Exit Strategy

by Jen J. Danna

  Alex bit off a comment—unless the cop was doing something dirty, IAB wasn’t interested. They’d gone around on this before. Joe got it, but he was in the minority. Most cops thought IAB was out to find a scapegoat, and anyone handy would do. Nothing could be further from the truth.

  “Which is more than I can say for some people,” Joe said darkly.

  “What does that mean?”

  “You don’t know?”

  Alex tried counting to ten for patience, gave up at four. “No, I don’t. Obviously. That’s why I’m asking. What don’t I know?”

  “Maybe I should ask what you do know.” Joe glanced at their father, still deep in conversation with Phillips, but purposefully keeping one eye on the nearest monitor. “Just to save time.”

  “I’ve been keeping tabs as I got in here. They’re trying to keep all nonessential personnel out, to keep the chaos to a minimum.”

  “Not an easy thing on a day like today.”

  “No kidding. Since I wasn’t called in, and I’m not an active criminal investigator, I had to do some fast talking.”

  “You could have called Dad. He’d have cleared a path for you.”

  They both turned to study Tony Capello. At sixty, he was three years away from mandatory retirement. Normally, he struck Alex as hale and hearty, a man who seemed too young to retire because he still had years to devote to his beloved city. Tonight, though, he looked worn and the smudges under his eyes were darker than usual.

  “As Chief of Special Operations, his hands are full overseeing this entire op,” Alex said. “I wasn’t going to bother him. But once I heard the guy had asked for Gemma in exchange for the hostages, I was going to get in here, one way or another. I can’t believe Garcia let her go in there. It is Garcia, right?”

  “Yeah. And he didn’t.”

  Alex cocked his head in question. “He didn’t let her go in there?”

  “No. He was against it.”

  Alex wanted to shove Joe in frustration. This was like pulling teeth. “He was overruled? By who?”

  “In the end by her.” Joe met his gaze and Alex saw temper sparking hot. “She gave him her shield.”

  “She what?”

  “You heard me.”

  When Alex took a step toward their father, Joe grabbed his arm. “Wait a second. The shield thing isn’t common knowledge. Garcia reported to Dad, but wants it kept on the down low for now.”

  “Garcia doesn’t want to bring her up on insubordination charges if she stays in the department?”

  “I’m not sure. Things are pretty chaotic over there. The guy gave them basically no choice—Gemma for all the hostages. They couldn’t come up with another way to handle the situation, and Sanders was champing at the bit to storm in there and get the hostages out.”

  That was a name Alex knew well, and not necessarily for good reasons. “Fanculo. It had to be ‘Shoot-’em-up Sanders.’ ”

  “Which is why Gem probably felt she had to move so fast. And when Garcia changed his mind and suddenly wouldn’t go for it, she handed Garcia her gun and shield and walked out the door. Garcia was sure the guy would keep all the hostages and Gemma, and just take them all out. You know what these situations can be like, once the first hostage has died.”

  “Died? Who?”

  “First Deputy Mayor Charles Willan.” Joe grabbed his forearm, hard, and squeezed, forestalling Alex’s shocked exclamation. “I thought you said you were keeping tabs. That also is absolutely not public knowledge, but I know word of it is spreading like wildfire through the ranks.”

  Alex shook his brother off. “Does Rowland know?”

  “Rowland was on the phone with Willan when the guy executed him.”

  Alex ran one hand through his dark hair, tousling the short curls further. “He’s already killed one. Dad must be going crazy.”

  “He’s trying not to show it, but he’s terrified for her that she’s in a hostage position again—with someone who’s demonstrated his willingness to kill.”

  Memory dragged at Alex, pulling him back to that day twenty-five years before.

  His mother had stopped by their elementary school as classes let out. She needed to run some errands and was going to take Gemma and Alex with her. Alex, nine, had begged and pleaded not to go. He could go home on his own. He was trustworthy enough to walk straight home and let himself in with the key she’d given him for his last birthday. The one he’d never used before.

  Gemma had been happy to go with her mother for a girls’ trip downtown, with the promise of a new hair scrunchie or tube of Lip Smackers as a reward for good behavior. His mother had reluctantly agreed—with a threat that if he didn’t follow all the rules, he’d be thirty before she let him do it again.

  He’d stood on the sidewalk, watching them walk away from him, his mother tall and stylish in a fashionable, swingy coat, holding Gemma’s hand as she trotted alongside.

  It was the last time he saw her alive.

  It was one of the best days of his life. Freedom and responsibility. Feeling like a man and proud of his independence.

  It was the worst day of his life. The gut-wrenching pain. The confusion. Feeling like a little boy, but this time, with no mama to reassure and soothe him.

  After that, he and Gemma had walked home together, letting themselves into the silent house that never exactly felt like home anymore. The light had gone out of their lives, snuffed out by a man with a gun.

  * * *

  Here they were again. He couldn’t even begin to imagine his father’s agony. He’d never let it show—the cop was too ingrained in him for that—but deep down it had to be eating him alive.

  Come hell or high water, they’d get her out of there. Or she’d get herself out. If there was one thing Alex had learned in the years following his mother’s murder, it was that the lone remaining female in the family had the courage and smarts to run circles around the men. She wouldn’t let them down—this time, most of all.

  Alex glanced at one of the monitors and started when he caught movement at the front doors of City Hall. Then an older black man burst through the doors and jogged down the front steps before veering toward the southeast park exit. “That’s one of the hostages. How many are out now?”

  “That’s number five of the seven live hostages in there. They’re coming out every three minutes.”

  “So in six more minutes, Gem’s going to be the only one in there.”

  Joe nodded.

  “Then what?”

  “The plan is to get him out into the open. They’re bringing in a chopper and landing it at the intersection of Park and Broadway. But they don’t intend for him to get that far. Once he’s out in the open, they want to take him out.”

  “The A-Team guys aren’t idiots. They have to know he’ll be using Gem as a shield. They try to take him out, they risk taking her out too. Has anyone talked to Sanders?”

  “Dad has.”

  The sound of a door opening had both men turning toward the entrance. A middle-aged woman, with her red hair pulled back in a bun and wearing the standard white shirt, black tie, blue jacket of the chiefs, entered the room.

  “Deputy Chief Harrison’s here,” Joe said. “Phillips won’t have to hang around anymore.”

  “You mean now that she’s here?” Alex glanced from Harrison to his father and then to Phillips. “They’re pulling Dad off the operation because of the conflict of interest.”

  “It was fine until Gemma set foot in the building, but from that moment on, Phillips needed Harrison in here to make the calls. They won’t be so cruel as to kick Dad out, but he won’t be making the decisions. Harrison’s sharp. She knows having Dad on hand can only increase their chance of pulling this off. You just can’t replace that kind of experience. I wonder if she knew Boyle?”

  “Boyle?”

  “Sorry, still catching you up. Captain John Boyle, retired, out of the Forty-first. That’s the hostage taker.”

  Alex stared at his brother as if h
e’d misheard him. “The hostage taker is a cop?”

  “Yeah. Boyle lost his son four months ago while investigating a robbery. Connor Boyle apprehended a suspect, didn’t have probable cause to search him for a weapon, then the guy pulled a gun and shot him. Connor died on scene. John Boyle thinks that ending stop-and-frisk caused his son’s death, so he went after the man who championed getting rid of it.”

  “But anyone who lived in this city during the run-up to the election knows that was Rowland. How did he end up with Willan?”

  “Bad timing. But once he had Willan, he made sure Rowland was there to know exactly what he’d done. Had him on the phone line with Willan when he executed him. Rowland is a mess right now, so the public advocate is standing in for him as needed.”

  “And he may be needed.” Alex regarded his brother. “I assumed there was a gang connection. If the hostage taker is a retired cop, why are you here?”

  “I was called in because there have been death threats made against Rowland from multiple gangs, so they were covering their bases while they didn’t know who was involved. I was about to cut out, but then Gemma went in, and now I’m staying until this resolves.”

  Alex scanned the room again. “Where’s Mark?”

  “Down at the Fifth. Those boys are right in the thick of all this, and he wanted to be down at the precinct to help out his officers.” He pointed at the monitor. “There goes number six.”

  A young man in casual clothes took the stairs leading to the front pathway at breakneck speed, then didn’t even hesitate, just cut left and sprinted for the officers at the park entrance.

  “So . . . just one more,” Alex said.

  “One more.” The brothers locked eyes. “Then it’s just Gemma and Boyle. That’s when things are really going to come to a head.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Gemma watched Angelo Carboni—the senior adviser, who in sisted on going last—take the outside steps so quickly he nearly stumbled, but then he caught himself on the second-to-last step, regaining his balance. With surer steps on level ground, Carboni loped down the path, disappearing from view.

  Mission accomplished. All the hostages were out.

  Now, on to the hard part.

  In the background, Taylor was still talking to Boyle. “That’s the last one. We’re ready for you now, John. The helicopter is in place. You may have seen it on one of the live streams.”

  “I did,” Boyle said, his eyes fixed on the phone as if he could see Taylor. “We’re coming out now. Tell your men that if they try to be heroes and attempt to take me out, Detective Capello will die. She’ll be at gunpoint the whole time, and the slightest stress will make me pull the trigger. Sure, I’d be dead, but so would Tony’s little girl. Keep that in mind.”

  “Affirmative, John. We hear you.”

  “One other thing. I want everyone near City Hall moved back. There are officers at the park entrances to meet the hostages. There are probably snipers up the trees in the park close to City Hall. Get them all out. I don’t want to see a single person when we come out of here. If I see one, I’ll consider it a breach of our agreement and she dies. Move them now. We’re coming out in three minutes.”

  Boyle reached over and cut the connection before Taylor could respond. Then he sat back in his chair to study her.

  She was careful not to shift under his sharp gaze. “Thank you.”

  Boyle’s brow furrowed. “For what?”

  “For being a man of your word and for letting them go.”

  “Because I could have killed them all? You must think me a man with absolutely no code of honor.”

  She couldn’t help her gaze sliding to the corner of the room where what was left of Charles Willan lay in a broken and bloody pile, just out of sight. Her gaze rose to meet his, but she let her silence speak volumes.

  “Killing one man doesn’t mean I don’t have a code,” he said. “I did that for my son. And for the other officers out there who are also in danger or dying because of Rowland’s pet project.”

  “As you requested, the council is now looking at it.”

  He shook his head dolefully. “You really don’t think I’m very smart, do you? Never forget I’m a cop. Yeah, I’m retired, but once a cop, always a cop. They may have been telling me what I wanted to hear, but they’re not going to change it. And it was never anything they’d be able to change quickly enough to save the hostages. I knew you were playing for time.”

  Gemma sat back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “And you played us right back.”

  He grinned. “Sure did.”

  “And now what?”

  “Now we finish this.”

  “We’re going out to the chopper?”

  “Isn’t that the whole plan? Going out?” He met her gaze, unblinkingly. “Getting me in range of the A-Team snipers?”

  “No, the plan is getting you to the chopper. But you have to promise me one thing.”

  His eyes narrowed on her. “You’re going to make stipulations now?”

  “Only that you have to promise not to harm the pilot. He’s just doing what he’s ordered. You say you live by a code. Show me. Don’t hurt the pilot.”

  “Oh, I promise not to hurt the pilot.” He rose to his feet, keeping the barrel of the carbine fixed on her. “Get up.”

  Gemma rose slowly to her feet. There was something in his rapid agreement that set off alarm bells for her.

  He was up to something.

  Being honest with herself, she had to know he had some other plan. There was no way a man of his experience would put himself in this position without an escape plan. She didn’t think his plan was to die here for his son, so he had to have an escape worked out in his original scenario. But she was pretty sure, whatever it was, he was abandoning it, or at least improvising and improving on it, because there was no way he’d have worked Tony Capello’s daughter—and the safety she’d bring—into his schemes.

  As she stood, she raised both hands into the air, where he could see them.

  “Now turn around,” he ordered.

  She hesitated only for a moment, then turned, focusing on the fact that he would doom himself if he hurt her when his very survival depended on her being alive and able to escort him out of the building. She focused all her attention on every sound coming from behind her, trying to discern what he was doing. To her relief, every sound that followed was familiar to her. The snick and slide of the magazine released from the AR-15 and then the louder crack of the charging handle being pulled back to release the bullet from the chamber. The ping of the bullet ricocheting off the table to roll across the surface and fall almost silently to the carpet below. The clunk of the rifle being set down on the table.

  Unloaded the AR-15 and put it down. He’s abandoning it. Too big to take with him without also having to drag around a bag, but he doesn’t want to leave it loaded so anyone else can use it as a weapon against him.

  Next came the rustling of clothing, the sound of a snap popping, and then the shush of a pistol pulled from its holster. A second later, the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed against the very base of her skull forcing her head sideways into an awkward tilt.

  She understood his placement of the handgun, and it shot a bolt of pure fear into her gut. In this position, one shot and her brain stem would be obliterated. Lights out. Permanently. No chance of recovery.

  His other hand came down over her left shoulder. “I highly recommend you don’t try anything, Detective. I will pull the trigger. I’ve already killed in cold blood once today. What’s one more?”

  “Understood,” she ground out, wincing at the pain radiating through her neck and skull. “You could pull back a bit. A fraction of an inch won’t make any difference in a kill shot.”

  “Maybe not, but I’ll start as I intend to go on, and I’ll be exposed from our first steps out of this room.” He gave her a rough jerk sideways, ignoring the catch in her breath at the pain as bone ground against metal. “Out we go.�
��

  Their progress was slow. He was pressed against her back, his fingers digging into her shoulder to keep her in the closest proximity to both himself and the gun he could manage. Being practically attached to him made for awkward walking, and the best Gemma could manage were slow, shuffling steps.

  She took the opportunity to size up Boyle. A sideways glance was difficult and caused significant pain as the gun jabbed deeper, but she noted a khaki green cuff on the wrist of the hand clamped to her shoulder. He’d been wearing a plain black T-shirt before, but had taken the time to layer a long-sleeved shirt or jacket over it, surely for pockets or to cover the weapons he carried. And now she was this close to him, the press of his body against her back confirmed that the AR-15 was definitely gone. She couldn’t feel the weapon or the strap and buckle of a cross-carry. So he was only carrying a smaller, concealed-carry type weapon, like the SIG. Or maybe he had more than one? All she could be assured of was the one pressed against her skull.

  Had he left behind the greatest firepower because any shooting would be in close quarters or in only small crowds at best? Or so he could blend in with a crowd without attracting attention? The gun was compact, but was even that too much bulk to carry at this point? Her money was on the second possibility and confirmed her suspicions that he was proceeding with a plan, even if with some minor modifications. He intended to get back into the city’s populace and get lost.

  They moved through the hallway, back toward the reception area. They stopped in the doorway, and Boyle leaned hard against her, the barrel of the gun digging into her skull as he peered out over her shoulder and into the corridor leading to the foyer. But the emptiness and silence convinced him they were still alone, and he eased the pressure.

  They cleared the foyer, skirting the sweeping double staircase on their way to the front door, and stopped just inside the doors opening out onto the outer steps.

  He leaned in close to murmur into her ear. “Your friends better play by my rules, or this will be a very short trip for you.”