Hostage Taker

by Stefanie Pintoff

  At first, Eve had felt completely unsuited to lead them.

  She played by the book. They laughed at the rules.

  Bureau training had drilled into her a sense of her own unimportance. They had oversized egos.

  She had learned how to compromise for the good of the unit. The word team was not in their vocabulary.

  In other words, she had absolutely nothing in common with them. Except they shared her impatience for bullshit, they were uniquely good at what they did, and, more than anything else, they relished winning.

  Vidocq was a unit designed to serve the FBI during moments of crisis. Whenever they needed someone to save the day. Or, failing that, when they needed someone to blame.

  Eve steeled herself, picked up the phone, and dialed.

  Chapter 8

  Three and a half miles uptown at the public courts on East 106th Street, Mace—born Julius Mason but nicknamed after his favorite player—dominated the high-stakes two-on-two basketball game. From the top of the key, he dribbled hard toward the man on defense. He stopped, spun 180 degrees, and lobbed the ball to a tall, bald, stocky player. Massive hands caught the ball, then launched it into a long arc that dialed it in long distance with a swish through the net.

  “Get the popcorn ready. It’s showtime,” crooned the player known as Area Code.

  “Arrogant son of a bitch.” The player who’d been dominated grudgingly forked over a couple of Benjamins.

  Area Code grinned, revealing a gold front tooth. “I ain’t arrogant. I’m just good.” He pocketed one bill.

  Mace snatched the other, frowning. Their take so far had been good, not great. And he was in the hole, big-time.

  He’d been born with two talents: One for dealing. The other for Hoops.

  He could return to the black-market trade—and if he was lucky, he’d be rolling in dough like the old days. That was what everybody expected. They’d been laughing for years at the notion he’d gone straight. Figured he’d come back to it when things got tough and he had to choose between paying his rent and feeding his rescue dogs at No Bull Pit.

  But he also knew: If he got unlucky, this time they’d send him to Rikers to do hard time. And while his teeth rotted and his brain went soft, his dogs would end up back in the fighting ring, bloodied and probably dead.

  That left streetball. Which in East Harlem took basketball to a whole ’nother level.

  He pulled Area Code aside. “Listen, I’ve got to go big or go home. Ain’t never gonna get what I need with hundred-dollar games. You in for five grand?”

  “Mace, these ain’t the guys you school downtown at the Cage. They play ball, but they got backup on the street. Where we gonna find that kinda dough if we lose?”

  “Let me worry about that. You in?”

  “Why not? All I gotta do is run faster than you if we lose.” Area Code smirked.

  Mace grabbed the ball and walked to center court, spinning it on his finger. Looked around. Let his eyes take everything in.

  The rusted goalposts.

  The fraying nets.

  The four men besides himself and Area Code, all standing around the perimeter, silent. Wearing plain sweatshirts and layup shorts and fuck-you expressions. Mace didn’t know their real names. Only their street names and reputations.

  The Professor was rail-thin and five-foot-nine and not much of a talker. A lot of people thought he was stupid—that his nickname was a joke. But Mace figured out long ago that quiet was different from dumb, and sometimes silent guys were the most dangerous. That’s why he suspected that the Professor was actually the brains behind the Queen Street Bloods. Opposite him stood Flash, who had a broad, easy grin—but his skin was covered in knife scars and he was fueled by an anger that could blaze up faster than any match. But the Professor and Flash were foot soldiers and they played average ball, so Mace decided not to worry about them. It was the other two guys—Grasshopper and the Shield—who were dangerous. Off the court, both were known for their hair-trigger tempers, bad impulse control, and heroin dealing. On the court, Grasshopper was average height, but he could jump; the Shield was a meat slab, a three-hundred-pound heavy who blocked everything coming his way.

  Right now all four were staring at Mace with menace.

  “You lookin’ at somethin’?” the Shield glowered.

  Ghosts, Mace thought. Past, present, and future.

  Somehow, he always ended up here. Sure, he’d dabbled in black-market deals. Got caught and did a gig with the Feds. Maybe even found a spark of good in his soul by saving animals with No Bull Pit. But none of it mattered like this.

  Was it pure love of the game? He guessed no other reason made sense.

  It wasn’t like he enjoyed hanging out with the guys: He wasn’t a people person. He hated their damn lies and snap judgments.

  And it wasn’t like he wanted to be part of a group. Mace didn’t join things. Never had.

  But he was addicted to the adrenaline high he got when the ball flew through the net. Proud of how he could size up a player’s strengths and weaknesses, figuring out how one brother’s speed and quickness could trump another’s tough physical play. Most of all, he liked talking trash and fucking with their minds.

  When easy money was involved? Well, that made the game irresistible.

  “Just lookin’ around to see who’s gonna finish second,” he answered, oozing confidence. “Five grand says me and my buddy here can take any of you. Standard rules.”

  Everyone knew the deal. Each basket worth one point, game to eleven. Loser had three hours to pay their debt. After that, it would be paid in blood.

  Mace spun the ball again. “Who’s got the balls to man up?”

  The other four huddled, clearly interested in making some quick dough themselves. Grasshopper and the Shield emerged from the pack.

  Mace grinned—and launched the ball toward Area Code.

  “Grasshopper’s got your number,” Flash said.

  “Nah, I’m unlisted.” Area Code dribbled away with the ball.

  Mace focused on defense against the Shield. It was hard work. Mace might be imposing—six-foot-seven and roped with muscle—but he gave up a full head to the Shield. Still, streetball was a mind game, not just a physical game. Talking trash helped—even though some players just ran their mouths.

  “You gonna build a house with all those bricks?” Mace grabbed the rebound after the Shield missed his third shot, passed it to Area Code.

  Area Code took the ball at the top of the key. What he lacked in size and strength he made up for with speed and a sweet jump shot. He lobbed the ball back to Mace, who caught it one-handed—then dribbled toward the Shield, spun 180 degrees, and arched the ball fifteen feet toward the hoop. It swished through the basket, nothing but net. “In your face!” Mace shouted.

  Grasshopper took the ball and sent a bounce-pass to the Shield, who was backing up Mace in the post.

  Mace didn’t give an inch.

  The Shield sent the ball back out to his partner, but Area Code flashed into the lane, intercepted the pass, and sent a beautiful rainbow for a swish. “Somebody better call the cops; I just stole the ball!”

  They won the first game no contest. Then agreed to play for higher stakes.

  Twenty grand to Mace and Area Code if they won. Enough to clear all Mace’s debts.

  Only five grand owed if they were to lose. Even so, five grand they didn’t have.

  The Professor came in for Grasshopper. “Class is back in session,” he announced, before grabbing the ball and rifling it into Mace’s chest.

  Then he backed it up with a series of jump shots, acrobatic layups, and dunks. He didn’t talk anymore smack. In fact, he didn’t talk at all. He just dominated the rest of the game.

  And when he sent the winning shot through the hoop with a reverse layup, he smiled for the first time.

  “We’re fucked,” grumbled Mace.

  “How’re you gonna pay up?” asked the Shield.

  “That’s my
problem, not yours. I’ll be back here with the dough in three hours.” Mace gave them all an embarrassed grimace.

  The Shield glared. “You shittin’ me?”

  Mace shrugged. “Standard rules.”

  “Standard rules for Queen’s Blood. You ain’t been part of Queen’s Blood for years.”

  “What’re you saying? My word’s no good?”

  Grasshopper rested his knife-scarred hand on Area Code’s arm. “I’m sayin’ we’re takin’ a security deposit.”

  Area Code ducked low, moved to launch a blow.

  The Shield and Flash were right there. They flanked Area Code, close.

  Shit.

  Area Code shot a panicked glance at Mace.

  Great. Now he didn’t just owe eight grand to Diggs, a loan shark with two-foot-long dreadlocks and arms wrapped in skull and snake tattoos. He also owed five thousand to this crew. And he’d gotten Area Code into a pile of dog crap.

  “You know I ain’t friends with him,” he answered calmly, trying to read their body language, but coming up short.

  “Don’t gimme that bullshit.” The Shield’s face was innocent, but his eyes were cruel as he flashed a knife. “You bring me the money. Three hours. Or I’ll open him the fuck up.”

  Mace looked up into the dead winter sky, like maybe there was some kinda answer up there. Behind him, cars on the FDR were honking. Six teenage punks were coming onto the court, swaggering and arguing. An old woman in a cherry-red coat struggled to push a cart of groceries down the block. Problems came in all shapes and sizes.

  Just then Mace’s phone sounded. His ringtone was the opening to “Black Dog” by Led Zeppelin.

  He glanced down.

  Didn’t recognize the number.

  But the call was a welcome distraction, so he answered it anyway.

  He listened to the voice on the other end. Then—despite the predicament he was in—his face lit up with a sunny grin.

  A solution to his problem had just presented itself.

  VIDOCQ FILE #A30652

  Current status: ACTIVE

  Julius Mason

  Nickname: Mace

  Age: 43

  Race/Ethnicity: African American

  Height: 6’7”

  Weight: 230 lbs.

  Eyes: Brown

  Hair: Black

  Prominent features: Three-inch scar by left ear

  Current Address: 1883 Lexington Avenue (East Harlem).

  Criminal Record: Multiple felony convictions—conspiracy to import and traffic illegal contraband. Sentence: fifteen to twenty-five years.

  Expertise: Clandestine movement of goods across borders. Specialized knowledge of smuggling networks for weapons, narcotics, and exotic wildlife.

  Education: Attended Bronx Regional High School (Hunt’s Point, South Bronx).

  Personal

  Family: Mother, Dolores. Father, unknown. Brother, Marcus, deceased (gang violence); brother, Duane, deceased (drive-by shooting). Pit bulls—Romeo, Ace, and Danger.

  Spouse/Significant Other: None. Numerous female partners.

  Religion: Baptist.

  Interests: Regular player, pickup hoops. Founded No Bull Pit, dedicated to helping rescue pit bulls from dog-fight rings.

  Other: Abandoned longtime gang, the Bloods, when they became involved in dog-fighting.

  Profile

  Strengths: Loves nothing more than the thrill of a close game—and winning it.

  Weaknesses: Doesn’t play well with others. A loose cannon with no respect for authority. Operates by his own rules, preferring instinct vs. planning. Soft spot is love for animals.

  Notes: His good-natured personality predominates over his intimidating physique. Wants to train his rescue dogs for the FBI K-9 program.

  *Assessment prepared by SA Eve Rossi. Updated by ADIC Henry Ma. For internal use only.

  Chapter 9

  When Eve next dialed her telephone, it was to headquarters downtown. Tersely, she explained what she wanted and how quickly it was needed.

  There was an uncomfortable pause on the other end. Then a voice said stiffly, “I know Director Ma authorized whatever you wanted. But this is highly unorthodox.”

  “You disburse larger amounts for Special Ops all the time,” Eve pointed out.

  “Sure, but for operations. Not new hires.”

  “Just repeat back my instructions.”

  “We are to allocate fifteen thousand dollars as a signing bonus, with five grand of that available in cash today from our discretionary fund.” Another hesitation. “Agent Rossi, are you—”

  “Please have the cash ready for pickup within the half-hour,” Eve interrupted. Then she clicked off.

  Before making her next call, Eve returned to the video search.

  In the past thirty-six hours, five Midnight Masses from Christmases past had been uploaded to YouTube’s Saint Patrick’s archive.

  She scrolled through each, wondering: Where is your message, asshole?

  Chapter 10

  Hangovers are a bitch. Eli Cohen staggered through the door of his fifth-floor apartment at 123 Orchard Street, downed three Tylenol with a bottle of Power-C Vitamin Water, yanked the shades down, and collapsed onto his unmade bed. The mattress creaked in protest under his weight—at least sixty pounds more than his doctor preferred.

  He wanted to fall asleep. Or at least to lie in peace. Instead, he felt like a knife was slicing into his brain.

  Eli closed his eyes—and groaned.

  While he waited for the Tylenol and Vitamin Water to work their magic, he found himself replaying the events of last night. The party was like a bad movie he couldn’t bring himself to shut off.

  —

  There he was again: watching nervously as a woman wearing a black-and-gold sequined dress and bright red lipstick swayed straight toward him, armed with a pink fizzy drink and a wide smile.

  There went his stupid idea that this holiday party might go okay.

  He could have said it wasn’t his kind of party. Or that these people weren’t his usual kind of friends. But to tell the truth, he just wasn’t a party kind of guy. He never had been. He had simply grown from an overweight, socially awkward kid into an overweight, socially awkward forty-something. It had been a natural progression.

  “Are you Eli?” the woman had asked.

  “That’s me,” he answered bravely.

  “My name is Barbara. John has told us so much about you, I feel I know you already.” She reached out and enveloped him in a perfumed one-armed hug. Miraculously, her drink did not spill. “You looked so lonely over here. Hasn’t John introduced you around?”

  Eli’s eyes had drifted over to where John was drinking eggnog and singing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” with his two brothers. Like three Long Island tenors, Eli thought. The crazy thing was: They actually seemed to get along. No sign of petty jealousies or long-held resentments. Maybe that was because the liquor was flowing nonstop, lubricating relations among a large Irish Catholic family that was twenty times the size of his Jewish clan. He’d met more of John’s cousins and aunts and uncles and family friends than he could possibly remember. Their names were one long, mindless blur.

  He plastered a smile on his face and tried to look happy. That was what everybody expected, and this party—well, all parties, really—were about trying to live up to what people expected. Surely he could fake it for a couple hours. “Yeah, John introduced me.”

  The woman didn’t seem to be listening. “I want you to meet my daughter.” She gripped his right arm. “She’s divorced,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper.

  Eli wasn’t sure why that was relevant. Then again, most things people gossiped about weren’t relevant.

  Spotting no good exit strategy, he had no choice but to follow. Her fingers were tight on his arm. He noticed bloodred fingernails and a multi-carat diamond ring. He also saw the large mustard stain on his tie—probably from those mini–hot dogs. How had he already managed to ruin the sky blue
Hermès tie John had picked out for him? They hadn’t even sat down to dinner yet. No way am I going to get through this without embarrassing myself, he decided.

  Of course, if John was going to be scared away by Eli’s abysmal lack of social skills, better to know sooner than later. It had been three whirlwind weeks since Eli had gone to The Taste of New York and sat next to the good-looking tax attorney with thin-wire spectacles who appreciated fine food and wine. Eli couldn’t tell a chardonnay from a sauvignon blanc, never mind whether the flavor was oaky or had hints of vanilla. He just liked to eat.

  Amazingly, John hadn’t cared. They’d hit it off—and by the end of Bobby Flay’s gourmet meal, Eli had fallen hard.

  Now here he was, meeting John’s family already, trying to fit in—or at least trying not to stand out like a mustard-stained sore thumb.

  Barbara steered him ruthlessly toward the drink station, where a rail-thin woman was nursing her champagne. She wore a green dress and a distracted expression. Eli immediately pictured a fragile glass teetering at the edge of a table, on the verge of losing its balance and falling off.

  “This is my Meaghan,” Barbara explained. “She’ll be wonderful company for you.” Then she waved to someone who had just entered the room and left.

  Eli extended his hand. “Nice meeting you. John is your…?”

  Meaghan stared at him curiously. Either he’d met her before and had already forgotten—or she was someone John probably told him about. Who was he kidding? He was doomed.

  “Cousin. Same age. Grew up next door.” Meaghan tilted her half-empty champagne flute toward him. “Want a drink?”

  He looked around. Everyone else had a drink. Just try to fit in, he reminded himself. Plus, maybe a drink or two would loosen him up. Help with the small talk.

  He was desperate for a beer, but he settled for vodka with soda. That way, when he spilled it on himself—or, God forbid, somebody else—it wouldn’t show or stink too bad.