Hostage Taker (17 page)

S
till three down, two to go.

Finding Luis Ramos was going to take ingenuity. So Haddox briefly turned his attention to Sinya Willis. It turned out to be a smart move—since unraveling her whereabouts was almost child’s play.

Sinya Willis had worked as a nanny for every single one of the forty-three years since she’d arrived in New York City. From Jamaica. Haddox didn’t talk with her—at least, not right away—but he did talk with Claire Abrams, who lived with her large family in a Classic Seven on West End Avenue at 104th Street.

Sinya’s employer.

Sinya had cared for the three Abrams boys for about eight years, ever since the oldest was born. Claire was distressed to think the FBI might need anything from Sinya. She assured Haddox that Sinya was here legally. That she paid all her taxes and got nothing under the table; there were no nannygate issues. Sinya had had a little medical problem a few years ago, and that caused some debt to build up, but they were helping her and it would disappear very soon. Claire Abrams was clearly freaked that she was under investigation for either tax fraud or illegally employing a foreign national.

Haddox didn’t have the heart to tell her that the truth was far worse.

Four witnesses down. One to go.

Eli crossed over
to the MRU where Haddox and Eve were working. He’d lost what Mace called his
Welcome Back, Kotter
sport jacket. Now he just wore a crumpled dress shirt with the front left pocket—normally filled with a pocket protector and pens—stuffed with candy. He pulled out a roll of Life Savers and offered a cherry one to Haddox, who shook his head.

“Do me a favor?” Eli asked Haddox.

“Depends on the favor,” Haddox said automatically. He didn’t lift his eyes from his computer screen.

“You know how to track a cellphone, even if it’s not on, right?”

“Aye. Assuming its battery is still inside—and hasn’t died.”

“Can you try? Here’s the number.” Eli passed him a crumpled sheet of paper. Somehow during its time in Eli’s pocket, it had acquired a red stain. Eli managed to control his instinctive panic that he was bleeding to death. Then he realized that it was just a nasty concoction of sweat and atomic fireballs.

“Who does this number belong to?”

Eli lowered his voice several decibels. “It’s personal—sorry. Don’t tell Eve.”

Haddox shrugged. “No worries, mate. I’ll run it in the background while I do the official heavy lifting.”

The last witness.

The official file on Luis J. Ramos was paper thin. What little there was came courtesy of U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services.

The Ramos file at least contained a list of LKAs—meaning Ramos’s few last known associates. There weren’t many. Luis had kept to himself: Worked hard and sent money home to Oaxaca, Mexico, which was one of the poorest regions in the country. It was also where his wife and five-year-old daughter still lived.

Haddox decided that was the key. Luis might have vanished underground to avoid his deportation hearing. But wherever he was, he was still working—and sending money home.

Assuming Luis had stayed in New York—and Haddox thought it was a fair assumption, given the number of no-questions-asked jobs to be had—there were several options for a Mexican worker to send money home. But one of the most popular was a remittance house. There was a section of Broadway in Harlem where there was a whole line of them—each advertising in Spanish how
they
had the cheapest rates to wire money straight from NYC to Mexico.

He’d have to visit, ask around, and see where a little luck and some charm took him.

That was as far as his planning extended. He’d have to improvise as needed from there.

Still four down.

Still one to go.

Three hours, thirty-two minutes until deadline.

M
ace bounded into the MRU, where Eve, Haddox, and Eli were glued to a video screen. The Omega Team had just authorized the first team to take the roof.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“We’re watching Special Ops Team Alpha go fishing,” Eli explained.

“I caught a big one on my own fishing expedition.”

No one said anything.

“I spoke with a guy who knew about a major stash of stolen weapons and explosives. The inventory seems to be a match with what we’re dealing with here,” Mace added triumphantly. “It’s all straight from Iraq. A clear echo of the kind of explosives and techniques the guys use over there.”

“Iraq,” Eve said absently. Then stood up straighter. “Look—he’s almost in!” She pointed to the screen. A man from Team Alpha was scaling the roof.

Everyone watched. No one seemed to be able to breathe.

“So looks like we’re dealing with a vet. Specifically, a disturbed vet,” Mace persisted.

No one turned.

“Or some wacko insurgent who’s bringin’ his fight to America,” he added.

No one paid attention.

“Or a flying monkey with flames shooting out of his ass.”

Nothing. They had eyes and ears for nothing but the men on the video screen.

“Problem is: Even the NYPD’s got no proof how a big shitload of explosives got stolen. They just know it’s gone.” Mace cursed. “Not that any of you seems to give a damn.”

He strode out of the MRU, slamming the door behind him.

Damn if he was going to waste time on shit nobody cared about. Life was too short.

He had just turned the corner, circling around Atlas, when he stopped short.

Another hostage stood on the steps.

He looked like a priest. At least, he was wearing a priest’s collar and robes. He had to be freezing.

Really a priest—or just dressed to look like one?
No way to know.

He was white, maybe early thirties. Brown hair, slightly curly, fell into his eyes. His face was a little too round, his body a little too soft. A guy with no discipline. A guy who hadn’t visited the weight room in years, if ever.

The hostage looked around. Held up an index card. Started to read.

His hands were shaking. His voice was trembling.

“You have exactly ninety seconds for your assault team to reverse course!” he shouted. “If they do not, I will die! In Ninety. Eighty-nine. Eighty-eight. Eighty-seven…”

F
ifty-six. Fifty-five. Fifty-four…

Eve stood in front of the hostage, on the street at the base of the broad marble steps, phone to her ear. “Stand down! Stand down! I repeat, Omega Team
stand down
!”

There was no acknowledgment on the secure line.

The priest didn’t move, but only continued looking around. Uncertain. Counting.
Forty-nine. Forty-eight…

Eve ignored the chaos around her. Radios were crackling. Officers in full body armor were crouched eight feet away. In the periphery of her vision, she was aware of sharpshooters in position.

“I need confirmation, Omega Team.”

“Roger that.” In the background, she heard the Omega Team leader repeat the order.

She heard Eli’s shout from the MRU. “Team Alpha in full retreat. Team Alpha in full retreat.”

She exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She dialed the Hostage Taker’s number. It rang—once, twice, three times, four times.

She redialed it again. Still nothing. She wondered if he’d switched to a different burner.

She took a step toward the hostage.

He seemed barely able to stand. His voice quavered,
Thirty-three. Thirty-two…

“It’s okay,” she called up to the priest. “We just did what you asked. What
he
asked.”

Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight.

“You can stop counting now. It’s over.” She stretched out her hands. “You need to come with me now, Father. You’ll be safe.”

The SWAT team was on standby. Men in full gear with shields. She had only to give the signal and they would whisk the hostage to safety.

What was stopping her?

She supposed the hostage himself. She could feel the priest’s fear and apprehension; it was as palpable as if it were her own. As though she herself stood exposed on those steps, trembling in the crosshairs of a sniper’s rifle.

As she had been, not so long ago.

Twenty-six. Twenty-five.

She empathized with the hostage—and reminded herself that empathy was a large part of what made her very good at her job. It wasn’t just her ability to study people—to read their body language and intuit their thoughts. It was her ability to understand their fears. That formed the root of all her strategy—and it was what the instructors at Quantico had never been able to teach in the training room.

Her training.

In that instant, she recognized her problem. All her empathetic impulses were being misdirected to the
hostage,
not the Hostage Taker. For a negotiator, that was a mistake. A sometimes fatal mistake. Her training had taught her to assume all hostages were “homicides in progress.” To be rescued, if humanly possible. To be sacrificed, if not.

Her empathy belonged solely to the Hostage Taker right now—and yet she felt lost, unable to reach him. The last time she’d been unable to connect with her opponent, too many people had died.

She needed to try harder.

“They’re in full retreat, Eve. Teams Alpha and Delta.” Eve didn’t even recognize the voice that shouted the information.

Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen.

“You can stop counting now,” she told the hostage. “Come to me. You’ll be safe.”

He didn’t move.

Fourteen. Thirteen.

He had to be in shock.

The FBI’s own snipers were in place. Forensic analysis was complete—so now their crosshairs were trained on the exact spot, a gap high in the fragmented scaffolding, from which the last two bullets had come. Upon seeing the slightest movement, they would fire.

Ten. Nine.

Eve gave the order. The SWAT members rushed the hostage.

Covered him with their flak jackets. Protected the air space above them with their shields.

Began moving him down the steps, away from the Cathedral and the bronze door.

Eve could still hear him counting.
Five. Four. Three…

She was seized by a panic—an overwhelming sense of approaching calamity. She wanted to turn away. She did not want to watch.

Two…

Had she heard the count? Or only imagined it?

She felt the shock wave. Even though the men and women surrounding her were all seasoned professionals, she heard their collective gasp. Then somebody screamed—and the noise seemed louder than the explosion itself.

She didn’t focus on the victims—although she knew there were three.

She was teetering at the edge of reality and memory—unable to shake the image of Zev and an explosion three months ago on the banks of the Hudson River. When the scream that had sounded had been her own.

She looked down at the priest and his would-be rescuers. She remembered Zev. All of them now in a place she could not reach.

Choking on the smoke, she collapsed to her knees in despair. Her pulse was pounding, her blood humming, her mind struggling to filter the chaos. In the split second before reality was permanently clouded by memory, she felt strong hands lifting her up—half dragging, half carrying her away.

Haddox.

3:22 p.m.

This just in.

You are looking at a live shot of smoke rising from the front of Saint Pat’s Cathedral. We are receiving multiple reports of an explosion there within the last few minutes.

We repeat, there has been an explosion in front of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.

We have no details yet on the extent of the damage or possible injuries.

We have no official word on whether this is believed to be an act of terrorism.

On the line, we have Rob Nichols, a retired FBI counterterrorism agent. What can you tell us, Rob?