Born to Run (29 page)

"You," he told Shannon, "get on the floor."

Jack remained behind the news desk. Demetri found a pad and paper in the drawer.

"Here's the deal," said Demetri. "When I get this five hundred thousand dollars in cash, I want it all to go to Sofia. I have some other personal things I want to leave to her, too."

"It's a nice sentiment," said Jack. "But that's not going to work."

"Why not?"

"You can't steal money and leave it to your heirs."

"I have friends who do it all the time. Hell, how else do you expect an entire generation of baby boomers to leave something to their kids?"

Jack glanced toward the camera. "The problem is, you're trying to do it on television."

"Just tell me what to write. I promise I won't sue you for malpractice."

Jack suddenly had visions of Body Heat and Kathleen Turner saying that she liked him because he was "not too smart."

"It would be a lot easier if you just untied me and let me write it for you."

Demetri gave it some thought, and to Jack's surprise he called the cameraman over, whose hands were free.

"Untie Swyteck," said Demetri.

He did so at gunpoint, and then Demetri ordered him back behind the camera. Jack took the chair at the news desk, pen and paper before him. Demetri stood off to the side, where he could keep the gun trained on Jack and still read what he was writing. Jack took a deep breath. He'd become a trial lawyer for many reasons, and disdain for drafting legal documents of any kind was one of them.

"I need your last name," said Jack.

"Pappas."

Jack inked out some language he recalled from law school. It was probably archaic, but clients expected that kind of stuff.

I, Demetri Pappas, being of sound mind and body . . .

"What's Sofia's last name?" said Jack.

He started to answer, then checked his words. "Pappas," he said.

"You understand that Sofia remarried, right?"

Demetri's eyes narrowed. "Her name is Sofia Pappas."

Jack sensed another opening, an emotional point of leverage that could shift the balance of power. It was a skill he had honed on death row, where careful navigation through his clients' personal demons could spark connections with men who were beyond reach.

Jack put down the pen and said, "Why are you doing this?"

"Keep writing."

"You're doing this for Sofia? Is that it?"

He looked angry for a second, but if Jack was reading his expression correctly, it seemed to be morphing into something more complicated.

"I'm not mocking you," said Jack. "I'd just really like to know."

On the desk was a cup of water left over from the evening news, and Demetri drank it, as if his throat suddenly needed oiling.

"Right before I let Sofia out of your car tonight, do you remember what she said to me?"

"Not really," said Jack.

"She said 'I don't deserve this.' "

"That meant something to you," said Jack. It was an observation, not a question.

Demetri nodded. "I know she wasn't trying to hurt me or blame me, but it opened up old wounds. Things that I had hoped were healed. She was talking about a night a long time ago in Cyprus, when we were young. It began as pure pleasure."

Plezoor. A nostalgic moment seemed to trigger the accent.

"Until you got thrown off the building," said Jack.

"She told you about that?"

"Yes."

He seemed surprised, then tentative. "Did she tell you what those bastards did after they thought I was dead?"

"She told me what happened."

"Everything?" said Demetri. "She told you everything?"

"Yes."

Demetri breathed in and out. "I suppose it's healthy that she can talk to people about it now. That wasn't always the case. She wouldn't even report it to the police. We tried to work through it, but it was too much. We lasted less than a year. Nine months."

"Do you mean exactly nine months?"

"Yeah. Exactly."

"Nine months from that night, or nine months after you got out of the hospital?"

"From that night."

"Are you saying that Sofia was--"

"Just write the damn will, Swyteck."

Jack took a moment to read the man's eyes, his body language, his voice--trying to gauge whether the opening was still there. On death row, if you pushed the wrong emotional button, you called for the guard. The gun in Demetri's hand made the risk of error prohibitive.

Jack picked up the pen, explaining aloud as he wrote.

"I'm drafting this so that everything you have when you die-- whether it's five hundred thousand dollars or five cents--goes to Sofia."

"That's the way I want it," said Demetri.

Jack finished the paragraph in short order, then drew several signature lines at the bottom of the page.

"We'll need three people to witness your signature," said Jack.

"Aren't we in luck? I have three hostages."

"Yeah, but here's an important point. In order for this will to be valid under the law, all three witnesses have to be alive to confirm that this is really your signature. So if any one of us gets killed here--well, there goes your will. Sofia gets nothing."

Demetri gave him an assessing look. He seemed to sense that Jack was bluffing--and in fact, Jack had been bluffing all the way, starting with his claim that three witnesses were required.

"I got a better idea," said Demetri.

He took the handwritten will and the pen from Jack and walked across the news set to the camera. Holding the paper right in front of the lens, he put his signature at the X. Then he folded up the will and tucked it into his pocket.

"Now I have a million witnesses," he said. "All of us can die."

Chapter
47

Secret Service Agent Frank Madera went straight from the Miami International Airport to the Action News standoff He hadn't told the FBI that he was coming, and he assiduously avoided contact with the feds after his arrival. Instead, he tracked down Manny Figueroa in a coffee shop adjacent to the studio. The MDPD SWAT unit had made it their official staging area. Its location was strategic--in a building separate from the studio but within the traffic control perimeter, so that they could mobilize without the entire world knowing about it. Figueroa was standing beside a table of doughnuts and coffee when Madera introduced himself as a member of the president's elite personal security detail. It was enough to impress anyone, and Madera had his full attention as he explained--falsely--that the Secret Service had arrived to help protect the son of the vice presidential nominee.

"I hope you didn't bring your own mobile command center," said Figueroa.

"No," said Madera. "That's not what we do. Can you and I talk in private?"

A half dozen members of the SWAT unit were seated nearby in the dining area, waiting for the green light from Figueroa. They seemed incredibly calm, as they were trained to be. In a matter of minutes, one of these guys might storm a building and pump hollow-point ammunition into a man's skull. Or not. It all depended on how things went. Madera was determined to have a say in that.

"Sure," said Figueroa. "Step into my office."

Madera followed him into the men's room. Figueroa locked the door. Madera stood near the sink with his back to a cracked mirror. Figueroa leaned against the wall beside the electric hand dryer. Madera had never met the man, but he was trained to make quick judgments about people, and he'd already concluded that Figueroa was capable of blowing more hot air than the hand dryer.

"Let me just say this up front," said Figueroa. "I've already backed down to the FBI on leading the negotiations, and I can see that it was a mistake. I'm not backing down to the Secret Service on top of it."

"Take it easy, all right?" said Madera. "I told you that's not what this is about, and I'm shooting straight here."

Figueroa looked skeptical, but he didn't argue.

"Here's the bottom line," said Madera. "This gunman has to go."

"Excuse me?" said Figueroa.

Madera gave him his most serious look. "The man is a threat to national security. It's time to take him out."

Figueroa paused, taking in Madera's words. "What kind of threat to national security?"

"I can't divulge the details, but I can tell you this much. It's no coincidence that one of his hostages is the son of the next vice president of the United States. Nor is it a coincidence that he's taken control of a television news station. The secrets he intends to reveal on the air are a direct threat to our national security."

"That's all fine and good," said Figueroa. "But you've got the FBI here, and they have their own SWAT. Why are you talking to me?"

"It's not like I'm enlisting a bunch of yahoos. MDPD is the one of the largest local law enforcement outfits in the United States. Its SWAT unit is top notch, and unlike most tactical units, your men have experience, not just training."

"Well, thanks for the blow job, but I'm not sure I really heard an answer to my question."

"I can't use the FBI."

"Why not?"

"Again, I will be totally honest with you, but if you ever repeat it to anyone, I will deny it vehemently But only after cutting your balls off Is that clear?"

"Crystal."

"Have you ever dealt with the Federal Bureau of Investigation?"

"Of course."

"And has it ever occurred to you that it's impossible to spell bureaucracy without the bureau?"

Figueroa smiled. "You've got a point there."

"We need to neutralize this threat immediately, and it'll be dawn before I can get kill-shot authority from the 'bureau-cracy.' "

"Longer," said Figueroa.

"To be honest, I'm not sure they'd ever approve it. It's been over a decade since the FBI botched things up at Waco and got seventy-four hostages killed along with David Koresh, and even longer since the shootings at Ruby Ridge. Those events live on, and the FBI worries about its image. I'm sure there are plenty of people here in Miami who will never forget the midnight raid that sent Elian Gonzalez back to Cuba. With this hostage crisis unfolding live on television, an exit plan with this kind of finality is bound to die from an acute case of paralysis through analysis as it works its way up the chain of command."

Figueroa considered it, but not for long. "There has to be precise coordination. The instant my men make the breach, the power has to be cut off. Or at least the broadcast has to be killed. The MDPD may not be as image conscious as the FBI, but I don't want a takedown on television either."

"So you're up to the task?"

Figueroa was deadpan. "I need to clear it with my director."

Madera shook his head. "If you go up in your department, I might as well call in the FBI. You're the MDPD crisis team leader. This is a crisis of national significance. Find some balls."

Figueroa drew a breath, his chest rising. "All right," he said. "We're in."

Chapter
48

Things were quiet in the mobile command center. Too quiet.

Andie had been staring at the television screen too long.

If Demetri was striving for must-see TV, he was failing miserably. The single camera was aimed at Jack and the anchor
-
woman, who could do nothing but wait quietly and try not to freak out. Demetri was somewhere off to the side, out of view. Long periods of silence gave the Action News commentators and guest analysts way too much time to fill. She tried not to listen to them. Her focus was on the hostages, and it suddenly struck her how unusual this situation was. Hostage negotiation rarely depended so much on sight. In fact, one of the City of Miami's finest, Vincent Paulo, was blind. For the first time in her entire career, Andie was able to see the people she was trying to save. In some ways it was an advantage. At least she knew they were alive. But being able to see into their eyes, to watch the ever-growing worries on their faces from one moment to the next, more than canceled out any advantage. That constant reminder on the television screen only seemed to emphasize the fact that their fate depended entirely on her next choice of words.

The fact that one of the lives hanging in the balance was Jack's upped the stakes beyond measure.

Andie stepped outside for some air.

A circle of squad cars was still stationed around the Action News studio, but the uniformed officers had downgraded from a state of readiness to a hunker-down-and-wait mode. It was a subtle difference in posture and demeanor, but it came like clockwork about two hours into every hostage standoff Andie had ever handled. Andie looked up at the stars and breathed in the cool night air. A helicopter whirred above the edge of the crowd-control perimeter, and she was relieved to see that police air coverage had replaced the media choppers. A spotlight swept the strip mall at the western edge of containment, and Andie noticed snipers on the rooftops. They were well within range of the studio. She knew the position of all the FBI snipers. These were not FBI.