Exit Strategy

by Jen J. Danna

  Gemma passed another control panel on her left, and seconds later heard the soft whir again as the doors closed with only a faint thump, leaving them in the cool dimness of the faint light coming from the tunnel ahead of them.

  She followed the curve of the tunnel, taking care to check for anyone in sight ahead. But finding the tunnel empty, she followed it to the left and then down a new flight of steps. About halfway down the steps, Boyle’s hand came down on her shoulder. She stopped midstep, reaching out with one hand to grasp the banister to make sure she didn’t lose her balance.

  They stayed frozen for a slow count of six, their ears straining for any sound. But the only voice they heard sounded far away and echoed distortedly. Gemma couldn’t be sure how close the speaker actually was. All she knew was the speaker was male and was somewhere ahead and below them.

  Boyle released her and she continued down the stairs until she stepped off the staircase into a wide, empty room with a high, cross-vaulted ceiling. The walls were covered with pale yellow enameled tiles, still surprisingly bright after more than a century. Above, the ceiling rose in a herringbone pattern of red tiles, tucked into the vault between ribs of the yellow and bright emerald. At the apex of the vaulted ceiling, a circular leaded glass window, inset with a floral pattern, filtered in diffuse light from above.

  But the room was empty. Across from them, a doorway was boarded off, likely the second entrance into the station, which wasn’t refurbished when the station opened for tours early in this century. Another flight of steps could be seen through a tiled archway, leading downward, most likely to the tracks themselves. This room must have been for purchasing tickets, long before the advent of tokens or turnstiles.

  Gemma glanced back at Boyle, who gave her a head jerk in the direction of the stairs.

  As she stepped into the archway and took her first step down, the voice became louder and more distinct. At the bottom of the steps, she could see the platform and just a sliver of rails, but no one was in sight. They crept quietly down the stairs. Gemma glanced overhead, knowing any sound they made would be amplified by both the arched shape of the passageway and the neat rows of shiny yellow tiles.

  She hesitated on the last step, trying to peer around the corner. She was just able to see the back of someone in cutoff jean shorts and a rock band tour shirt with cities and dates listed in two columns down the back. Boyle pressed close behind her and she raised a single index finger. Wait.

  The voice was speaking again. “If you look up at this leaded glass window, you can see that some of the segments still bear the tar left over from World War Two.”

  Gemma moved, slipping silently down onto the platform. About twenty people stood in a loose cluster, the rear of which was approximately five feet away. A man wearing a bright orange, high-visibility vest stood at the front of the group, his back to them with his head tipped up and one arm extended upward as he pointed at an arching leaded glass window overhead. The tour participants studied the glass overhead as he described its history. No one turned to look at her or in any way indicated they noticed movement.

  “The windows were blacked out for safety.” The tour guide indicated the line of brass chandeliers hanging suspended over the platform. “The design was intended to let natural light in from above to assist in illuminating the platform, but that same design became a concern when the risk of air raids arose because, at night, light from the platform could be seen out on the street through the glass blocks up above. The windows were covered with tar paint to quench the station and train lights.”

  Gemma slipped in behind the group, adopting a similar upturned pose. She fixed an expression of relaxed interest on her face, but that expression nearly slipped when Boyle came up beside her and casually slipped an arm around her waist and tipped his upturned face nearly to hers. Out of the corner of her eye, Gemma caught a woman nearby look straight at her, her forehead wrinkled in confusion. But then she shrugged and turned back to the historian leading the tour.

  Thank God. You just saved your own life.

  Gemma let herself relax fractionally. Had they pulled it off? But then she stiffened again as Boyle began to casually stroke his thumb up and down over her side. When she reflexively tried to pull away slightly, his fingers dug in, holding her close, and she was reminded that while he held on to her with his left arm, the index finger of his right hand was likely resting against the trigger guard of the Glock in his pocket pointed at any one of the people in front of them. She might survive a struggle with him, but some of these innocent people—rock band man or perhaps the older couple in matching “I ♥ NY” shirts to his right—might die. She forced herself to relax, to move fractionally toward Boyle. His grip on her lightened slightly, but not enough to doubt who was in control at that moment.

  “If you’ve noted the artistry of the leaded glass, you’ll see that it, like the rest of the station, is crafted in the Beaux Arts style, as were several other buildings in New York City at the turn of the prior century. Richard Morris Hunt’s posthumous Metropolitan Museum of Art in 1902, or Charles Reed and Allen Stem’s Grand Central Terminal in 1913, for example. If you consider the ceiling. . .”

  He paused, turning in place, his hands raised toward the sequence of barrel vaults arching overhead across the tracks. The vaults were the same herringbone red tile as the ticket room, but every third vault was a bowed leaded glass window similar to the one over their heads. The center window stretched from the archway over the stairway where the words CITY HALL were spelled out in yellow and green tiles, all the way to a decorative brass plaque celebrating the launch of New York City’s first rapid-transit railroad in 1904. Ornate brass candelabra hung from each tiled section of ceiling over the platform. Between the electric lights and the last of the daylight from above, the colored tiles on the arching ribs and slanted ceilings quietly glowed.

  “If you consider the ceiling,” he continued, “you’ll see the Guastavino tile work continues in this area as well. It’s beautiful and gives the station some of its Beaux Arts appeal, but, at its heart, it’s a structural component of the station. It’s a form of thin-tile compression vaulting that not only supports the ceiling, but beautifies the space. When George Lewis Heins and Christopher Grant LaFarge designed the station, they intended it to be the crown jewel of a system encompassing nine miles and twenty-eight stations.” He paused and grinned as laughter rose from the crowd. “Nine miles and twenty-eight stations, doesn’t that seem quaint? And tiny. The original line ran from right here at City Hall Station up to One Hundred Forty-fifth Street. Now we have four hundred twenty-seven stations, covering two hundred thirty-six miles of subway routes.”

  He stopped for a moment, his head cocked slightly as the faint sound of an approaching train reached their ears. “And speaking of subway routes, here’s our train coming to pick us up. And that is the end of the tour. If anyone has any questions, I’d be happy to answer them now, on the ride back, or once we’re at the Canal Street Station. And a reminder, because of the closure of the Brooklyn Bridge Station, we’ll be disembarking at Canal Street.”

  Gemma looked sharply at Boyle, who continued to gaze placidly at the tour guide as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Of course, this would also be part of his plan. With a hostage situation at City Hall, the Brooklyn Bridge subway station would be bypassed and they’d get off at the next station to the north.

  He was rolling the dice and whether he came up sixes or snake eyes depended on pure luck. How fast would the ESU figure out they’d disappeared? How long before they discovered the unsecured emergency exit down into the subway system? And then, would they assume they were on foot winding through tunnels only used by the homeless or thrill seekers, or would they bet on them somehow being on a train?

  If Gemma was in charge, she’d take both possibilities into account. And she knew her father would as well. But Tony Capello would be off this case by now and all he’d be able to do was wait for news.

  And hope th
at the next time he saw his daughter, it wouldn’t be at the morgue.

  CHAPTER 21

  As the out-of-service 6 train came into view, Gemma hoped her face didn’t reflect the relief that nearly buckled her knees. Or, if it did and anyone caught her expression, they would think she was simply bored by the tour and eager for it to end. Not that she was praying the train’s arrival might avert a bloodbath.

  The train came around the tight curve in the track and slowed to a halt, brakes screeching in protest. Two MTA employees hopped out at the far doors of the first car, where it was closest to the platform. Together, they picked up a short wooden bridge from a corner of the platform and carried it over to the middle door. They set it down, closing the gap between the door and the platform, making Gemma realize why the station had been shuttered—modern cars were built longer with additional doorways, making the curved station stop dangerously impractical.

  While the car was prepared and the tour group milled restlessly on the platform, Gemma noticed Boyle’s gaze shooting up the stairs to the empty ticket room several times.

  He’s waiting for the A-Team to storm down the stairs.

  They’d figure out their escape route sooner or later, but first someone would have to notice the unlocked control panel on the old station entrance. Gemma fervently wished they’d take their time to avoid the tiny platform and its occupants becoming the scene of a tactical nightmare. She’d rather deal with Boyle on her own later when she could pick the time and place. One much more isolated than the crowded subway platform.

  The tour guide and the MTA workers finally escorted everyone on board the train, the bridge’s high-railing sides providing safe passage from the twentieth century to the twenty-first. Once in the car, everyone settled into seats, and conversation rose to fill the car with a happy buzz punctuated by punches of laughter.

  A young man, seated directly across from them with his girlfriend, flashed her a saucy grin and leaned down to whisper something in his girl’s ear that made her flush and give him a playful shove before settling back into the lee of his arm.

  With an initial jerk, which had the occupants of the car swaying in unison, the train pulled out of the station, rounding the corner, and starting to pick up speed. Gemma finally let herself relax back against the seat.

  They had pulled off his escape and bought a little more time. Now her next goal was to get Boyle out of this crowd of people.

  To the outside world, she imagined, they looked like a winter-spring romantic couple, seated on the subway car, side by side, swaying together as the car banked around the tight loop or rolled over switches. Boyle sat with his arm companionably stretched out over the top of the seat behind Gemma’s shoulders, his head bent close to hers as he kept his voice low, a look of doting amusement on his face.

  But the pleasant expression didn’t fool Gemma for one second. She knew the right hand tucked into his pocket kept the Glock steadily fixed on the young couple that only had eyes for each other. His silent threat was implicit: Behave, or the ramifications were entirely her fault.

  Boyle leaned in closer, drawing her attention. From the set of his jaw and his shoulders, she could see he, too, had relaxed slightly, now that the immediate risk of discovery by the A-Team was over.

  “Smile,” he murmured, following his own direction. “We wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re not here willingly.”

  “I am here willingly. It was my choice, remember?” She smiled, but knew it didn’t meet her eyes. Still, it was enough for them to blend in.

  She stiffened, looking past him as the tour guide wandered in their direction, stopping and chatting with this person, then that one.

  Keep moving. Don’t stop here.

  As if he’d heard her thought, and decided to ignore it, the man headed directly to them, a wide grin on his face. “Hi, folks. Did you enjoy the tour?”

  “We did,” said Boyle. “Thank you so much. It’s clear you love what you do.”

  Gemma struggled to keep the surprise off her face as the two men made small talk, but then realized Boyle had determined there was no point in laying low and not attracting attention. By now, the A-Team had to be swarming the park looking for them, and could already be cautiously entering the tunnel. Of course, they’d be taking it slowly, as they’d expect bullets around every corner, expanding the lead on their escape as the train carried them away, far underground.

  “I really do,” said the tour guide. He turned to Gemma. “Did you have any questions?”

  “I did actually.” She treated him to a bright smile while her mind worked a mile a minute to come up with a question he wouldn’t have covered during the majority of the tour they’d missed, calling out their absence, or at least inattention. “The station is wonderful, but I actually had a question a little broader than just that one location. It’s more about the subway system back then. Even if it was tiny.” She paused to give a light laugh, and he joined her. “How did they build the actual tunnels? I mean, today they use those giant boring machines you see on the six o’clock news. But those didn’t exist back then.”

  “You mean the ‘cut and cover’ technique?” Boyle asked.

  The tour guide’s eyes lit up as if he’d discovered a kindred spirit. “That’s exactly how they did it. Are you familiar with subway construction?”

  “A little bit. My son is a history buff.”

  Gemma noted that Boyle described his son in the present tense, likely to avoid painful questions.

  “He loves to tour the city’s historical landmarks and I often go with him,” Boyle continued. “I’ve picked up quite a lot of information about the city in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. But please explain the concept to us; you most certainly know more about it than me.”

  “You’re correct that there weren’t any powered boring machines back then. The New York subway system was dug by hand by approximately seven thousand seven hundred Manhattan immigrants. It was dangerous work, and safety regulations aren’t what they are now. It’s estimated at least sixty men died constructing those tunnels. They closed the street where they wanted the line to run, dug the trench by hand for the tunnel, then built a series of trusses and beams and rebuilt the road on top while they completed the work underground.” The tour guide went on for several more minutes about the minutiae of tunnel engineering, but then moved on to an older man waving for his attention farther down the train.

  As soon as the guide’s back was turned, Gemma shifted away from Boyle, pulling out from under the hand he cupped around her shoulder.

  “Uh-uh,” Boyle scolded. “We need to make sure everyone thinks we’re together and have been with them since the start of the tour. Do not attract attention.”

  Gemma dropped her gaze so he wouldn’t see the temper and calculation snapping in her eyes. Yes, being in physical contact with him was unsettling, but she needed to play along. “What’s your plan from here?”

  “You don’t actually think I’m going to tell you that, do you?”

  “I think you need to give some serious thought to trusting me. We’re in this together now.”

  “Hardly.” The smile he gave her had a ferocious edge. “You’re just itching to slap cuffs on me.”

  Over his shoulder, and out the opposite window, the glossy white tile walls of a subway station whipped past. The white-on-green BROOKLYN BRIDGE and CITY HALL signs, with their terra-cotta trim, went by in a blur so fast, Gemma wouldn’t have been able to read the words if she wasn’t already familiar with the station. She only had seconds to be struck by the empty platforms and deserted escalators before they shot back into the dark of the tunnel.

  In the city that never sleeps, when subways ran 24-7/365, this kind of abandonment was eerie and always meant something terrible had happened. For the people who had tried to navigate their ravaged city following the 9/11 terror attacks, this kind of evacuation instinctively brought a gut punch of adrenaline-laced reactive fear.

  She wondered if Boyle
felt it too.

  Speaking of Boyle, maybe it was time for her to take a different tack with him, to convince him.

  She gave a skeptical snort. “ ‘Slap cuffs’ on you? Only if I wanted to make a citizen’s arrest.”

  He squinted at her. “Because you wouldn’t arrest me as a detective?” He kept his voice a murmur she nearly couldn’t hear.

  “That would get me in trouble for impersonating an officer.” She lifted the edge of her peasant blouse so he could see her unadorned waistband. “No shield.”

  “From your outfit, I can see you were off duty when they called you in. Unless things have changed drastically from when I retired, no detective would arrive for shift looking like that.”

  “You’re right on that account. But I had my shield with me and my gun in the lockbox in my car.” She looked up and met his gaze so he could have no doubt of her sincerity. “Garcia didn’t want me to go into City Hall. After all the arrangements, he was going to scrub the exchange. So I took matters into my own hands.”

  He drew back slightly. “You handed in your gun and shield?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” The single word carried the confusion of someone dedicated to a profession that chose him as much as he chose it. Someone who couldn’t understand how anyone could possibly give it up voluntarily. Someone who came from a long line of NYPD officers and had brought up his own son to join him on the force.

  “Because if you’d killed them because I considered the job more important than seven human lives, I wouldn’t be much of a person. I certainly couldn’t be a Capello. Wouldn’t be Maria Capello’s daughter.” She turned her face away to stare out the darkened window at the concrete wall flying by. “So I quit and walked out.”