Hostage Taker

by Stefanie Pintoff

  Among the four of them, they’d casually witnessed subway gropings, cellphone thefts, and a number of car accidents.

  One incident caught Haddox’s attention. He wasn’t sure why. Not one of the four had described what they saw in exactly the same words. Of course, he knew witness testimony was notoriously unreliable. Human memory was an exceptionally fragile thing. Susceptible to prejudice. Riven with error. That was why the papers were filled with cases where DNA evidence exculpated people wrongfully convicted due to eyewitness testimony.

  So Haddox didn’t focus on the differences—even though each of the four named a different location. A different date. A different time. And described a completely different scenario.

  He concentrated on the similarities.

  A crime had occurred in the subway station underground.

  A woman had been hurt.

  —

  García was leaning over the hostage. Mace recognized her from the steps of the Cathedral earlier in the day: The woman with cropped gray hair and the nasty scar on her left cheek. The one who wore men’s shoes.

  She was bleeding. Moaning softly in pain. And García was covering the wound with his red bandana—the one he’d worn for luck since the operation began.

  “What’s going on here?” Mace demanded. “She gonna be okay?”

  “It’s only a scratch.” García tightened the bandana. Tied it off. “Do me a favor?”

  “Go to hell,” Mace said, glaring. “I was actually worried about you, man. I heard a shot.”

  “That would be the scratch. She thought I was the Hostage Taker coming for her and made threatening sounds. She startled me. My weapon went off. She got lucky.”

  “Meaning you were trigger-happy.”

  “Meaning you didn’t cover me like you promised. So I had to look out for myself.” García fixed him with a stony glare.

  “Looks like we all got lucky.” Mace gazed down at the explosives García had already defused and removed. “You’re a damn fool. This is a danger zone, not target practice.” The hostage’s hands were shaking as Mace untied them.

  She was dirty. Her wrists were bleeding, too.

  “You okay?” Mace asked.

  She managed to nod. He removed her blindfold and her gag. “The guy who did this to you. Is he around?”

  She blinked, struggling to orient herself. She failed. She was either in shock or she didn’t understand the question.

  Mace tried again. “Have you seen him pass by?”

  She nodded. Mumbled something.

  García grabbed the water bottle that was beside her and offered her a sip. She drank from it greedily.

  “That way,” she croaked, tilting her head left. “I saw him headed that direction. Don’t know how long ago.” She pointed to her feet, which were still tied. “Can you please let me go? I gotta get out of here.”

  —

  Haddox’s eyes were locked on the file on the screen in front of him. Was it possible he was finally staring at the elusive connection between Sean Sullivan and the five witnesses he had demanded?

  It wasn’t filed under Sean Sullivan’s name—although in the file he was listed among the investigating officers. He had been summoned late to help manage the scene. He had worked crowd control. He had not interviewed the witnesses.

  The information was far from perfect.

  Haddox was pretty sure the witness listed as Anna Leigh was actually Cassidy Jones. She admitted to having used the name in the past as her stage name. She didn’t actually remember the incident. It was shortly after she first arrived in New York. She had delved into the party scene, she remembered, and might’ve been drunk that night.

  He was also pretty sure that Louis Ramon was Luis Ramos. His name had been misspelled. That sort of thing happened all the time.

  According to the report, all had been present when a subway mugging had gone bad. The victim had been severely injured, eventually dying three days later in the hospital. The mugger had never been caught.

  Was this what Sean Sullivan wanted them to confess to?

  What are you guilty of? he’d asked each one.

  Not observing enough? Not preventing the assault? Not giving the police enough information? Not caring enough?

  Or simply being there?

  It was impossible to know.

  But Haddox did know this—and it was what he told Eve: If the witnesses hadn’t been able to give enough information to catch the perpetrator at the time, they didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of doing so now.

  Chapter 81

  Last July, I was waiting for the Bronx-bound D train—the Sixth Avenue Express—at the Bryant Park stop. It was a Tuesday night, about half past ten. The city had been baking all day, so it was hotter than a sauna underground. The lights were bright and seemed to add to the heat.

  I remember it vividly—as though I am there now.

  I am sitting alone on a wooden bench at the south end of the platform, which is deserted except for seven people. Two passengers are to my left; five are to my right. There is a subway map above me, next to a series of posters touting various summer blockbusters. Ahead of me, on the column near the edge of the platform, are a series of weekend and evening service announcements about work that will disrupt the lives of thousands. New York’s subway system is well over a century old—and its tracks are in constant need of repair.

  The waiting passenger closest to me is a Hispanic woman. She is built small and straight, less than five feet tall, and she looks overheated and bone tired. A battered leather bag is worn crossbody over her shoulders. She thinks about taking the seat next to me, but she’s too high-strung. She keeps leaning over the tracks to check for an approaching train.

  About eight feet away from her is a man leaning against one of the columns. He isn’t relaxed; he’s just too tired to stand up. He is Hispanic, too—short, with coppery skin and dark hair. His leathery face is lined with exhaustion.

  On the other side of me is a woman I immediately peg as Caribbean. She wears a colorful orange-and-yellow cloth over her hair; her long dress is in the same bold hues. She is humming to herself, and the supermarket bag draped over her wrist bulges with knitting needles and yarn.

  All are impatient. Ready to be on their way.

  The next waiting passenger is different. She is petite, with glossy black hair in a twist, and she’s dressed to the nines: black skirt, patent leather sandals, a strapless sequined top. She carries a tote bag with musical notes all over it. I guess that she’s bound for either Lincoln Center or Carnegie Hall.

  About fifteen feet away, there’s another bench where a woman with curly platinum-blond hair is sitting. Her curves are tucked into a skin-tight red dress, but a pale blue waitress’s uniform pokes out of her bag. She wants to be Marilyn, but she’s stuck as Alice at Mel’s Diner, I decide.

  The sixth waiting passenger is a man about thirty-five, dressed like he’s headed for the golf course, though he’s probably returning home from dinner. He is glued to his smartphone, though he looks up at regular intervals. He remains alert, aware of his surroundings.

  The last passenger can’t stand still. He’s jittery, and I remember he’s wearing a skull ring with a diamond in each eye socket. He’s probably fortysomething, white, just shy of six feet tall and two hundred pounds. His jeans are ripped and he’s sweating through his red, white, and blue Captain America T-shirt. He zigzags past everyone, all the way to the end of the platform. His eyes are alert, taking in everyone. Noting their body language. Their clothes. The items they carry.

  He turns back.

  Walks past the guy with the smartphone. Past Marilyn Monroe and the dark-headed musician. Past the Caribbean woman and the tired Hispanic man. He stops one short pace away from the petite Hispanic woman.

  He moves so quickly I almost don’t believe what I’m seeing. With one arm he pulls the woman against him; with the other, he yanks her leather bag over her head.

  He is agile and smooth. Confi
dent. Like he’s done this many times before.

  So I get up and do my best to make sure he doesn’t do it again.

  Before he takes his hand off the woman’s shoulders, I come up behind him.

  “Give that back,” I say.

  “Mind your own fuckin’ business.” He keeps hold of the woman. Seconds earlier, she was frozen still; now she is struggling against him.

  “Right now.” I take another step closer.

  The woman is saying, “Just take my money. Please let me go!” She whimpers in fear.

  “You heard the lady. Let her go!” I’ve been home on leave for more than a year, but I’m still a Marine, and my training kicks in. I feint like I’m going to hit him, but I actually knee him hard in the gut and he staggers, falling. In that instant, I snatch the woman out of his arms. He regains his balance, but before he can rise, I launch my boot into the side of his head.

  It is a solid hit. He seems unsteady and disoriented; I think he’s down for the count.

  With the woman still sagging against me, I kick her bag out of his hands, launching it beyond his reach. He offers no resistance.

  Hindsight is perfect, of course. Looking back, I see that my taking the bag was the act that set him off.

  Suddenly his anger boils over and he is back on his knees, then up on his feet, charging like a bull. I block him with my left hook, but my action isn’t what the woman is expecting. She loosens her grip on my arm.

  Spins away from us.

  And teeters.

  I watch, suddenly helpless, as she sways backward onto the track.

  I cannot help.

  Her mugger grabs me, smashing his fist into my face. The punch lands harder than I expect.

  I struggle to break free of him—and cannot.

  “HELP!” It may be the first time I’ve uttered the word in my life.

  After several bloody minutes, he finishes pounding my face. He drives his knee into my ribs.

  “HELP!” I say it again.

  Bursts of pain flash through my body. Now I am screaming. Begging for help.

  I see the others standing there. Gawking.

  Finally, he shoves me down, hard—and I hear the sound of my own skull breaking.

  Then he picks up the woman’s bag and saunters away.

  No one stops him.

  —

  Afterward, they all stand, frozen in place. Deaf to my pleas for help.

  Ignoring my outstretched hand. Ignoring the half-dead woman on the tracks.

  It’s like we have become invisible. Or they have been turned to stone.

  Later, I learn: Twelve and a half minutes pass before anyone dials 911.

  A Japanese tourist makes the call. Not one of the original five.

  Don’t they know what they’re guilty of?

  Am I the only one who cares about justice?

  Today they’re all going to fucking pay attention. They’re going to notice me for the first time. Today people are going to thank me for what I’ve done.

  Chapter 82

  García sent word that they had a line on the Hostage Taker—in effect authorizing Tactical Operations to enter the Cathedral and begin rescuing hostages and defusing all remaining explosives.

  The hostage from the attic—who gave her name as Ellen—didn’t know exactly where the Hostage Taker was located. Just the general direction.

  She did confirm she had seen only one man.

  García still worried they were facing more than one opponent. But he had combed the downstairs of the Cathedral, to no avail. The Hostage Taker—or Takers, if more than one—had to be here, in the upper reaches of the Cathedral.

  The key would be to neutralize him before he had the chance to trigger any explosives.

  García led the way. Mace followed. They stayed close to the wall, stepped onto a catwalk that spanned the length of the attic above the choir loft. It was essentially a tower passage, enabling access from the south tower to the north. The spire with the bells.

  García tried to remember what he’d learned about the Bell Tower in preparation for this assault. It wasn’t regularly used—and it hadn’t been since the electronic age, when the bells were rung by a player at a miniature piano downstairs. Today they had remained silent.

  The tower struck him as a perfect place for the Hostage Taker to establish the advantage.

  García entered, suppressing a shiver as a gush of cold air—and a few stray snowflakes—managed to surge down the spire.

  Mace was close behind.

  There was a spiral staircase in the center of the tower. They began to climb, steadying themselves with handrails.

  The spiral stairs gave way to ladders.

  Inside the spire, everything was transformed. The lights of the city melted into an unearthly glow. The thrum of a helicopter circling above reminded García of a call to battle.

  They inched toward the landing beneath the first bell room. The hanging straps of the bells swayed around them.

  In here, García mouthed.

  García checked his watch. Downstairs, the Tactical team would already be securing the Cathedral.

  Soundlessly, drawing his Randall #1 knife, he climbed the remaining steps of the ladder. Moved into position, entering the first bell room with a catlike leap. The bell room was shaped like an octagon and illuminated by a single sixty-watt utility bulb. There was dust everywhere—but blurred and scattered by multiple footprints. Three of the Cathedral’s nineteen copper and tin bells loomed just ahead of him. Named the Saint Patrick, the Blessed Virgin, and the Saint Joseph. Notes corresponding to Ba, C, and D. They hung from a crossbeam. There was a flashlight resting on top of that crossbeam. And snow was blowing in, from the open louvers.

  It could almost be a postcard for the tourists: bells glistening with snow, illuminated by a magical, diffused light.

  He heard someone moving about. Then saw the shadow slipping between the bells. A single figure. Dressed in fatigues.

  The shadow’s footsteps boomed and echoed. They seemed to come from all around.

  It was the moment of truth. Decision time. Live or die.

  García thought the odds were in their favor. The figure was distracted. Speaking urgently into a telephone. Eve, I don’t want to hear another word of this BULLSHIT!

  The ID was solid.

  Now he needed a visual on the hands. He had to confirm that the Hostage Taker wasn’t holding a dead man’s switch that would set fire to the Cathedral the instant he was killed.

  So he waited—and watched.

  Five seconds. Ten seconds.

  It took twenty-seven seconds before García made a clear determination. Sullivan’s left hand was holding the phone. His right hand was gesticulating. There was no contact switch to worry about.

  He whispered to Eve through his secure headset. Do I take the kill shot?

  The reply came within a second. Affirmative. Do it.

  He nodded to Mace, who eased himself soundlessly into the bell tower. Moved along an empty stretch of floor behind the bells. No sound at all. All García could hear was the wind, whistling between the louvers.

  He focused his eyes. Pointed to his Glock, then made a thumbs-up.

  Mace had a clear shot.

  García nodded. Go for it.

  Mace moved left, fired between the bells, moved left again.

  Sullivan’s body jerked, then fell. The injured man tried to reach something in his pocket, but his arm responded only with a spasm of movement.

  García moved in to finish the job.

  The man was trying to crawl. He couldn’t. There was blood coming from his mouth. He looked at García and said, “ ’bout fucking time.”

  García hesitated.

  Mace didn’t.

  He fired one more shot and Sullivan said no more.

  Chapter 83

  The fellows overseas always said the end was just pretty pink mist. Quick and painless. A descent into nothingness.

  They were wrong.

>   The pain in his chest was intense. A confused vision filled the blackness of his consciousness. He opened his mouth to ask for Eve. He wanted so desperately to explain.

  But it was too hard to breathe—and he could think only of Georgie.

  Suddenly it was 7:53 in the morning again, the day before yesterday, and the snow was coming down in a fast, furious squall. Thick, fat flakes covered tree branches and patches of grass, but the streets remained wet and sloppy. Beside him, Georgie was light-footed, almost buoyant, as she moved. She wasn’t talkative most mornings, but the first snowfall of winter had put her in a good mood. Snow was exciting—even though a New York City kid like Georgie would rarely ever see a day off because of it.

  “Did you know that snowflakes aren’t actually white?” She stuck her tongue out to catch a giant flake.

  “They sure look white.” Especially against Georgie’s new black wool hat.

  “It has to do with how ice reflects light and how our brain perceives it all wrong,” she told him.

  The crosswalk showed five seconds to go. She was about to go for it, but he caught her arm and held her back. His reward was the roll of her eyes that said “overprotective.” Most of her friends got to school by themselves in eighth grade. But he passed by her school on the way to work, and Georgie walked with her head in the clouds, so for now, they stuck together.

  It wouldn’t last; he already knew. She was growing up too fast, so he clung to the last signs of her childhood. The way she still slept with her favorite stuffed bear. The fact that she let him kiss her good night every evening. These morning walks together to school.

  “I need to get that application in,” she said. “If I’m gonna go.”

  She wanted to go to acting camp next summer, but he and her mother had reservations. The Berkshires were a long way from home, and she’d be in a dorm with kids as old as eighteen. It was a daunting prospect. Even if she was thirteen-going-on-thirty.

  “Sophie’s going. I could room with her,” she added, reading his thoughts.