by Jen J. Danna
The golden rule in negotiating was that no negotiator ever died while on the phone with a suspect. That was the trick: physically remove yourself from danger to keep that immediate stress at bay, allowing you to maintain the deadly calm essential in every successful negotiator. Leave the bullets to the Apprehension Tactical Team.
Gemma knew the A-Team would already be on-site, and she scanned the tops of buildings as she sprinted across Broadway. She couldn’t see anyone, but knew they’d already have their best long-distance sharpshooters in spots with a perfect line of sight on the building, and that positioning would change as they became surer of the hostage taker’s location. There were likely even a few of them up the trees close to City Hall if they could find a position with line of sight through summer’s dense leaf canopy.
She pushed through the door of the old branch office to find the kind of organized chaos that always occurred at the beginning of a situation. A map of Lower Manhattan was tacked up on the wall at a slight angle, which spoke of a rushed effort. A white board with multicolored scribbles was propped on a chair. Tables were covered with aerial shots of the building and the surrounding park and Civic Center, City Hall blueprints, a list that was likely a roster of departments in the building, and the beginnings of the briefing book—the negotiator’s bible during any hostage situation. As the incident wore on, information about the hostage taker and his history, as well as details concerning the victims, would be added. She spotted Garcia’s bulky form and salt-and-pepper hair as he bent over the book, pointing something out to a tall man with a military bearing, a high-and-tight haircut, and who was dressed in tactical gear, with his helmet tucked under his arm.
Gemma swallowed a groan. Great. Sanders.
The A-Team was high-stakes and high-stress 100 percent of the time, but she always felt this commander pumped it up an extra 10 percent. Sanders was a firm believer that “might makes right,” and he was known to jump the gun when negotiations took longer than he’d like. While sometimes that was the right call, it didn’t always lead to a positive outcome.
She understood the origin of some of Sanders’s logic, even if she didn’t always agree with it. Sanders wasn’t just a mustache-twirling complication sent in to make their lives even more difficult. She’d heard the story from her father—a hostage situation early on in Sanders’s career as a commander that had started as a domestic violence call between an estranged husband and wife, with their three young children caught in the middle. There’d been a handgun involved and the standoff had gone longer than Sanders wanted. He’d argued for going in to remove the children and had men ready to do so. But the primary hostage negotiator had convincingly argued for more time.
By the time Sanders finally followed his gut, overruled the negotiator, and had sent in his teams, the hostage taker and a baby, toddler, and preschooler were all dead. The wife had been shot and ended up surviving her wounds, but only as a shell of the woman she’d been. Sanders had reportedly raked the negotiator over the coals for pushing so hard to keep him and his teams out. But in the end, Sanders recognized the final decision had been his to make. And it was one he clearly never intended to miss again.
So now they’d not only be fighting the suspect and the clock, but possibly the man running the operation, if they couldn’t convince Sanders to give them the time they’d need to effectively negotiate. In some ways, it was too bad the serial approach to hostage situations—talk first, then show your tactical abilities when you hit a wall—wasn’t nearly as effective as the parallel approach—talk while making a visible tactical show—to get a hostage taker’s attention and cooperation. It was always a fine line to walk: a large show of force could make a suspect insecure and desperate, while a small show of force could leave the suspect overconfident and unwilling to work with the negotiators.
Damned if you did, and damned if you didn’t.
She spotted two more negotiators at the back of the large room and nodded in approval at Garcia’s handpicked choices. Granted, with a high-profile situation like this, he could have any of the over one hundred Hostage Negotiation Team members at his beck and call, even if they were in the middle of their own incidents, which some, no doubt, were. The HNT dealt with hundreds of cases annually, which boiled down to more cases in a month than most NYPD divisions had in a year. With each major incident needing rotating rounds of four negotiators at a time over extended periods, that was a lot of manpower.
Gemma made a beeline toward the two men who stood in the doorway of what had once been the bank vault. The massive door was propped open against the back wall, and cords and cables ran from the main room into the vault. Inside the vault, Gemma caught a glimpse of a familiar setup of two back-to-back tables. One table was large enough for the primary negotiator and the team member acting as coach, someone who listened in and passed notes suggesting alternate courses of action. The second table provided space for all the recording equipment, another team member to act as scribe, noting every aspect of any communication for instant reference, and the last chair was for the coordinator. In this case, the coordinator was the senior negotiator, who not only functioned as the chief adviser with the most experience, but also as the officer who would run interference with any other departments, including the tactical team. And, most important, the coordinator would be the person standing between his negotiating team and the brass, allowing the team to stay focused on their situation, and not on the politics and pressure that might rise up around it.
A clock displaying the time in large, glowing red numbers was set up at the end of the tables where everyone could see it. That clock would rule their lives during negotiations. The hostage taker would want action and to cut the time short. Their job was to stretch out the situation as long as possible, hoping calmness, sanity, and exhaustion would play to their advantage. Several laptops for research or notes completed the setup.
“Hey,” Gemma greeted the detectives as she approached. “What do we know?”
“Only minimal details so far.”
Elijah Taylor towered above Gemma, as always, dressed to perfection in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit, with a snowy shirt and a burgundy tie that complemented his dark umber skin tone. Taylor was well known as a stickler for details, for his precise notes, and for his calm with a hostage taker when an incident was exploding around him. On the other hand, team members who weren’t pulling their weight up to his expectations were easy targets for any simmering frustration with the situation Taylor couldn’t show the suspect.
“We’re gathering additional details. We need to establish a line of communication to the hostage taker. However, we don’t know where he is in the building. We only have scanty witness reports to go on. The fire alarm was activated, emptying the building, but witnesses report seeing a man armed with an assault weapon with an unknown number of people on the first floor.”
“We’ve tapped into the building’s security feeds, but this guy is completely out of sight. The corridors are deserted.” Fair-haired, freckled, and only about two-thirds Taylor’s size in height and weight, Trevor McFarland wore an ill-fitting, smudge brown suit that hung on his bony frame. Gemma couldn’t care less that he wasn’t a fashion plate because McFarland was a whiz with technology. Communications would be smooth sailing with him on the team once they made contact with the suspect.
Gemma glanced down at her picnic attire—a gauzy, V-necked peasant blouse, white denim capris, and matching mesh summer sneakers—and felt extremely underdressed. But with Garcia’s marching orders, there simply hadn’t been time to detour home to change into her usual no-nonsense dark suit. She pushed the thought away; they had a job to do, and, at most, the hostage taker would only hear her voice. At least she had both her shield and her Glock 19 in a molded, black clip-on holster on her right hip under her blouse—luckily, her service weapon had been in the lockbox in her car when she was called in, so at least she had some of her normal on-duty trappings.
“It sounds like we’
re running on very little. The mayor’s office is on the first floor. Do we think he has the mayor? And his staff? What about the first deputy mayor?” she asked.
“That’s unclear.” Taylor cocked his head in the direction of a group of people standing by the front window. “One of the witnesses reported the mayor was inside his offices, but according to his calendar, he was supposed to be off-site at a meeting. The larger issue is that no one can get hold of him. Until we know otherwise, we have to assume the mayor is inside City Hall and does not have access to his phone.”
“There’s been no communication? No request for money or resources?”
“None.”
“Is the A-Team deployed? Do we at least have eyes on the building?”
“You bet,” said McFarland. “Sanders is in contact with them. But unless something’s popped in the last few minutes, they don’t have line of sight on him yet.”
Movement out of the corner of her eye drew Gemma’s attention as Sanders strode away from Garcia and out the door. Turning left on the sidewalk, Sanders disappeared.
Garcia approached the group, carrying a stack of papers and files. “Communications all set up?”
“Yes, sir.” McFarland glanced back into the vault. “Are they patching a call through?”
“No, nothing from inside the building yet. It’s been too long with no word, so we’re going to try to make contact. We don’t have eyes on the situation, so we’re going for ears. I’ve got a directory for the whole building, but we’re going to start with the mayor’s office, since that lines up with the location noted in the latest witness reports.” As he spoke, Garcia headed for the vault. “We’re going to do this a little differently than usual. Normally, I’d put you on this call, Taylor, and I’d coordinate. But this one is too high profile, and no one has more field experience and institutional memory on past cases than I do, so I’m going to run it, at least to start. Taylor, you’re scribe for now, but be ready to step in when needed.” He handed the directory to McFarland. “McFarland, you’re communications. Capello, you’re coach on the call, no matter who is primary. We’ll take turns liaising with the other divisions and keeping the chiefs at bay for whoever is on the call at the time. If Taylor and I switch off, McFarland, you’re scribe and I’ll coordinate. Now, let’s find this bastard and get the mayor and any other hostages out of there.”
They settled around the table, everyone taking up their respective posts. Garcia took the farthest chair at the back of the vault, strategically placing himself where he could see through the bank to the front door in case of new arrivals. Gemma sat to his right, with Taylor across the table and McFarland on the far corner, surrounded by equipment. McFarland handed Garcia a headset with a microphone, and then handed regular headsets to the rest of the team before putting on his own. Taylor pulled a yellow legal pad from the top of a short pile and selected a pen. Gemma did the same, so she could make her own notes about the call and suggestions for Garcia.
Garcia scanned his group. “Ready?”
“Yes, sir.” Affirmation went around the circle.
“Good. Starting with the mayor’s office. McFarland, put the call through.”
The call rang through their headsets. Four rings. Five. Six. “You have reached the office of Kevin Rowland, Mayor of the City of New York—”
McFarland disconnected the call, but only lifted his fingers an inch off the buttons. Gemma could practically hear the slow count of ten ringing in his head.
Second attempt.
Wait.
Third attempt.
Wait.
Fourth.
Voices rose outside the vault, and a tall woman dressed in Emergency Services Unit black, with her dark hair pulled back severely, appeared in the doorway. The name tag over her right breast pocket read KALANI and the stripes on her sleeve marked her as a sergeant. “Sir, we have reports of shots fired in the building.”
Garcia braced to rise out of his chair. “Without making contact?”
“They don’t think he’s shooting hostages. They’re losing security feeds around the mayor’s office on the first floor. Looks like he’s taking out the cameras.”
“Which confirms the hostage taker is armed, and also tells us he’s a decent shot,” Gemma said.
Taylor set his pen down on his legal pad. “And he must have a significant supply of ammunition at hand if he feels free to spend that much of it disabling cameras.”
“It also confirms his approximate location,” said McFarland.
“Only if he’s the sole captor, and we don’t know that yet.” Garcia indicated the phone. “We know at least one suspect is there. Now we keep calling until we get him to answer the phone.”
They called, again and again, for five minutes with no response.
“This guy’s got nerves of steel,” Garcia said. “Assuming they haven’t pulled the cord out of the wall, most people would have already picked up the phone and screamed at me to shut it down. They’ll be nervous and jumpy and the constant ringing would only make it worse.”
“Tells us something about the person at the other end of the line,” Gemma said. “That could work both for and against us—a suspect who won’t snap and kill hostages because he’s on edge, but he’d also be happy to wait for a very long time to get what he wants.”
Garcia’s smile was calculating. “We can be patient too. We have food, and power, and freedom. At some point, he’s going to feel the walls closing in. Dial it again.”
One ring.
Two.
“You’re very persistent.” The voice on the other end of the line was calm and steady.
A familiar frisson of satisfaction shot through Gemma. Contact, finally. Now we have a chance to make progress.
“This is Lieutenant Tomás Garcia of the NYPD Hostage Negotiation Team. Who am I speaking with?”
“Look at that. A negotiator who gets right to the point.” He laughed. “I’m not going to make it that easy for you, Garcia.”
Gemma closed her eyes, concentrating on the single sense that could give a hint of who they were dealing with. It was a male voice, older, and slightly world-weary. He had an accent she quickly pegged as hailing from the Bronx from its flattened aw sounds, sharp initial consonants, and dropped final r’s. From the well-structured sentences, she deduced he was educated. But, most strikingly, he was deadly calm. The voice didn’t have a single waver or hesitation. She quickly jotted down her thoughts on the pad of paper.
“It’s not about making it easy for me. It’s about what you need. What can we do for you so you feel you can let your hostages go?”
“Oh, there are things I want. But not yet.”
Gemma focused her attention past the voice and into the room. The space beyond was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. If he had the hostages with him, he had terrified them into silence, possibly by threat. The room itself sounded small and furnished—there was no echo of high ceilings or bare walls and floors.
“How about what can we do for the people with you?” Garcia continued. “How many are there? Do they need food? Medical attention?”
The laugh that came over the line sent a shiver down Gemma’s spine. It was the sound of someone in complete control.
“Your fact-finding mission’s a failure, Garcia. I’m not telling you anything about the hostages.”
“There must be something you need. Something you want.”
“Sure, you can do one thing for me. You can pass on a message to the mayor.” The words were suddenly iced, the consonants biting like tiny daggers. “Tell him his first deputy mayor is going to die, and it’s all his fault.”
The line went dead.
CHAPTER 4
The room erupted with everyone speaking at the same time.
“Goddamn it!”
“This guy’s got balls of steel.”
“He doesn’t know where the mayor is.”
“When Sanders hears about this, he’ll be difficult to hold back.”
> As the noise level rose, and it was clear no one else was focusing on what Gemma saw as the salient point, she slapped her hand down onto the tabletop hard enough for the sound to reverberate through the small room. Falling silent, everyone stared at her.
“He doesn’t know where the mayor is,” she repeated. “He doesn’t have him and clearly has no idea where he is or he’d deliver the message himself. So, where is Rowland?”
Garcia pushed his headset down to hang around his neck. “This is ridiculous. We’re working with our hands tied. Capello is right. We need to find out where Rowland is. He didn’t just evaporate. If he’s not in there”—Garcia jabbed a thumb in the direction of City Hall—“then he’s somewhere else. I don’t care if it’s a temp from the typing pool, someone has to know where the man running the city is.”
“There aren’t actually typing pools anymore, Lieutenant.”
If looks could kill, McFarland would be lying on the floor in a dismembered pile from the irritation burning in Garcia’s eyes. “Thanks for the tech lesson, McFarland. I actually already know that.” He swiveled toward the open doorway. “Sergeant Kalani!”
Ten seconds later, Kalani stepped into the doorway. “Lieutenant?”
“Is there any news on Rowland’s location?”
“No, sir.”
“The perp doesn’t have him. In fact, he doesn’t know where he is, because he wanted us to pass on a threat to First Deputy Mayor Willan’s life. We need to find Rowland and we need to get him in here. He may know this guy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And have someone get me Sanders. Either on the phone or in person, but he needs to know about the threat to Charles Willan, and I can’t go out and find him myself.”
