Hostage Taker (8 page)

S
earching the Midnight Mass uploads on YouTube yielded no results. But within the last seventy-two hours, five people had uploaded videos of the construction work at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. Eve fast-forwarded through each, scanning footage of stained-glass cleaning and concrete repairs.

Nothing stood out as remarkable.

Am I just missing it? Is the Hostage Taker’s upload among footage I’ve already reviewed?

She desperately needed information if she was going to have any chance of defusing this situation.

She scanned videos uploaded for tourists coming to NYC. Still nothing.

Then Eve toggled through three YouTube videos of the Saint Patrick’s Cathedral choir in performance and finally found the video posted by the Hostage Taker.

The clip wasn’t
long. Only three minutes, eighteen seconds in duration. She forced herself to watch it four times.

First, she focused on the wires.

Second, she focused on the detonators.

Then, she focused on the grainy figures who were doubtless the hostages.

The fourth time, she focused on the stone images. These were the most disturbing of all: stone sculptures that appeared to be part of a wall of the Cathedral. Except rather than depicting the usual saints or the Virgin Mary or even Saint Patrick, the sculptures showed the destruction of New York City itself.

The Brooklyn Bridge breaking in half.

People running in panic beneath the Stock Exchange.

The Statue of Liberty being swallowed up whole into the water.

Is this terrorism?
Impossible not to think so. After 9/11, almost anybody would.

Unless she didn’t understand the images carved into the stone. Was it possible these statues were a part of Saint Patrick’s that she had never noticed? That no one talked about?

The Hostage Taker’s message made Eve want to call another member of her former team—Frank García. A former Army Ranger, he was the one man who could possibly handle a Special Ops mission, given these particular challenges.

But a few clicks on the computer made it clear: García was not available. At least, not right now.

Divorce proceedings with Teresa had been contentious, and apparently he had threatened her. She obtained a restraining order against him—then agreed not to press charges if Frank would enter a program to treat his PTSD and alcohol dependency. He’d chosen one at New York–Presbyterian.

Eve felt a twinge of guilt, reading it all. She had known about García’s issues. The problem was: The same paranoia and hypervigilance that had cost García his family also made him extremely good at his job.

She couldn’t bring herself to dial after she closed García’s digital file. Now that she knew where to find him, she could afford to wait.

She picked up the phone all the same. She had saved the hardest call for last. Her history with Haddox was complicated. So she planned to keep the conversation simple.

T
he rain that had drenched New York City early that morning had reached Boston when Corey Haddox woke up late—drowsy, satiated, and craving a smoke. He stretched his legs over the side of the bed and pulled on his white undershirt and jeans, listening to water gurgle down the drainpipe outside the window.

Where is my shirt?

Not on the floor.

Not on the chair.

Then he looked to his right on the bed and found it on the stunner who was snoring softly beside him.

She was wearing nothing but a shirt.
His
shirt. It looked grand on her.

He pulled a Marlboro Red out of his pocket, lit it, and sat—just savoring the moment. Taking one last look at the redhead beside him. A great kisser, phenomenal between the sheets. He was tempted to put his hand under her shirt one last time, knowing
this
woman’s skin was lean, firm, warm.

Yes, he would have loved to spend more time with Bridget Malone. But he needed to get moving.

He appreciated how lucky he’d gotten. And Haddox knew one thing about luck: It always ran out.

He took a long, final draw on his smoke, then ground it into the makeshift ashtray—a soap dish with a pink seashell on it—that she’d given him for the nightstand. Found his shoes where they’d been flung across the room. Threw his leather jacket on. Tiptoed down the hall—and offered a silent prayer that she wouldn’t wake up. Because now he had a job to do. And maybe it was the romantic in him, but he wanted Bridget Malone to believe
she
had chosen
him
at the Emerald Inn last night. She ought to remember him for what he’d seemed to be—a charming Irishman briefly in Boston to visit old friends.

It was gloomy outside, so Haddox was forced to turn on a brass lamp in the living room. He surveyed the room. Bridget’s decorating style was pure Pottery Barn. Sofas with loose, easy slipcovers and cabinets with fake apothecary drawers. Brand-new, but designed to look old.

She was also a neat freak. The remote control sat in a special holder on the end table. Magazines were on the coffee table:
Pointe,
Dance Spirit,
and
Time Out Boston.
They were displayed in a half-fan position, organized by date, with newer issues on top. This was good. Even better than he could have hoped for. A girl who organized her magazines probably had a special place for her bag.

Where is that purse?

He scanned the room, came up empty.

Is there a hall closet?

No. Which wasn’t really a surprise, not in an old building like this.

He walked toward the front door. There was an umbrella stand and bench just beside it. A quilt was folded and draped across its length.

He lifted it up. Found nothing underneath.

He should’ve stuck to his original plan, which involved only chatting her up at the bar and pinching her phone. Problem was, he liked women—and he’d liked this one, in particular.

On the floor, he saw the simple ballet flats she’d worn, and his memory flashed to last night. They’d come in the door, she’d kicked off her shoes—and…

Then what?

The answer came:
Kitchen. Look in the kitchen.

Her bag was there, dropped on the counter. A small zippered pouch by Michael Kors. Not much in it. Pink lipstick. A pack of Trident, spearmint flavored. He fished out her wallet, opened it, and found five twenties and six ones. Usual array of credit cards: AmEx, Visa, and Discover. Driver’s license.

His heart took a hopeful leap in his chest—but the address was for this apartment. The one he was standing in, not the one he was searching for.
Damn.

There were no photos or receipts or scraps of paper. This was the electronic age. What he needed was going to be on her cellphone.

From the street outside, he heard voices. Loud and angry.

He scanned the countertops. It was a tiny kitchen. Barely enough room for a coffeemaker and a roll of paper towels. Definitely no cellphone.

He returned to the living room, scanning all the electrical outlets.

Nothing.

He stole a glance out the window. The rain was still teeming. Three Ford Explorers were lined up at the curb. The doors opened and six men wearing raincoats got out. Two from each car.

Not good.

He wondered if he should return to the bedroom. If it was possible he had missed seeing the phone there.

No, I searched there when she was in the bathroom. I was quick, but thorough.

He heard the slam of car doors closing. The six men gathered briefly in a circle. One of them looked up toward the window where Haddox stood.

He shrank into the shadows.

Definitely not good.

They would be coming up now.

Two seconds later, the intercom buzzed from the street. Haddox waited—then hit the button and ran his fingernails over the microphone. He said nothing—and the voice that answered was unintelligible.

Bridget lived on the third floor of a walk-up. That meant four flights of stairs and two landings.

He could count on sixty to ninety seconds. No more.

What do I know about you, Bridget, darlin’?

Everything with a place. And everything in its place.

The purse had been in the kitchen.

He turned back into the kitchen.

Think,
he told himself.

More noises. Voices. Coming this way.

He slid open drawers. One for silverware. One for dish towels. And one for exactly the thing he needed.

It was a charger drawer—equipped with its own electric outlet.

Clever,
he thought.

There was loud creaking from the stairs outside the apartment.

He hadn’t wanted to steal her phone. It was the information on it he was after, nothing more. Problem was: He had to get out of here. Fast.

He pocketed the phone and headed for the window. Flicked the lock clasp to the left. Tugged.

Nothing.

Looked down. Saw the window was painted shut.

He still heard stairs creaking. Voices coming closer.

He slid his pocketknife out of his jeans. Ran the blade around the perimeter of the window.

The six men were heavy. The stairs and landings groaned under their weight. Their wet shoes made loud squeaking noises.

He heard them make the turn. Reach the final landing.

He pushed at the window—hard. It resisted—then gave.

He slipped out onto the fire escape, into the downpour, at the exact moment they rang the bell.

Shut the window behind him. They’d figure it out—but maybe beautiful Bridget would take a while to answer the door. And buy him a little more time.

Most people would have gone down, made for the street. So Haddox went up. He practically tiptoed up the slick metal stairs—but they still clanged under his weight.

A giveaway.

He decided if he couldn’t be quiet, then he’d better be fast.

He clambered up the escape, past the fourth and fifth floors, and onto the roof. He cleared it before he heard the sound of Bridget’s kitchen window being opened.

He froze. Listened.

Nothing.

His shoes were full of water. His leather jacket was ruined.

Better his clothes than his life.

His eyes scanned the horizon. Five-to-six-foot brick walls separated this building from the three next to it. Nothing he couldn’t manage. But then he’d need to find a way down. The fourth building, with its slippery slanted roof, was beyond his skill level.

Haddox was a Level One computer hacker—someone with expert coding skills, an intuitive understanding of how machines operated, and a unique ability to infiltrate impenetrable targets. He’d gotten where he was for one reason only: He always did the unexpected. It was the rule he’d lived by—so he applied it here, too.

When they figured out that he’d gone to the roof, they’d expect him to run as far as he could—to Building 3—before finding a route back down to the street. Or to be so impatient as to risk Building 1. So he made a different choice: He picked Building 2.

He swiftly scaled the first brick wall and crossed rapidly through someone’s private roof-deck garden. It was washed by the rain and nicely landscaped with teak furniture and a propane grill that probably was illegal. The renter must pay a pretty penny for so much green in an urban jungle, Haddox decided.

He scrambled up the second brick wall and found himself on a roof that was exactly the same size with exactly the same view but a completely different approach. Nothing there but asphalt and a single lawn chair and a small telescope. Someone’s simple urban retreat, just sky and stars.

He stole a glance down the street. The six guys had split up. Three were in front of Bridget’s building. They’d be checking the side alleys soon. Which meant three would be headed to the roof.

The fire escape down was right there. Haddox thought he had time to make it—assuming he hurried.

Haddox wasn’t entirely wrong. He set foot on the ground in plenty of time, splashing into a puddle. But he couldn’t escape the back alley where the fire escape had taken him. One of the six was pacing by its entrance. Smoking. Moving like he was waiting for instructions.

Or company.

Haddox wasn’t a fighter—not in a traditional sense. He’d weathered the occasional barroom brawl without too much damage, but he didn’t fancy his odds against the six large men who worked for Jimmy Malone. But against one guy, and with the element of surprise, he’d take his chances.

He made his way down the alley toward the street. He knew he’d have to be quick. He’d have one hit only—because a long battle would invite company.

Hit the guy once and take off running. That was the plan. He rehearsed it in his head.

He moved to the mouth of the alley. Saw his opponent was about two hundred fifty pounds of muscle.

Kept moving forward. Out of the alley, into the open.

When he was right where he wanted to be, he said, “Got a light?”

The man turned as expected—but he had no time to formulate a plan.

Haddox jerked forward and kicked the guy full-on in the groin.

The move folded him in half.

Just for good measure, Haddox followed with an elbow full of torque to his head. That brought him down into a heap.

Haddox took off running. Past the three Explorers, around the corner. Saw Bridget’s yellow Mini with the racing stripe. Right where she’d parked it last night.

He pulled out a small device the size of a cellphone. Wet, but still working.

He ducked into a second alley—and sent the wireless signal.

Most new cars today were just computers on wheels. And Haddox was in possession of a device—made of parts costing less than twenty bucks—that allowed him to seize control of a car’s internal network. Last night, he’d used the Mini’s Bluetooth connection to install the malware while Bridget was driving them home.

The small device connected to the car’s controller area network. Haddox sent the signal to unlock the doors. Then started the car. And made a run for it.

He leaped over a puddle.

Heard footsteps running behind him—but not gaining.

He had just enough time to slide into the driver’s seat and start moving.

In fact, he’d have had plenty of time—except for one problem.

Bridget Malone’s car wasn’t empty.

Jimmy Malone was already sitting in the passenger seat with a gun with a silencer pointing right at Haddox through the window, looking plenty pissed off. Haddox backed away from the car. Five thugs filed behind him, forming a tight arc. They looked equally unhappy.

“Shite,” he said.

“Shite indeed,” bellowed Jimmy Malone. He muscled his three-hundred-pound frame out of the tiny car. “Feckin’ piece of shite. You skip-tracing bastard low-life scum, taking advantage of my daughter. Using her to find me.” He came around the front of the car, spread his meaty hands wide. “Well, you found me, you bastard. Happy now?”

Five thugs were closing the arc behind Haddox. He was out of options.

Someone snapped his head back. Haddox felt his spine turn to jelly. This was not going to go well.

He was dimly aware of his cellphone—ringing—as it clattered to the street.

Someone clipped his jaw with a powerful right.

Haddox lost his balance, fell into a second guy. Started scrabbling at the thug’s shoulder. No way was he going down without a decent fight.

Suddenly a large, fleshy hand was on his shoulder. Spinning him around. “What’s this?” Jimmy Malone thrust Haddox’s own phone into his face. Raindrops streaked its screen.

There was a missed call. His caller ID said it all:
Eve Rossi—FBI.

“You a Bureau informer? Is that why you’ve been after me?” Jimmy doubled him over with a savage punch to his gut.

Haddox coughed and spat into cement. Jimmy had it wrong, but Haddox didn’t think it would help the situation much to admit he was working for Billy McCourt. Jimmy’s nemesis.

“You want us to get rid of him?” Haddox heard one of the thugs ask. He felt arms keeping him still while the others landed enthusiastic blows. He lurched toward a storm sewer; it was clogged with dead leaves, overflowing with water.

“Not yet. Let’s see what he’s got on us first.” Jimmy delivered another bone-and-flesh-crunching blow. “And I thought you were just a dumbass liar for hire.” He swiped the rain from his brow. “Take him to the warehouse,” he ordered.

Haddox couldn’t move. He could barely think. But he could recognize an opportunity when he saw it.

“Call the lady back,” he managed to choke. “Tell her you made me. She just might make a deal you’d be interested in.”