by Blake Banner
I peered in and the lights in the rectory all seemed to be turned off. I wondered if Paul and Humberto were still at the hospital. The church looked massive and strangely ominous in the dull, orange light from the street. I slipped in to the garden, indicating to Dehan I would take the left path between the rectory and the nave, and she should take the right path, by the old graveyard. We split up and sprinted for the church.
The narrow passage under the canopy of trees became a blind, claustrophobic tunnel of black shadows against even blacker depths. The only light came from a dim circle of moon-glow on the lawn up ahead. I could hear my own breath and my heartbeat, magnified in the darkness. I moved forward inch by inch, with my flesh expecting the plunge of a blade or the shattering shock of a bullet at any second.
I made it to the end of the nave and stepped into the moonlight, keeping close against the wall. Then, I slipped around the church tower, looking for Dehan. She wasn’t there. I cursed silently and slid a little farther around, to peer down toward the gravestones. That was when I felt the cold, hard pressure of a gun barrel between my shoulder blades, and a cool, steady voice in my ear, “Freeze, motherfucker… Oh, it’s you. All clear this side.”
I turned to look at her. She was giggling like a school kid. I told myself people deal with stress in different ways and we moved on across the lawn to the back of the house. I had left two patrolmen to guard the Martins’ house, but I guessed they were on the inside. We had back up coming, to cover the front and back of the house, but it hadn’t arrived yet. The 43rd was stretched at the best of times. Tonight they’d be stretched real thin.
Dehan moved up to the kitchen door and I slipped over to the French windows. They hadn’t pulled the drapes yet, and I could see Sylvie lying on the sofa, with her head on Mary’s lap. She had put on a heavy, woolen cardigan and was clutching it up to her mouth. Paul was in one of the armchairs, staring silently at Sylvie, and Humberto was in the other chair, looking really depressed. Obviously, they’d been given the all clear. I looked over at Dehan. She was squatting down by the step and signaled me to join her. As I approached, she pointed at the door. It was about an inch open.
I mouthed, “Cover me…”
She gave a single nod and trained her gun on the center of the doorway. I flattened myself against the wall and with the tips of my fingers gently pushed the door. It swung back a couple of feet and came to a stop. I inched closer and pushed again. It wouldn’t move. It had come up against something solid on the other side. I pushed harder. It gave a little, but softly sprang back when I let go. I knew what it was, and when I glanced at Dehan, her face told me she knew what it was, too.
I put my shoulder to the panel and heaved silently, then squeezed in through the gap. The cop on the floor had been with the department for just over a year. I knelt to feel his pulse. He didn’t have one, and the dark pool on the floor told me why. For a moment, I felt ashamed that I didn’t remember his name.
I stood and moved to the door that gave on to the dining room. It was open. The lights were off, but I had a clear view to the living room. I could hear the faint murmur of Paul’s voice. It had lost that bombastic, sermonizing sound I had heard before. It was more subdued. I took three silent strides to the entrance to the hallway and waited in the shadows. Dehan came up behind me.
I was about to move into the hall when I heard movement and froze. There were two heavy steps and a large body came into view. It paused a moment and kicked the living room door in. I heard Mary and Sylvie scream and next thing, there was a hysterical, male voice screaming over the top of them. I recognized the voice as Ahmed’s.
I didn’t wait. I ran. Dehan was close on my heels. I burst through the door. Ahmed was standing over Sylvie. She was cowering, screaming hysterically, and Mary was lying over her, trying to protect her with her own body. For a moment, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. I saw Ahmed holding a Heckler and Koch assault rifle at his shoulder, painting the muzzle down at Sylvie. I saw Humberto gaping up at him, and I saw Paul staring in disbelief. I had my automatic aimed at the back of Ahmed’s head and I was yelling at him to drop his weapon and get on the floor. He was so hysterical I am not sure he even heard me.
I knew that if I shot him in the back of the neck, it would sever his spinal cord and paralyze him, so he would not be able to pull the trigger. I had given him fair warning and I was about to shoot. But before I could do it, Humberto was bellowing like a bull and charging. He collided with Ahmed, knocking the rifle up and away from Sylvie, screaming “Diavolo! Diavolo Incarnato!”
Ahmed staggered back and collided with me. I fell against the door and smacked my head. Humberto and Ahmed were prancing back and forth, struggling in a crazy kind of dance in the middle of the floor. Sylvie had gone into the fetal position with her fists over her ears and she was still screaming a high-pitched shriek.
Then Paul was on his feet, grabbing at Humberto, trying to pull him away, shouting at him in Portuguese. I wondered, for a fraction of a second, at some people’s enduring, incurable stupidity. I lunged forward, intending to ram my pistol into Ahmed’s kidneys and drop him. At the same moment, Humberto wrenched the barrel of the rifle from Ahmed’s left hand. Two shots in rapid succession hit the ceiling, showering the room with plaster. Ahmed staggered away from me. Humberto grabbed the rifle in both hands. Ahmed’s left hand flashed. I shouted, “Paul! No!” But it was too late. Ahmed had plunged his hunting knife into Paul’s gut. Paul staggered back, a look of shock on his face, and fell to the floor with the knife still stuck in the side of his belly.
I couldn’t shoot. I had no clear line of fire and the risk of hitting Sylvie or Mary, or Humberto, was too high. I thrust the automatic into my waistband, grabbed Ahmed by the scruff of his neck with my left hand and pounded two powerful punches into his kidneys. He staggered, but as he did so, Humberto saw his father lying, bleeding out on the floor, and hurled himself at him, wailing in pain. I lunged again at Ahmed, but he swung the butt of the rifle and caught me a glancing blow across my temple that sent me staggering back into Dehan.
She shouted, “Freeze!”
The whole thing had happened in maybe four or five seconds.
Ahmed and Dehan stared at each other. In retrospect, in that moment, she should have shot him. But I guess that’s what separates good people from people like Ahmed. Instead of shooting him, she waited to see if he would drop his weapon. And he, instead of dropping his weapon, aimed it at me.
I said, “Shoot the bastard. I’ll take my chances.”
Maybe she was about to, but that was when we heard the sirens outside. They had taken their sweet time, but the 7th Cavalry had arrived. Humberto was still wailing and shaking his motionless father. I knew when the cops got to the door, they’d hear it.
“Give it up, Ahmed. The show is over. You’re surrounded, back and front. You got two ways out of here, in cuffs or in a body bag. You choose.”
He started screaming again. “You shut up! You shut up! You talk I kill you! Be silent!”
Dehan spoke quietly. “You kill him, I drop you where you stand.”
I glanced at the French windows. “Have a look, Ahmed.”
He backed up a couple of paces so he could see. The red and blue lights of the patrol cars were pulsing over the garden hedge.
“Tell them to go! You tell them to go or I kill somebody.”
Dehan snorted. “You move that rifle away from my partner and I’ll blow your miserable head off your damned shoulders, you piece of shit.”
He was panicking and that was all to the good. He screamed at Dehan. “Drop your weapon or I kill him!”
She smiled like she meant it. “Go ahead, make my day.”
Sylvie had gone quiet. Now she sat up and got to her feet. Ahmed started screaming at her.
“What you are doing? Get down! Get down on your knees, whore!”
He was moving around like crazy while he spoke, trying to keep us both covered and stay out of Dehan’s line of fire. O
utside, I heard a bullhorn.
“Ahmed Abadi! We know you are in there! Put down your weapons and come outside with your hands in the air!”
The words had a strange echo, and seemed to come from the back of the building as well as the front. Sylvie got on her knees beside Paul, where Humberto was sobbing with his head on his father’s chest. She stroked Paul’s face. Her cheeks were wet and her eyes swollen from crying. She looked up at me.
“You were right, Detective Stone. You were right. This is all my fault. It is all because of my stupidity.” Then she turned to Ahmed. “Take me as your hostage.”
Mary cried out, “Mom! No!”
I shook my head. “Sylvie, don’t do this.”
She bent and embraced Paul, enveloping him in her large, shapeless woolen cardigan. She kissed him on the lips and stood. “Take me.” She said to Ahmed. “They won’t let any harm come to me.”
And she moved and stood in front of him.
TWENTY FIVE
Ahmed clamped his left forearm around her throat and placed the gun to her head. She closed her eyes and shuddered. I pulled my automatic from my waistband and aimed at his head. He swallowed. He was shaking badly.
“Now, I want a car. Tell them I want a car.”
As he said it, the message was repeated on the bullhorn outside.
“Ahmed Abadi! We know you are in there! Put down your weapons and come outside with your hands in the air!”
“Tell them I want a car!”
Dehan curled her lip. “Screw you.”
“I will kill her!”
I said, “And then what? Touch one hair on her head and we will pepper you so full of holes they’ll be able to sieve spaghetti with you.”
His face flushed and he shrieked, “I will hurt her! I will shoot off her toes! Her foot! I will shoot off her fingers! You think I won’t? You want me to prove?”
I raised my voice. “Take it easy, jackass! I believe you. I’m reaching for my phone, Okay?”
I put my automatic away and pulled my phone from my pocket. I showed it to him and dialed the captain’s number. It rang once and he answered.
“Stone! What the hell…”
“Listen to me, Captain. We are short of time. We have a hostage situation here.”
“What?!”
“Ahmed Abadi is demanding a car to take him and his hostage, Sylvie Martin, away from here. Are you authorized to negotiate with him?”
I watched Sylvie’s face while he answered, wondering what was going on inside her head. Her eyes were closed, her arms tucked inside her sleeves like a Chinese mandarin, and she looked like she was praying. The captain was saying, “Of course I am authorized! What kind of damned fool question is that? Hand me over to him and let me talk to him.”
“That’s what I thought. I’ll explain the situation to him and get back to you.”
I hung up. I had switched off the ring tones earlier. That suited me fine.
“He has to call in an NYPD negotiator. If they deem you a terrorist, it may have to go to the FBI. Either way, he is not authorized to negotiate with you.”
His knees were trembling and he had big beads of sweat on his forehead. He pointed the gun down at Sylvie’s right foot, but his hand was shaking so much, if he’d pulled the trigger, he’d probably have blown his own foot off.
“Call him back. Tell him. If I don’t have a car in ten minutes, I start to amputate bits of this whore! Do it!”
I grabbed my phone again. The captain was trying to call me. I looked at the screen like I was about to dial, then stopped and stared into Ahmed’s face.
“And then what? So you get your car. Where are you going to go? You got two choices. Canada or Mexico. Mexico, pal, they are not going to let you in. That simple. They do not give a shit. You drive over the line and they will riddle you, Sylvie, and your car so full of lead, there won’t be any flesh and bones left.” He swallowed. I gave him a moment to think, then went on. “So what? Canada? You know what is going to happen there? You will have an escort of Feds all the way there, choppers, cars, and SUVs all the way. Because you will be officially ISIS. You understand that, right? And they will apply anti-terrorist rules to you. And when you get to the border, you will be surrounded on every side. You will have nowhere to go, Ahmed.”
“Just do it! I swear…”
I laughed an ugly laugh. “And how are you going to pay for gas anyway? What are you going to eat, even if you do get out of the country?”
“Stupid American dog. I want a car, and I want one hundred thousand dollars…” He shook his head. “No, two hundred—two hundred and fifty thousand dollars! You make all police go back. If I see one police, I shoot off one finger. I see two police, I shoot two finger. This is Allah’s justice! Eye for an eye. Make it happen!”
I called the captain.
“Stone! Did you hang up on me?”
“I explained to Ahmed that you are not authorized to negotiate, sir. But he says that unless his demands are met, he will not kill the hostage, but shoot off her toes one by one, and then her fingers. However, I am persuaded that he is willing to use deadly force as a final resort.”
“Jesus! You had better let me talk to him, Stone!”
“That is what I explained to him, but he is not willing to accept it. He says his demands must be met in ten minutes or he will start amputating parts of her body.”
“Stone! What is wrong with you? Let me talk to him right now!”
“Yes, sir, he wants a car with a full gas tank and two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash.”
“Stone! This is a direct order. Let me speak to this man!”
“Yes sir, I’ll tell him.”
I hung up.
“He’s talking to his superiors right now. You have to understand, Ahmed, the captain has not got access to that kind of money. Even if he wanted to agree to your terms, he couldn’t any more than I could. It has to go through his superiors. And there you are going to run into a problem, because within the next five minutes, you are going to be declared an ISIS terrorist, and the U.S. government does not negotiate with terrorists. See, if it had been just a car, maybe you could have gotten away with it. But now that you want the money as well, that’s never going to happen.”
His gun hand was trembling wildly now. His eyes were staring like crazy. “You trick me. You told me ask for money! Now you tell me money is the problem! You lie to me!”
“I’ll tell you what might work, though, Ahmed.”
His voice was shrill. “More tricks?”
I shook my head. “Take me as your hostage. I have more value than Sylvie because I am a senior police officer. Take me instead of her and they might just agree to your demands.”
He stared at Dehan, then at me. Then, he waved the gun at us each in turn. It was flapping around like a loose sail in a high wind. I had seen what Sylvie had done. I knew there was nothing I could do to stop her, so I wanted to give her the best chance of surviving that I could. Our eyes made contact for a split second and we understood each other. It was now.
I spoke in a completely flat voice as I held out my cell phone to him. “Here, you talk to him.”
He cried out, “No!”
I dropped the phone, grabbed the barrel of the rifle and levered it up. It spat three rounds into the ceiling, and as it did so, Sylvie pulled the knife from the sleeve of her cardigan and rammed it into Ahmed’s thigh. Her expression was diabolical. He screamed a high-pitched screech and his leg went into spasm. She wrenched out the blade and slashed at him again. I grabbed the rifle with both hands, planted my foot on his belly and shoved hard. He went staggering back and fell against the sofa.
Suddenly, Mary was squealing again and Humberto had started howling like a wounded wolf. Ahmed was staggering backward, with his leg pumping blood, and jumping like a hooked fish, and Sylvie was storming after him, stabbing and slashing with the knife. I shouted at her to stop, and meanwhile Dehan went after him shouting, “Ahmed! Freeze!”
> Instead, like the jackass he was, he turned and ran, staggering and stumbling. Sylvie went after him and so did Dehan, shouting, “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” to the cops outside.
I was on the phone.
“Stone! What the…!”
“Shut up, Captain! Ahmed proceeding through back garden into church grounds. Unarmed and wounded. Pursued by Sylvie Martin! Armed and hysterical. Paul is down. Urgent medical assist! We are in pursuit! Storm the house! Repeat, storm the house!”
I hung up and ran.
As I leapt into the garden, ahead of me I could see, silhouetted against the flashing strobes of the patrol cars, the grotesque, limping figure of Ahmed, racing toward the hedge. I could hear radios crackling and voices shouting as the officers ran across the church grounds to intercept him. I could see Dehan reaching out for Sylvie, shouting at her to stop. I saw Sylvie swipe at her and push her away.
Dehan fell and I skidded to a halt beside her. “Are you okay?!”
“Yes, goddamn it! Get her!”
I ran after Sylvie. With his badly gashed leg pumping blood, Ahmed was getting weaker and slower with every step. Ahead, I saw officers, three or four of them, forcing their way through the hedge. I was closing in on Sylvie fast but she was closing on Ahmed faster. The officers were maybe thirty feet away. Ahmed fell and Sylvie fell on top of him. I hollered, “Sylvie, don’t!”
But it was too late. She was sitting astride him, holding the knife with both hands, and she plunged it into his chest, once, twice, three times. By the fourth time, I had got to her and grabbed her wrists. She was thrashing and kicking, screaming through clenched teeth, as I dragged her away. The knife fell to the grass. I saw his legs twitch and blood burble from his mouth.
One of the officers knelt and felt for a pulse. He looked at me and shook his head.
“He’s gone.”
With a suddenness that was shocking, Sylvie screamed one last time. It was a horrible, high, shrill, histrionic sound as she glared at his dead, twitching corpse.