He arched an eyebrow. “You mean those millions we gave him weren’t kosher?”
Eve ignored the question. “Now, he’s asked for Gregg Burke’s release from custody. He may or may not actually want Burke. But it seems important for him to make you cross the line.”
“The hell if I know why.”
“He isn’t a traditional kidnapper. He’s unmotivated by millions in ransom. His ‘tasks’ have us engaged in a cat-and-mouse game as he makes a point about police brutality—and targets you, the top cop, in particular. He took your daughter; he shot at your sniper team; now he wants a suspected cop killer released. He claims he wants ‘justice’—and given how big a stage this parade is, I’m concerned about the bigger message he may be after.”
“Should we be looking through NYPD files? Searching for a political zealot? Re-interview Burke?”
“Political beliefs don’t usually take people this far, no matter how strongly they believe in a cause,” Eve said. “There’s got to be some deeper connection to you—something he perceives as a personal injury—behind all this.”
“And you base this idea on?”
“Whoever took Allie knew things about her. Not just her name and age but details about her life and yours. That’s personal: He’s been watching the two of you; may have even found reasons to meet you in recent weeks.”
“He certainly found the one reason that would motivate me to do these crazy things.” Donovan cleared his throat. “Reminds me how everyone has a price.”
“Not everyone,” Eve disagreed, thinking of Zev—whose integrity had been rock-solid.
“You know, a few years back, a group of us went overseas to Afghanistan. We needed to learn some of the latest explosives techniques, and there’s no better place to learn than in the field. There was a man who’d been friendly to our troops there, helping out on several occasions. Everybody trusted him. The insurgents got hold of his family. Slit his son’s throat right before his eyes. Said they’d release his wife and daughters if he’d put on a suicide vest.”
“What happened?”
“He detonated just inside the base; killed eighteen troops.”
“And his family?”
“We found them on a roadside—shot, execution-style. But if you’re the father, you pay the price and take the chance. You do exactly what they say. And pray that they’ll keep their word.”
“And if you’re the perpetrator, you use whatever advantage you find, to compel the father to act. Are you sure no one wants something from you, Commissioner?”
“Almost everybody I know wants something from me, Eve.”
—
Eve wasn’t a believer—and she knew that hope was not a plan. She opted for an approach that combined out-working and out-thinking her adversary.
She found a seat inside the operations tent at the museum that Donovan had secured for them. She began firing off a series of calls.
To Eli, she directed: “I need full blueprints of the facility where Burke will be transferred for his interview. Complete details of the security plan they have in place.”
To Haddox, she asked for a temporary shutdown of the surveillance cameras and other technological obstacles at the site. She also requested a full dossier on Burke—from which she’d generate a psychological profile. Even if he was only bait for their kidnapper, they would still need ammunition to handle him for a brief period of time.
To Mace and García, she instructed them to gather the supplies they’d need for the physical extraction.
Her final call was to Jan Brandt, the FBI forensic tech. “No fingerprints or fibers from anybody except the kids,” she informed her. “But your man García definitely found something interesting in that storage shed. It’s headed to our facility in Jersey for testing now.”
“Is it what García feared?”
“You’ll know soon as I do,” Jan said tersely.
Eve stared at the ticking clock on her phone. She’d set it to mirror the countdown on Allie’s.
Still six hours, fifty-six minutes to go until Task Two deadline.
Nine hours, fifty-six minutes until the parade’s end.
WJXZ REPORTS
This is Gwen Allensen, reporting from the parade staging area on Seventy-sixth and Central Park West. Right now, I’m talking with Lawrence Cox, a spokesperson for Macy’s.
GWEN: Larry, can you tell us whether you anticipate today’s weather forecast causing any problems for the parade?
LARRY: Well, current forecasting calls for sustained winds of twenty miles per hour and gusts of thirty-three miles per hour.
GWEN: What does that mean for the balloons’ ability to fly?
LARRY: We work very closely with the NYPD in making that determination. Basically, the city rules put in place after a paradegoer was injured by the Cat in the Hat in 1997 mandate that balloons may not fly if sustained winds exceed twenty-three miles per hour and gusts exceed thirty-four miles per hour.
GWEN: Sounds like we’re right at the cusp of what’s safe.
LARRY: I’m optimistic—though the balloons may not fly quite as high as in years past. Don’t forget: Balloons have only been grounded one time, back in 1971, since this parade started in 1924.
GWEN: So the odds are on our side. Let’s hope those winds cooperate.
Chapter 59
Chambers Street—an Unidentified Secure Location
The past few hours had accelerated by in a blur of frenzied preparation. Now it was two hours, thirty-five minutes until the Task Two deadline. Known to the rest of the world as the starting time of the parade.
García didn’t like it.
Still, this was an opportunity to flush out the bastard who’d nearly killed his son. He wasn’t about to screw that up.
First light was starting to spread over lower Manhattan, but García felt he was still in the middle of a nightmare. In part, because of the ordeal Frankie Junior was going through. The doctors assured him that Frankie was out of immediate danger. And Teresa was right there by Frankie’s side. Still, García remained racked with guilt. His fault for sending Frankie home alone.
But the other part of his nightmare? Going inside this prison. That would be enough to give him the creeps, even if he didn’t already suffer from claustrophobia.
It didn’t look so bad from the outside—just an ugly gray building. A fortress of concrete and steel. In fact, it didn’t look so different from the high school he’d gone to. Which, he reflected, had felt like its own kind of prison at the time.
But this place held some of the most high-profile criminal defendants in the United States. There were no guard towers, but there was a security hutch outside and enough surveillance cameras to keep an electronic eye on every square inch within its walls.
García watched the two guards at the outdoor sentry station. They were drinking coffee, joking, gossiping. They had the early-morning Thanksgiving shift; they were anticipating a quiet day, making it through their eight hours, then heading home to their turkey dinner.
Inside, seventy-nine prisoners were housed in a series of escape-proof cells, including a Lock-Down Unit—LDU—for those prisoners deemed the most dangerous. Or, García suspected, those prisoners who were simply the most hated: including a handful of al-Qaeda and ISIS terrorists. A government traitor. A Madoff-style swindler. And, of course, Gregg Burke, alleged cop killer.
“Ready for showtime?” Mace’s booming voice sounded in his ear. His least favorite tag-along companion. Nobody he got along with worse.
“C’mon, Frankie,” Mace was saying. “It’s just you, me, a beautiful sunrise, and a baker’s dozen of America’s Most Wanted. What could be better than this?”
“Me. Anywhere but here. Now put a sock in it. We don’t have the signal yet.”
“Speaking of socks—I see you’re wearing your lucky red socks and bandana to ward off the bad juju,” Mace retorted.
García bit his lip. Sure, he’d changed into his lucky red socks and bandana, like
he did every mission. He’d also said a few Hail Marys. Some called it superstitious, but García was convinced it had helped him to survive the IEDs of Fallujah, making it home in one piece.
“Hey, I’m not the one who’s losing his edge, totally whipped by his new woman.”
“Sounds like you’re jealous, Frankie. I’ve got plenty of edge—not to mention a lady well endowed with the three B’s: brains, beauty, and bucks.”
“Just being perceptive, man. Tell me the last time you dropped an f-bomb? She wants you for another kind of B. Bounty—all dark chocolate outside but white coconut inside.”
“Frankie, you better—”
At that moment, all the lights along Chambers Street went dim. They extinguished one by one, building by building—as though they were a string of Christmas lights on a tree that had just been unplugged.
It was highly unusual to lose power in the borough of Manhattan. It had only happened twice in recent memory: once in the Blackout of 2003, and again when Hurricane Sandy slammed into the city in 2012. Though it was early on a holiday morning, Con Ed would still get a flurry of calls. And Haddox was confident that he could stay hidden inside their firewall, blocking their recovery efforts, for at least twenty-eight minutes. Give or take a few.
García set the countdown.
He heard the massive backup generator automatically cycle on. It was on the roof—a necessity after the basement had flooded during Sandy—and it fed off a direct supply of Con Ed natural gas. Powerful enough for a building that took up a full city block, it was as loud as a jet engine revving for takeoff.
The guard on duty was distracted by the noise when García stepped up to the sentry hutch. “I’m with the NYPD. Here to interview one of your inmates.” He flashed his badge.
Until last month, that badge had belonged to one of the commissioner’s favorite deputies. Now the man had retired to a cottage in the Adirondacks, but the sentry guard here would never know that. When the number ran, Haddox had ensured that the computer would verify it as active duty.
Sure enough, the guard ran the check.
“Clear to proceed,” the guard radioed to the next security guard—the one manning the primary metal doors. “Say, did anything happen here this morning to make the power blow?”
“Not that I’ve heard,” came the static reply as García proceeded forward.
“I’m here to interview inmate number 06498-111,” García said, glancing down at the note on top of the memo pad he carried. No names were used at this secret, generally undisclosed location. Only numbers.
“What authorization code should I give?”
García consulted his notes again. “012235789.”
“Wait, please, sir.” The guy picked up his radio and contacted someone on the inside.
The wait was a couple heartbeats longer than García had anticipated. But eventually the sentry guard hung up and said, “Go ahead. They’ll be waiting for you at the end of the hallway on your left.”
García walked on—and as the metal doors clanked shut firmly behind him after only eleven paces, he tried not to stop, not to go insane with PTSD panic.
There’s plenty of air. Plenty of light. This is only a prison for some, he repeated to himself.
And in case his calming mantra wasn’t enough, he said a quick prayer that Mace wouldn’t let him down. He needed him to take care of his end of things.
Just thinking about Mace, he didn’t feel the press of walls closing in anymore. He felt the dull annoyance and nervous tension he always felt around Mace.
Made even worse by the fact that he needed him. Couldn’t complete the mission without him. They were worse than polar opposites. More like fire and gas. Incendiary.
He reveled in that feeling of intense dislike—because it gave him something to focus on. It kept him calm when he went through the cursory security search he’d expected.
He had nothing made of metal in his pockets, except small change, which he dumped into a scuffed metal tray. Took off his coat. Removed his shoes. Stepped through two different metal detectors.
The shoes set off the alarm. They always did.
“Steel toe,” García said with a shrug.
The guard checked the shoes carefully. Found nothing. Returned them to García.
When he put his items back on, his fingers couldn’t help but feel for his Randall #1 knife, hidden in a special compartment in the sole of his right shoe. Just knowing it was there reassured him—almost as much as being on the outside, breathing free air.
Great huge gulps of smoggy, polluted New York City free air.
—
At the same moment, a guy in a Con Ed uniform approached the rear side of the building, where there was a service entrance. With a friendly grin, he approached the guard there. “Hear you’ve got a bit of a power problem this morning. I’m here to check it out.”
“That was fast.” The officer gave a cursory glance to the credentials Mace presented. “Try to get it back on quick. That beast of a generator keeps the lights on and the doors locked”—he pointed upstairs—“but it won’t power the TV at my station here.” He indicated a portable television the size of an iPad. “Should be quiet here today; I was hoping to watch the parade.”
“I’ll get you up and running soon as I can,” Mace promised.
—
Six minutes later, García was led into an interview room. Two stories below ground.
No windows. Just one air vent. Four blank walls. A table bolted to the floor and two chairs chained to the table.
As he walked, he made sure to keep his face away from the surveillance cameras.
In theory, Haddox had done his magic and taken them out of commission. In practice, García trusted nobody and took no chances.
The floor below was cracked tile. The light above came from a row of fluorescent strips.
He sat down. Waited another seven minutes until the door opened and Burke was brought in. Shoved into a chair. His handcuffs locked to a slot on the table.
He looked to be on the early side of forty, but his short dark hair was starting to show gray. His skin was so pale, pink, and flabby that García was reminded of a plucked chicken.
The door was shut. The two of them were alone.
Footsteps in the hall walked away.
García glanced at his timer. Nineteen minutes left.
Almost showtime.
“Hey, asshole. I need you to follow everything I’m going to tell you. To the letter.” García issued orders in lieu of a greeting.
He noticed the bruises on Burke’s face. The dark bags under his eyes. Burke hadn’t done a lot of time yet, but what he’d done had been hard.
“This is total bullshit. I don’t know nuthin’ about today’s riot,” Burke retorted.
García pulled a paper bag out of his jacket. Inside was a packet of cigarettes and some chewing gum. He passed them to Burke. Kept one packet of gum for himself.
Burke examined them.
“I know that and you know that,” García replied. “But we’re going to have a little adventure if you follow my directions. Take the fourth piece of gum from the right. Unwrap it. There’s a pill inside you should swallow.”
Burke raised his eyebrows. “You’re bringing me drugs? I ain’t taking something I don’t know what it is.”
García shrugged. “You want to stay in here—or get out?” Then he passed over his own water bottle.
With a look of self-satisfied mischief, Burke took a slug of the water—and downed the pill.
García resisted the urge to punch him.
All was still silent in the corridor.
So García started talking. Making up one inconsequential point after another. Just waiting for the drug to take effect. Waiting for the next signal.
He tried to relax, counting off the time in his head. Two minutes. Four minutes. Six minutes.
The room started to feel a little warm.
“How’re you feeling?” García asked Burke.
“Uncomfortable yet?”
“What kind of crap did you give me?”
Mace’s voice buzzed in his ear. “Hey, Frankie, when are we getting this show on the road?”
They were running out of time. García couldn’t afford to wait much more.
In that instant: success.
Gregg Burke threw up the entire contents of his miserable breakfast all over the table.
García sprinted to the locked door, hitting the intercom button, again and again.
When the “yes?” finally came on the other end, he shouted, “Prisoner medical alert. He’s having some kind of seizure. He’s vomiting uncontrollably!”
Then he waited.
An officer came within twenty-two seconds.
The door opened—then started to swing shut behind him. García shoved his packet of gum into the opening to keep it from closing. Then he moved behind the responder.
A vicious elbow between the shoulder blades dropped him like a sack of flour. A swift kick and he was out cold.
García felt bad about that. He hadn’t wanted to hurt the guy too bad.
He grabbed the officer’s keys, tearing them right off the frayed belt loop of his pants. He took the ID card clipped to the officer’s shirt.
Breathed in. Breathed out. No reason to panic.
But definitely past time to get out of there. Burke had retched once more. The stink was beyond nauseating.
García used the keys. Unclipped the handcuffs that secured Burke to the table—though he immediately re-clipped them behind the guy’s back. Burke was leaving jail—but he was still García’s to control.
They made their way quickly down the corridor, through the door García had propped open. García’s hand firmly in Burke’s back, propelling him forward.
“Slow down. I don’t feel so good,” Burke moaned.
“Tough shit.” They made it through the next room. Came to an exit door that had no handle. Had no lock. It was secured electronically.
Time for Mace to do his thing.
Eight minutes to go.
—
In the bowels of the gray concrete prison, Mace made his way into the mechanical room. It was dark, illuminated only by emergency lighting.
Whistleblower Page 22
