled to face Jeff. “You have suffered?”
The man’s dark glasses and full beard concealed his features but his nostril’s flared with rage. A gold filling from his yellowed teeth glinted.
“You know nothing of suffering. Very soon we will show the world what it is to suffer—to lose what you love.”
* * *
Across town in One Police Plaza, Brewer and Cordelli’s task force lieutenant, Ted Stroud, had been alerted to the unfolding situation. In all his years on the job, he’d made many split-second calls.
Some ended well.
Some didn’t.
The bad ones haunted him. But Stroud had no time to dwell on win-loss columns. He needed to advise his team now. He reviewed the circumstances one more time. This was a tentacle of their investigation that had involved a double homicide, the brazen abduction of a mother and her son, and now the husband attempting an unassisted ransom operation.
It was live, mobile, risks at every turn. A hell ride.
“Advise the unit to continue following the suspect vehicle and get other unmarked units rolling into position to box him. If he runs before we set up, pursue. Do not lose him. Alert all marked units in the sector but keep it off the air,” Stroud said.
Renee Abbott checked with Finnie and Maynard.
“We got it.” Finnie, phone to his ear, eyes forward on the white van, then advised Maynard, adding, “Better tighten up on him, Sean. He’s getting some distance on us.”
* * *
The van’s driver adjusted his grip on the wheel and eyed his side mirrors, concentrating on that white Ford sedan.
Still there, nearly half a block behind them.
The driver had first noticed the sedan when they’d stopped on West Eighteenth Street, how it had materialized and moved slowly toward them from the distance. At the time, he thought the car was looking for a parking space, or checking an address.
His assessment had changed.
For now, after several minutes and several blocks, that white Ford sedan continued trailing them. The driver watched with increasing nervousness until he was convinced.
“We’re being followed,” he said.
The man in charge studied his passenger’s side mirror.
“See?” the driver said. “That white car to the right, the Ford.”
The man in charge looked hard into the mirror, then ahead to the next cross street.
“Slow down and stop for the yellow light, then go through it.”
The driver eased the van to ensure it was clear while approaching the next intersection as the green turned yellow. Just as the yellow signal turned red, the driver accelerated, drawing horn honking from opposing vehicles green-lighted to advance through the intersection.
A siren screamed behind the van.
The unmarked white Ford had activated the emergency lights concealed in its grille and threaded through stopped traffic. The Ford’s siren gave several loud yelps as it cut through the intersection, weaving in leaps against the red light in pursuit of the van.
The van’s driver shoved the gas pedal to the floorboard. The V8 roared and the van sailed west on the cross-town street, its speed climbing as it knifed through traffic.
Jeff braced himself while watching the captors strain for balance. As the van rocked violently he saw the pistol slip in the gunman’s hand.
This is my chance.
Jeff slammed his fist into the gunman’s face, then instantly smashed the face of the
man holding the knife to Sarah.
The gun clattered out of reach.
As the dazed gunman clawed for it, Jeff elbowed his face hard, then grabbed the second captor’s head, twisted and cracked it against the van’s steel ribbing.
Jeff hooked his arm around Sarah’s waist and dragged her to the back, praying the rear doors were unlocked. His attack took them all by surprise. Before the men in front could react he’d worked the rear latch.
The doors opened to pavement blurring a few feet below, the rush of air loud, chaotic with sirens and horns, brakes.
Sarah was quaking; he had no time to pull off her bindings, they had to escape and find Cole.
“Drop with me and roll! Keep your body loose!”
He pulled her close to go but she froze, eyes bulging. One of the captors had her foot and was reaching for the knife. Jeff moved back, delivered several kicks to his head, prying Sarah from his hold.
Gripping one of her hands and squeezing his arm around her waist, they inched out the rear and were hanging over the bumper.
The unmarked police unit was a few car lengths directly behind them, siren wailing, lights wigwagging, when the second captor and the man in charge pounced on Sarah, engaging Jeff in a life-and-death tug of war.
Jeff crushed her bound hand in his. Sarah groaned, Jeff lost his grip. The men pulled her back into the van. The force sent him farther over the bumper.
He was faceup, his back arching, his hair brushing against the asphalt, which passed under him with the speed of a power grinder.
One captor had Jeff’s leg and was dragging him back into the van. Jeff held on to the door, writhed and kicked himself free and over the edge.
He fell from the van and hit the speeding street, not feeling his skin tearing as he rolled and bounced in a dizzying whirlwind of buildings, sky, pavement and traffic. Then came the flashes of emergency lights, the thud and squeal of brakes and burning rubber as the unmarked Ford swerved and stopped within inches of hitting him.
Jeff was on his stomach and conscious as Detectives Finnie and Maynard rushed to his aid.
“We need an ambulance!” Maynard shouted to a uniformed patrol officer who was running to the scene. “Get someone on traffic control!”
“Damn, we lost them,” Finnie said.
On the street as blood webbed into his eye, Jeff saw the van doors close, saw it weave neatly around a large rig.
His heart hammered against the pavement.
He watched the van disappear into New York traffic and was overcome with defeat.
CHAPTER 26
Manhattan, New York City
Jeff Griffin’s scalp was still prickling as he stared at the ceiling from his hospital bed at Bellevue.
He’d never lost consciousness.
He recalled the ambulance whoop-whooping as it blurred across town. The EMS tech in the jump seat had watched over him until they arrived at the hospital where a nurse and senior resident assessed him. That was some ninety minutes ago.
Now they were waiting for the attending physician to sign off.
Jeff lay there, his eyes fixed on nothing. The back of his head was numb. Adrenaline was still rippling through him; his ears were ringing and his face was pounding from the blood rush of his futile battle to rescue Sarah.
He was so close.
He’d touched her, held her and then he’d lost her again.
I’m so sorry.
God knows where Cole is or what they’ll do to Sarah now that I failed. I should’ve picked up that gun and shot them all. I should’ve waited for Cordelli and the cops to take over. I screwed up. I’m so goddamned sorry, Sarah. Oh, Jesus.
His eyes stung, his body shook, just as the door opened and the doctor, a balding man about Jeff’s age, came in with a nurse.
“Hello, Mr. Griffin,” the doctor said, picking up his digital chart while the nurse removed the ice pack from the back of Jeff’s head so the doctor could check the small laceration.
“The swelling is not too bad,” the doctor said. “It seems you don’t have a concussion and the X-rays indicate no broken bones. Let’s give you the once-over.”
The doctor leaned forward and shined a penlight in Jeff’s eyes. He had minty breath. The nurse took Jeff’s temperature and vitals. The doctor put on his stethoscope and listened to Jeff’s breathing. Then he assessed his neck, chest, abdomen and compressed Jeff’s pelvis.
“Aside from some scrapes and bruises, you’re in good shape. Your adrenaline was going full tilt. You were in ‘fight mode.’ You’re lucky—”
Lucky?
Jeff shot anger at the doctor, who was aware, because of police and news reports, that Jeff’s wife and son had been stolen by murderers.
The doctor adjusted his tone.
“Jeff, under the circumstances it could’ve been worse.”
“Did they find my wife and son?”
“We don’t know but two detectives have been waiting to talk to you.”
“Send them in.”
The nurse rolled the tray and IV stand aside and a moment later Cordelli and Brewer were standing at his bed.
“They tell us they’re going to discharge you,” Cordelli said.
“Did you find Sarah? It was a GMC Savana, 2010.”
“No,” Cordelli said. “We’re checking all surveillance cameras we can and our people in the car behind you may have gotten a few photos.”
“And that helps, how?”
“Jeff,” Cordelli said, “we asked you to hold off for us to set up.”
“You took a stupid risk,” Brewer said.
“I got closer to them than you guys! Christ!”
Jeff cupped his hands to his face, feeling the raw sting of cuts, scrapes and helplessness.
“Where does that leave us now?” Brewer said. “You should’ve let us handle it. This hero crap only works in the movies.”
“You think I was trying to be a hero, Brewer? That what you think?”
“Hey!” Cordelli tried to dial down the tension. “This won’t get us anywhere, let’s get to work.”
Cordelli set a digital recorder on the bed and opened his notebook.
“Tell us how many people were in the van, what they looked like, what they said, how they said it. Accents, tattoos, weapons, what you saw in the van. Everything.”
Jeff gave them details while they still burned in his mind.
“They said, ‘Very soon we will show the world what it is to suffer—to lose what you love.’”
Brewer and Cordelli exchanged glances at what they characterized as a terrorist threat.
“Did they elaborate, offer any details, like a target, address, location?” Cordelli asked.
Jeff shook his head.
Again and again Cordelli and Brewer went over every aspect of the incident with Jeff.
“We’ll have you talk to a sketch artist to get more, anything that can help,” Cordelli said.
Brewer pressed Jeff on “the small toy airplane.”
“On the call the plane was their priority—what is it?”
“It’s just a toy plane,” Jeff said, describing it.
“Did you give it to them?” Brewer asked.
“No, I hid it.”
“We need it.”
As soon as Jeff was discharged Brewer and Cordelli drove him to the coffee shop on Thirty-first Street. He went to the washroom and retrieved the bag with the toy plane, and empty box for the cell phone.
Brewer put the items in a larger bag and started making calls.
“This could be our key.”
CHAPTER 27
Jamaica, Queens, New York City
Lori Hall, a criminalist at the NYPD crime lab, had been up late for the pa
st five nights writing her research paper.
In addition to her full-time job, Hall, a thirty-three-year-old single mom with a four-year-old daughter, Carrie, was working on her master’s degree in recombinant DNA technology at New York University.
Shortly after Hall’s divorce a year ago, Carrie was diagnosed with a rare and dangerous lung disorder. She needed specialized treatment with expensive drugs not covered by Hall’s work health plan. Hall needed her master’s degree to be upgraded from 1B to a level 2 criminalist. It meant a raise, which would help pay for Carrie’s treatment.
It also meant Hall faced the added pressure of her university work and her growing caseload at the lab.
This morning she’d hoped to wrap up analysis of trace from an assault in the Bronx and move on to analysis for a homicide in Bed-Stuy when Gil Doddard, her unit supervisor, put a brown paper bag on her workstation.
“Hold up, Lori, got a hot one for you.”
“What’s this?”
“A mystery we need you to unravel.”
Hall glanced at the accompanying paperwork, tugged on fresh gloves, withdrew a small toy airplane and gave it a cursory inspection.
“Take this thing apart, analyze every component.”
“What am I looking for?”
“Anything unusual. Anything that shouldn’t be there. It’s already been processed for latents and trace.”
“And it’s a hot one?”
“You heard about that case that just happened, about the tourists from Montana? A mom and her son abducted near Times Square?”
“Yes, something on the news this morning, might be tied to our double homicide in Brooklyn.”
“This toy is part of it and your analysis is the number-one priority in town right now. So get going.”
“All right, I’m on it.”
Hall inhaled deeply, then let it out slowly.
No pressure. Stay calm. Do the work.
She cleared her other case, set out dating the proper paperwork for the new one. She adjusted herself on her chair at her bench and began examining the toy.
A jumbo jetliner made of plastic. She measured it at four inches long with a three-and-a-half-inch wingspan. Hall then weighed and photographed it. Then she activated the features and the red lights on the nose, tail and wing tips flashed and jet engines sounded. She rolled the plane back on its wheels, released it and it rushed forward, tilting for takeoff. It was absent of any markings, other than a Made in China sticker on the bottom and a tiny bar code on the side of the base.