Exit Strategy

by Jen J. Danna

  This time, the laugh that came across the line wasn’t full of amusement, but darkness. “Sure, Detective Capello. But don’t keep me waiting long.” He hung up.

  As one, the Hostage Negotiation Team turned to Sanders, who looked ready to detonate. “What the fuck are you all playing at? I’m sending my men in now.”

  Gemma stepped forward as if to stop him. “No, wait!”

  Garcia held up a hand, waving her back. “Hold up, Lieutenant. We need to make sure we have the hostages’ best interests in mind.”

  “Their ‘best interests’?” Sanders stepped up to Garcia, close enough to bump his chest with his bulky vest and equipment. “He just murdered the first deputy mayor in cold blood. Everyone is at risk in there. Our only choice is to go in there and get them all out.”

  But Garcia didn’t budge an inch, just stood with his eyes locked unblinkingly on Sanders. “Unless you’ve got a clear kill shot through a window—and I bet you don’t—you’re going to storm into City Hall, and by the time you make it down the hallway, they’ll all be dead. We know he’s got at least one high-capacity weapon in there with him, and unless he’s an idiot, and that’s not even remotely how he comes off, it’s extremely doubtful he’s going to run out of ammo. And once he’s killed them all, he’ll probably take himself out as well. Or you will. On the bright side, you’ll save taxpayers the cost of a trial and life imprisonment, but you’ll have to make explanations to all the victims’ families.” He took a step toward Sanders. “What’s your rush, Sanders? Do you have theater tickets and you don’t want to miss your curtain?”

  “He needs to be stopped.” Sanders leaned in close, his voice dropping to a growl. “I’ve been here before. I know what happens when we wait too long. And you’re going nowhere fast.”

  “Actually, we’re making progress,” Gemma said.

  Sanders didn’t move from his posturing stance with Garcia, but shot her a sideways look. “How is that? You just lost a hostage.”

  “We got Greenfield out. And now we know who we’re dealing with. You may even have known him. Captain John Boyle out of the Forty-first.” She had to hand it to Sanders—he had an excellent poker face. Except for the slight widening of his eyes, she would have thought the name meant absolutely nothing to him. But that slight tell gave him away. “You do know him.”

  “Know of him, especially because of his son. That’s our guy?”

  “That’s our guy.”

  Sanders shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Can’t matter. He killed Willan.”

  “It all matters, especially when we’re trying to connect with him. He’s a father in agony because his son, his whole life and part of his identity, was taken from him. It doesn’t excuse what he’s done, but put yourself in his shoes. You’re a cop, someone who’s used to being the champion, who’s used to saving people. Now you’re the victim. You have the skills and the weaponry to get a little of your own back and to find vengeance for your son. Would you do it?”

  “Of course not.”

  Gemma shook her head in disappointment. “Too fast. If you were honest, you’d at least consider it. We’re all human, so it would have to at least cross your mind. But I hope we wouldn’t make the same choice as Boyle. We’re supposed to uphold the law, not shoot it down in flames.”

  “He made his choice, now I’m making mine. I’m in charge of this operation. You had your chance to talk him down. Now it’s time to force his hand.” Sanders stepped back from Garcia and turned toward the open doorway.

  “Wait! What if I can talk him out of there? Just him? What if I offer him a way out? Then we’d have a chance to take him down, out in the open, away from the hostages. Or even if I could just get him near a window. Give me a shot,” Gemma bargained

  Sanders stared back at her, unblinkingly.

  She was losing him. Time for one last-ditch attempt. It was in his power to take the operation to purely tactical methods, but she had to try one last time. “If I can’t make it work, then he’s yours.” She raised both hands, palms out. “And we’ll step back and won’t get in your way.”

  Sanders turned to Garcia. “Is she running the show now, Garcia?”

  If Sanders was trying to bring Garcia low by implying that a lesser officer—and a woman—was in charge, his failure was clear from Garcia’s response. “She’s the one who connected with him. I tried, but it never worked. She’s got a better feel for him now.” Garcia met Gemma’s eyes. “I trust her implicitly. If she says she can do it, she can.” He broke away to face Sanders again. “Let her try.”

  Sanders was silent for a moment as he looked from detective to lieutenant and back again. “Fine. This is your last kick at the can. I’m giving you thirty minutes. Do it now, or not at all.” Without another word, he strode from the vault.

  McFarland let out a low whistle. “Didn’t think you were going to swing that one.”

  “Trust me, I didn’t either.” Gemma sat and slid on her headset. “Okay, let’s get him back. Clock’s ticking.”

  “One sec.” He ripped the top sheet off his notepad and held it out to her. “While you were doing the two-step with Sanders, I put this together.”

  Gemma took the sheet, flipping it around and scanning his handwritten notes. A smile slowly curved her lips as she read. It was a full grin when she looked back up at him. “This is perfect.” She flashed the list at Taylor and Garcia. “It’s a list of details about Connor Boyle, which could come in very handy. Okay, let’s talk to him.” She read down the list again as the phone rang in her ear, but her head came up when Boyle’s voice came over the line. “John, my apologies for the interruption, but I know you must be eager to hear about council’s progress. They’re still talking, I’m afraid, but they tell me they have all hands on deck and are discussing the issue in depth. But while they work, I have something I’d like you to consider. Something I asked to bring to the table.”

  “You?”

  “Yes, me personally. John, I’m a cop, just like you. Yes, you’re retired, but we don’t stop being cops just because we’re drawing a pension. It’s in the blood. In the bone. It’s who we are. It’s who Connor was.” She paused, giving her words space to increase the punch. “We’re ‘on the side of the angels.’ ” She held very still, not even daring to breathe, waiting to see if he would laugh at her echo of his words, or if it would strike home.

  “He was.” The words were so quiet as to almost be a whisper.

  Gemma flicked her eyes up to Garcia, who simply gave her a single nod of approval.

  Got him. Interesting, though, that he no longer includes himself. Because of Willan’s death?

  “Connor wouldn’t want you to kill in his name,” Gemma continued. “ ‘Fidelis ad mortem.’” It was a phrase every New York cop knew, the mission statement every recruit learned—“Faithful unto death.”

  “Connor was. And he would want you to be. You’ve made your point, John. Now it’s time to let the others go. You’ve had your ‘eye for an eye,’ don’t you think?”

  She let the seconds of silence tick by, knowing an open-ended question, followed by the weight of silence, could sometimes push a suspect harder than insistent screaming. She waited, hoping her intrusion into his emotions would play into her hands.

  But the silence drew out too long. Come on, John. Work with me. You’re going to get everyone killed.

  She was drawing breath to fill the void when he finally spoke.

  “You know as well as I do that the moment I let the hostages go, I’m dead. Who’ve you got running the op? Cartwright?”

  It didn’t occur to her to lie. He knew too much. “Sanders.”

  Boyle’s laugh was harsh. “I would have been better off with Cartwright. Sanders is a goddamn cowboy. He must already be pushing to storm the place.”

  “You let me worry about Sanders. He knows we’re talking. But you’re right, he won’t wait forever. Let me help you.”

  “What have you got in mind?” His skepticism came across
loud and clear.

  “You send out all the hostages and then you come out. I give you my word that no one will hurt you.”

  Skepticism gave way to a rolling laugh for several seconds before it cut off abruptly. “No. You must think I’m insane.”

  “Not at all. I think you’re a man who knows how this works.”

  “You got that right. And because I know how this works, I know very well that Sanders will have his best sharpshooters on the surrounding buildings and will give the order to take the kill shot the moment they’ve got it. So . . . no.”

  “I’m not interested in killing you, John. I’m HNT. Keeping everyone, and I mean everyone, alive is what I do.”

  “No, you want them to take me into custody. And we’re back to ‘you must think I’m insane.’ You know what happens to a cop in prison. I won’t last more than a few weeks before someone shanks me. So again... no.”

  Gemma glanced at the clock at the head of the table. She’d already used a third of her allotted time. It was time for the last-ditch offer. “What do you need then? Transportation with a guarantee of safe passage to it?”

  “You’re going to arrange that? You know getting out of Lower Manhattan by road won’t work. You could make it look like a possibility from here, but three streets over, in every single direction, will be blocked. And then we’re back to prison.”

  “What if I bring in a helicopter?”

  “Bring it in where? There’s not enough room to land in front of City Hall.”

  “No ...” She drew the word out, wracking her brain for a feasible location.

  Taylor sprang out of his chair, grabbed the aerial map of the Civic Center, and pushed it toward Gemma. He drilled an index finger at the intersection of Broadway and Park Avenue. The orientation of Park Avenue coming in at an angle to Broadway produced a wider-than-usual open intersection with no wires overhead to foul helicopter rotors.

  That would do nicely. Gemma nodded her thanks. “There’s enough space at the intersection of Broadway and Park The area around City Hall Park is cordoned off, so it will be wide open. I could arrange for a pilot to fly in. You’d just have to give us a little time to make the arrangements.”

  Boyle was quiet for a moment, then heaved out a breath. “I want to think about it.”

  “I can give you some time for that.” Gemma checked the time again. “Take fifteen minutes. I can hold Sanders off that long. But you leave the hostages alone, John, or I can’t help you anymore.”

  “You have my word on it.”

  “Good. I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes.” She nodded to McFarland and he ended the call. She sat back in her chair. “That’s it, right there. He’s either going to take the bait, or Sanders won’t give us any more time.”

  “Sanders is never going to let him get as far as a helicopter,” Garcia said. “He’s going to want to take him in. If he can’t manage that, he’s going to want to take him down. But I can talk him into getting a helicopter on-site as bait.”

  “He will only agree if no other hostage is harmed.” Taylor reached for the map, pulling it closer to him, studying the intersection he’d suggested. “This location is going to be a tight fit, but a good pilot could manage it. He can set a flight path over City Hall Park and then set down between the streetlights.” He looked up at Gemma. “Will you call Sanders now?”

  “No. He gave me thirty minutes. When I call Boyle back, that will be just about time. Then we’ll figure out how to make it work. But if Boyle won’t go for it, I don’t want to waste already-strained resources on a needless operation.” She rolled some of the stress-induced stiffness out of her shoulders and stood. “I need some air.” She picked up her phone, marking the time again. “I’m going to take five. I’ll be right back.”

  For the first time since the operation started, she left the vault, pushing through the crowd of officers in the open office space, making her way outside. She stepped out on the sidewalk lining Broadway, turning her face up into the warmth of the last of the late-afternoon sun. The change in light made her realize how much time had passed since she’d entered their incident headquarters. They’d been inside a closed vault with no windows for hours and she’d been so focused she hadn’t noticed the passage of time.

  She was struck once again at the ghostly unreality of the quiet of the empty streets. One of the things she loved about New York City was the constant hustle and bustle of city life. Pedestrians jostling for space on the overcrowded sidewalks, street vendors selling their wares in the summer heat, and cars jammed in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Bike messengers weaving through vehicles and around those on foot with an adept skill that kept them not only on their bikes, but successfully zipping along. The smells of the food cart on the corner mixing with exhaust and human perspiration. The roar of an impatient driver taking off as the light turned green, music rising and falling from passing cars, pedestrians bellowing at drivers skimming too close, and dogs barking from a fire escape far overhead. And now . . . nothing. Standing, staring into the empty green space of the park, she could hear birdsong and the trickle of water from the fountain.

  It was disconcerting.

  Taking a deep breath of air that smelled almost-sterile without the overriding smell of traffic, she took a few minutes to walk down Broadway to the Woolworth Building. Standing on the corner, she tipped her head back, following the long line of pale limestone and shining windows up sixty stories into the blue sky.

  It was amazing to think that a single episode in her life brought her to this place, standing in eerie quiet in the middle of the most populated city in America, waiting to find out what she’d need to do to save the lives of seven innocent people who wanted nothing more than to return to their families and forget about the horror of this day.

  Not that they ever would. No one knew that better than Gemma.

  * * *

  She’d been at NYU, halfway through her bachelor’s degree in psychology, and had been coming home late from studying in the twenty-four-hour Bobst Library. She stood on the A line platform in the West 4th Street– Washington Square Station, having just missed a train as she arrived. It was nearly one thirty in the morning and the platform was deserted except for a young man with a purple NYU backpack all too similar to Gemma’s ’s own. At first, she didn’t notice him, due to her irritation at having to wait a full twenty minutes for the next train when she was beyond exhausted and stressed about her upcoming exams. But his pacing at the far end of the platform finally caught her attention. He’d stepped to the edge of the platform and stared down at the tracks, then peered expectantly down the dark tunnel for an oncoming train, only to glance back at the tracks and retreat. All while muttering as if giving himself a pep talk.

  It was when he completed the cycle a third time that the back of Gemma’s neck started to prickle with alarm. It wasn’t just being in a deserted subway station with someone who was potentially unstable—she was a New Yorker and was entirely used to the characters who often rode the subway. Furthermore, her father was a cop and she had four brothers who had taught her how to protect herself. There was something about the young man—the misery that radiated from him, edged with both fear and indecision—that made her realize something was terribly wrong. By the fourth time he did it, as she studied the way he looked down at the tracks, she was convinced he was considering stepping in front of the oncoming train.

  Gemma did the only thing Tony Capello’s daughter would even consider—she walked over and struck up a conversation, blatantly challenging what he was about to do. The young man, whose name was Doug, had been startled and embarrassed, and had nearly bolted—which she knew would be a disaster, as he might simply pick a different station for the same goal—but Gemma was able to use her own experience at NYU, highlighting her own struggles and stresses, to show him he wasn’t alone. And while suicide might end his own pain, it would only be the beginning of his family’s agony to go on without him.

  When the train pulled into the
station, they were seated, side by side, on one of the station benches that ran down the middle of the platform. They picked up their nearly identical backpacks and boarded the train together. And the next morning, she met Doug first thing and accompanied him to NYU’s Counseling and Wellness Services, only leaving him there once he went into his first appointment.

  That win had changed the course of her life. Law enforcement had always been her goal, but she learned that day that negotiating with a person in crisis could proactively change a life in ways most reactive cop work couldn’t. The losses and failures would come later, as they did for every cop, but that day set her feet on the path toward a career in the HNT. She’d never looked back. Neither had Doug, who survived that year at NYU and all the years that followed. And while he now lived in California, he remained a close friend.

  * * *

  Gemma’s phone alerted an incoming text, bringing her back to the here and now. With a sigh, she turned her attention to the difficulties at ground level, and sent a return text to McFarland that she was right outside and would be there in two minutes as she speed walked to their temporary headquarters. She was back inside the windowless vault with minutes to spare and regretted hurrying. A minute or two more outside would have served her better than sitting inside watching the seconds tick by.

  She called promptly at the fifteen-minute mark. She sat stiffly in her chair, dreading his refusal of her offer and the carnage that might precipitate. He had to take it; sending in the A-Team and the ensuing bloodshed would be a stain City Hall would never be able to shake. She loved this city and the grandeur of City Hall, and didn’t want this to be a permanent part of its record.

  Boyle didn’t even bother with a greeting as he picked up. “I’ve thought about your offer. I don’t like it.”

  Stifling a groan of disappointment, Gemma hung her head. She’d failed.