Hostage Taker (30 page)

8:07 p.m.

She was there today because her AA leader asked her to be.

We are learning more tonight about Cristina Silva, the very first victim of this hostage crisis still in progress at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, here in the heart of our city. She was a young woman struggling hard to overcome a life shattered by tragedy, which led to her descent into alcoholism. But family members tell us tonight that Cristina had been clean for the past two years. She credited Alcoholics Anonymous with keeping her sober, and apparently her reason for visiting Saint Patrick’s this morning was to work on the eleventh step…

H
addox and Eli decided to divide and conquer, playing to their respective strengths. Haddox focused on cellphone, text messages, and Instagram postings. Eli focused on a teen checking account, a debit card, and certain expenditures on Meaghan Murphy’s Visa card. Between the two of them, they swiftly uncovered some important facts about Georgianna Murphy, Sean Sullivan’s daughter.

Eve poked her head into the MRU, catching Haddox’s eye. “Anything I should know?”

“Before you die, you ought to see the sunrise on Kauai. Enjoy a steaming cup of beef pho at a night market in Hanoi. And drink a well-poured pint of Guinness.”

“Anything
else
I should know?”

“I’ve just tracked down some information that’s going to help you with Captain Sullivan.”

Her eyes lit up, and she stepped all the way into the room. “I’m all ears.”

Haddox kicked the chair opposite him out from under its desk, indicating that she should sit. “I’d suggest you save what I’m about to tell you for when you really need it. Like when Sullivan figures out Luis Ramos is a no-show.”

“Advice noted.”

“Sean Sullivan has a thirteen-year-old daughter. Georgie.”

“I know.” Eve shot him a where-is-this-going? look.

“What you
don’t
know is that Georgie is missing. And has been since the middle of the school day yesterday.”

“So where is she? Do you know?”

“I can think of two good possibilities. Either Sean Sullivan’s got her inside that Cathedral with him—in which case, assuming he bears any measure of love for his own lass, I think his threat to explode the place to smithereens is an idle one.”

“I agree. What’s the other possibility?”

“That he’s got her squirreled away somewhere else to protect her. Either way, maybe you can use her as leverage.”

“Nice job. How’d you discover that Georgie was missing?”

“C’mon, luv. Finding information is what I do best.”

“I thought you were going to stop calling me that.”

“Fits you too well. Now, want to call Eli over? He’s got a secret he’s dying to tell you.”

When Eli finished
explaining to Eve how his unofficial search for Georgianna Murphy had collided with the very hostage crisis she was working to end, he mumbled an apology and slunk away with a hangdog look on his face.

He couldn’t go far. The MRU wasn’t that big. But he took the farthest chair at the farthest table—as though he couldn’t bear being near Eve, now that he had disappointed her.

Haddox pulled the last cigarette from his packet, rolled it between his fingers as he reached for his matches.

Eve didn’t talk right away. She looked out the window, watching the snowflakes swirl. The best part of snow was how it covered a multitude of sins. Its white frosting camouflaged the dirt and the dog crap on the sidewalk. And transformed garbage cans into cotton-candy cups. When it covered cars and buildings and scaffolding, it changed city grit into a winter wonderland.

But it couldn’t sugarcoat what Haddox and Eli had done.

“Can one of you explain to me why—
exactly
why—you didn’t bother telling me this earlier?” she demanded.

“You were busy.” Haddox opened his book of matches.
Empty.

“Of
course
I was busy.” Eve felt her jaw tightening. “I’ve been busy since eight-seventeen this morning—the instant I first got word of this hostage-taking. But apparently
you
weren’t busy enough—or you wouldn’t have had time to run extracurricular searches.”

“Just tryin’ to help a friend.” Haddox opened the table drawers, one after another. Searching for another book of matches.

“We don’t keep matchbooks here, because smoking’s not allowed,” Eve said coldly. “And Eli is
not
your friend. What we have is a business arrangement—except in this business, people live or die based on our decisions. So when I don’t get the information I need to make the right decisions—”

“Sorry, luv,” Haddox said. “I mean that.” He tossed his useless cigarette into the trash.

“What more can we do?” Eli rejoined them, clutching his own brand of liquid courage: a celery soda.

“Focus on doing your job—which includes helping me do mine.”

“Not saying this situation isn’t deadly serious—I know it is—but part of my job is improvising. Working off the cuff. No rules or restrictions,” Haddox pointed out. A muscle in his jaw clenched. “You want someone to say ‘Yes, ma’am’ and ‘Here you go, miz,’ we’re the wrong guys for that. All of us.”

“You know this is different. I get it: You think that unless you make everything into a game, you won’t be creative. Or effective. But understand something else. I brought you back onboard because I wanted people loyal to me. So don’t fail me again.”

The moment she’d said the words, Eve no longer felt angry.

Just focused.

Because the next hostage was coming out of Saint Patrick’s.

On the Cathedral
steps, Penelope Miller retreated back through the bronze doors. Just as Sullivan had threatened.

At the exact same moment, another priest—Monsignor Tom DeAngelo, who was meant to have conducted the aborted seven-o’clock morning Mass—exited.

Two hostages again swapped places. Their movements were precisely orchestrated, as if they were connected to a remote-control apparatus under Sullivan’s direction.

Once again, Omega Team found itself unable to intervene. Because the hostages remained so close to the building and passed through the doors at the exact same moment, no one had a clear line to take action. And if they did, there was no doubt the hostages would be placed in extreme danger.

If Sullivan was going to move the hostages in and out of the Cathedral like a revolving door, they needed a new plan of action.

Only three witnesses left.

Time was of the essence.

T
he phone was ringing. Alina had to be coaxed to the handset, ordered to talk. She clicked on the line; simultaneously, Haddox projected her image outside next to Atlas.

“Is this Alina Matrowski?” Sean asked.

“I don’t know you. What do you want with me?” Her accent was heavier than before. Russian. Brusque.

“By now I think you get the point. I want you to tell me: What are you guilty of?”

“Nothing.” Her mouth turned down, which gave her a sullen expression. “I’m not Catholic. I’m not Christian. I’m not even religious.”

“But you consider yourself a good person.”

“Of course!”

“Then today you must confess—or the good Father will die.”

Alina drew a sharp breath. “Who is he?”

“Monsignor DeAngelo, one of the substitutes on staff here at Saint Patrick’s. He’s counting on you.”

Alina narrowed her eyes, unsure of what to say next.

“Tell me what you’re guilty of.”

“When I was maybe ten, maybe eleven, my friends and I made fun of our music teacher. Her name was Miss Budinsky. We always called her Miss Butthead.”

“You can do better than that.”

She shook her head too vigorously. Beginning to panic. Hair escaped from her ponytail clip. It made her look less severe.

“What else have you done?”

She shrugged.

“It’s really important, Alina. A man’s life rests in your hands.”

“How am I supposed to know what you want? Who are you to want to know my deepest secrets? I’m nothing to you—and you’re nothing to me.”

From somewhere in the pitch-black—high above the scaffolding, perhaps even from the roof of Saint Patrick’s—a shot ricocheted down.

It didn’t strike near Eve.

It was nowhere near Monsignor DeAngelo.

But it struck near enough to Atlas and Alina’s image that Eve saw the shudder of fear that seized hold.

“I’ll keep talking. I’ll do exactly what you say,” Alina babbled. “Please don’t hurt anybody else.”

“What are you guilty of, Alina? What have you failed to do?”

“I stole,” she whispered miserably. “I never paid.”

“Speak up, Alina. So we all can hear you.”

“It was my annual recital. I was going to perform Rachmaninoff, which my friend Yura played, too—except even better than me. I wanted something to feel more confident, and I saw it—this black sequined dress at Saks. The price was…I don’t remember anymore. But it was nothing my family could afford.” She rocked back on her heels.

“Go on, Alina.”

“I watched the sales clerk. Another woman came into the department, needing a lot of help. So when she wasn’t looking, I snuck the dress into my backpack.” She took a shuddering breath. “From there, it was easy. A quick trip to the ladies’ room to remove the tags and sensors. Then a big smile at the security guard as I walked out of the store.”

“What about later?”

“Later? I felt bad.”

“No. Later in life.”

“Is what I told you not good enough?” The words were anguished, wrenched from deep inside her.

The answer was a cold silence. Then, “I’m ready for Luis Ramos.” And he clicked off the line.

T
he Monsignor stood on the steps of Saint Patrick’s, shivering. He wore a simple black cassock with vestments. Gold ones—the color usually worn for celebrating Mass at Christmastime. Lightweight—not nearly substantial enough to protect him from the cutting wind and blowing snow.

Waiting.

No witness appeared.

When Sean dialed in, it was Haddox who picked up the phone.

“Hello, mate.” He immediately patched Eve in as he answered.

“Who’s this? You don’t sound like Luis Ramos. And if you are, where’s your
sci-fi
hologram?”

“I’m not. The name’s Corey Haddox. Unfortunately, Ramos is indisposed at the moment, so I’m prepping Ms. Willis to go next.”

Eve had forgotten what a practiced liar Haddox was. His tone was perfect: unconcerned, without a shadow of stress. In fact, the lie came so naturally that even Eve might have believed him, had she not known otherwise. Actually, that was the thing about Haddox—he made you
want
to believe him.

“Where’s Ramos?”

“In the toilet. Poor guy ate a bad taco from some food truck in Harlem. Probably wasn’t cooked through.”

“Let me talk to him.”

“Ms. Willis’s computer mapping is almost complete. Try her first, and maybe by then Ramos will feel better.”

“Wrong answer.”

“There’s no right or wrong here. Listen, when I talked with Ramos earlier, I met his daughter. She’s a cute lass, maybe five or six. Full of questions. And the main one: Why did I have to take her father away? The lass didn’t understand, and I’m not sure I do, either. Why are these witnesses so important, Sean?”

Eve could hear it: Sullivan’s breathing had altered. Haddox had hit the mark. And without giving away their hand.

A unit of NYPD officers huddled just beyond the MRU, crouching over a laptop. Behind them, a cluster of plainclothes officers watched. The mayor was now on-site; the officers were part of his security detail. Henry Ma was standing to their left, arguing with Monsignor Geve. Two helicopters made wide circles in the air—drawing as close as they dared.

“You still there, Sean? I’m putting Sinya Willis on the line.”

Through the secure line connected to her earpiece, Eve listened to Eli confirm the upload.
Signal strength is optimum at twenty-eight decibels. You are a go.

Sinya’s image was illuminated next to Atlas.

2.7 seconds passed.

The Monsignor turned and retreated into the bronze door of Saint Patrick’s that had opened to receive him.

1.85 seconds passed.

A large woman with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and a raised flesh-colored scar drawn from her left eye down to her jawline started to emerge from the door. She wore a thick black down coat. She braced her large feet wide apart. It appeared she was wearing men’s shoes.

Omega Team leader was watching through his field goggles. The moment the woman entered his line of sight, he issued the launch order.

NOW!