Exit Strategy

by Jen J. Danna

  It made Gemma wonder how far in advance Boyle had planned this. Had he manufactured a visit to the mayor’s office to get the lay of the land? Or had he been invited here as part of his law enforcement duties or as a reward for a job well done? He was a decorated officer, so it wasn’t unlikely he had met the mayor here before. If that had happened, and if Rowland discovered he had played even the smallest part in the scheme, it would only add to his agony over the death of his friend.

  She paused outside the open doorway. “John, can I come in?”

  “Yes. But go slow.”

  She took one cautious step, then two, then three. And stopped in the doorway of the combination library-and-conference room.

  The first thing that hit her was the smell, recognizable as freshly spilled blood. Overlaying that was the odor of waste products, released from a body as it dies.

  She took in the scene in one quick, calculating scan. The room was approximately twelve feet squared. Unlike many of the outer rooms and hallways, which were painted an off-white shade, this room was all dark wood and rich red carpet. Overstuffed dark walnut bookshelves lined all three walls, with the somber tones of burgundy, navy, and brown leather spines. A high-gloss mahogany table on a bloodred area rug filled the middle of the space, surrounded by a dozen upholstered armchairs.

  Those chairs were currently filled down the far side of the table with hostages, with two more squeezed into the end. They sat with their hands folded in front of them on the table, clearly in view. Boyle sat midway down the near side of the table in a chair pulled away and angled toward the door, a man casually at rest. That is, if you ignored the AR-15 he held trained on her, center mass.

  The nightmare lay behind Boyle. She couldn’t see all of him, but a man’s crumpled form lay in the far corner. He wore a dark suit and she caught a glimpse of a bright blue tie layered over a white shirt now drenched with blood. She couldn’t see his head and she wasn’t sure if it had fallen from view behind the chair—or if enough of it was missing that there wasn’t anything to see. What she did know was there was a spray of blood and gray matter over the books about four feet from the ground.

  She was right. He’d been on his knees begging for his life when he’d been shot in the head. The thought brought her no pleasure.

  “Gemma . . . I may call you Gemma?”

  She met his gaze unblinkingly. “Of course.”

  “Then, Gemma, welcome to our little group. Now turn around, feet apart, and put your hands on the bookcase.”

  She did as directed, assuming the classic frisk position, staring straight ahead and not flinching as he approached and roughly patted her down with one hand. Occasionally, as he moved, the barrel of the AR-15 pressed against her back, and she prayed his finger wasn’t anywhere near the trigger or she’d be finished in less than a heartbeat. Many men might have taken the opportunity to cop a feel, but Boyle completed the search with the impersonal precision of a man who’d done searches a thousand times before and saw her as a subject rather than a woman. Good, that removed a whole layer of threat.

  “Well done, Gemma. This whole exercise would have ended right here if you’d lied to me about being unarmed.” His voice moved away from her as he spoke. She heard the rustle of clothing and upholstery as he sat down. “You can turn around now.” With the barrel of the semiautomatic rifle, he indicated the chair at the end of the table closest to her. “Please have a seat.”

  She took her time moving to the chair, pulling it out and sitting down, taking care to keep the chair on a slight angle, and not to pull it up to the table, to allow for a quick exit, if needed. As she did so, she cataloged John Boyle.

  He’d aged since his official NYPD photo, and not gracefully. The pale face from the photo had taken on a paunchy heaviness and a slightly ruddy tone. Without the eight-point uniform cap, she could see his gray hair was thinning and he now carried weight that wouldn’t have fit behind the smooth lines of his dress blues. It was clear his son’s death had hit him hard physically, as well as emotionally. But his gray eyes, still so icy cold and flat, even if sunken, were sharp and calculating, and she suspected he was similarly sizing her up. He was dressed all in black, from his boots to his cargo pants to his T-shirt.

  She cataloged the arsenal he carried as well, at least what she could see, and she assumed there was more she couldn’t see as he sat in the armchair. He had a handgun at his right hip; Gemma was pretty sure it was a SIG Sauer P226, a standard-issue pistol in the department since the early- to mid-nineties.

  As she had told Logan, all she had was her experience and her intuition. To say the deck was stacked against her was an understatement, but she in no way considered herself outgunned.

  “I told you I would come unarmed and without a phone. When I said I wouldn’t lie to you, I was serious. How can we deal with each other if you can’t believe everything I say?”

  “Because you’re trained to tell me what I want to hear. That’s who you are and what you do.”

  She forced herself to give a light laugh. “Have you met my father?”

  “Sure.”

  “What do you think of him?”

  “I don’t know him well, but he’s well respected and has a sterling reputation as a straight shooter.”

  “Then think of me like you’d think of him. He raised me. He taught me what it was to be a cop even before the academy. That’s who you’re dealing with.”

  Boyle nodded thoughtfully, as if accepting of her statement, even if his weapon didn’t waver.

  Gemma pointed at the AR-15. “We weren’t sure what you were carrying. We got reports of a high-capacity weapon, but couldn’t figure out how you got in past security with it. But, evidently, you did.”

  “That was the easy part. If you want to stroll past the officers manning the security booths and their scanners, you just need to look like you belong there and are carrying the weapons they expect. The protest was my way in.”

  On the floor, a specialized police equipment bag draped with a utility belt caught her attention. The crumpled black shirt on the chair next to Boyle was the final clue. Gemma remembered her father’s comment about the sustainable-energy demonstration that was taking place at City Hall; suddenly she knew exactly how he’d entered the mayor’s office. “Where did you get the police uniform?”

  “Online. There are plenty of places that sell uniforms and equipment. Even knockoff shoulder patches that look identical to the real thing. I haven’t been retired so long that I’ve forgotten protocol. I blended right in. And there were so many patrol cops down here, they never noticed one extra.”

  “And you could stroll past security wearing your SIG and no one looked at you twice. But a patrol cop wouldn’t be carrying an AR-15.”

  Boyle ran one hand down the body of the rifle, almost lovingly. “It’s a beauty, isn’t it? But I didn’t have to carry it out in the open. It’s a special model I bought at a gun show a few years back. The barrel comes off and slides into the stock and then the body folds where the stock attaches to the receiver. Folds into a package about a foot long.”

  “And that’s why you had an equipment bag.”

  Boyle grinned. “I just nodded at the guy in the security booth as he waved me through. Then when I got inside City Hall, I told the security guard we had a medical emergency with one of the protesters on the front steps and we needed a defibrillator. He grabbed the one he had stashed in the security desk and ran out with it. He thought I was behind him.”

  “But you went into the mayor’s offices and pulled the fire alarm. And the guard never made it back in because of all the people running out.”

  “Now you’ve got it.”

  “No, now it’s time to discuss letting the hostages go, as we agreed. I’m here, so it’s time for them to go.” She motioned to the landline phone sitting in the middle of the table, surrounded by a number of cell phones, some streaming footage of the front of City Hall. “I have the number of the negotiation team. We can call them a
nd start the ball rolling.”

  “So I can talk to Garcia?” His smile held absolutely no joy. “No.”

  “Then I can talk to him.”

  Boyle laughed like that was the funniest thing he’d heard in weeks. Then the rolling laughter shut off like a tap. The effect was frankly startling, even to someone used to dealing with all kinds of devious personalities.

  “No.” The calculating twist of his lips told her he didn’t believe in her honesty, no matter what she’d promised him. “And risk that you and Garcia have set up code phrases to give him information that could lead to an incursion? You forget I was on the job for over twenty years. I know our protocols.” His eyes narrowed. “I know what I’m up against.”

  Gemma sat back in her chair, resting her elbows on the arms and interweaving her fingers together over her abdomen, hoping it projected the attitude of someone entirely hands-off with the proceedings. “Which is why I’m being totally transparent. You call. If you get Garcia, ask for someone else. But it’s time to hold up your end of the bargain.”

  He fixed her with a slitted stare. “You’re pushy for someone with absolutely no power.”

  “I disagree. I have the power of our agreement, including all the arrangements I’ve made for you. Also, you’re NYPD. I know us. You’ll do what you said you will. It’s one thing to give a line to a perp, it’s another thing to do that to a brother- or sister-in-arms. You’ll do as you promised. Then, once they’re all gone, we’ll get to the chopper. That’s just you and me.” She pointedly glanced at her watch. “But if we don’t move soon, Sanders may unilaterally decide it’s not going to happen and take matters into his own hands.”

  “With you in here too?”

  “Trust me, Sanders would come in here with guns blazing, even if his mother sat at this table. He’s on a mission.” She stared pointedly at the phone. “I recommend starting the process of getting the hostages, and then us, out of here. I don’t want to die because he has a twitchy trigger finger.”

  Boyle hit the SPEAKER button on the phone and looked at Gemma. She rattled off the number she’d memorized, the direct line to the HNT phone.

  The phone rang once and then was picked up. “Hello?”

  Gemma was relieved to hear Taylor’s voice on the other end of the line. Garcia had wisely stepped back.

  “She’s here now.”

  “That’s good, John, I’m glad to hear that.”

  As Taylor talked to Boyle, keeping his attention, Gemma stole a few precious seconds to study the hostages. The four men and three women looked like they’d gone through hell and back. Clara Sutton, easily identified by the bloody abrasion across her left cheek, was one of Rowland’s interns. She sat in the middle of the table flanked by a pale woman in a stylish business suit, who wore her hair in a straight fall of black silk, and a black man in his fifties, with his hair close-cropped into a gradual fade. The woman on her left, whom Gemma pinpointed as Janina Lee, sat with her arm linked through Clara’s before her hands were folded together. Clara sat close; she was almost slumped against Janina. The black man on her right was Jamal Bowen, Rowland’s chief of staff. The last of Rowland’s staff, Angelo Carboni, a senior adviser whose olive complexion and wiry salt-and-pepper hair reminded Gemma of her grandfather, sat on Bowen’s other side. Andy McLaughlin, the sole Willan staffer, an intern, was almost at the far end of the table. He sat with his body turned toward the door, his frozen face angled toward her. Doing everything he can not to look at what’s left of his boss. The last two hostages, Elizabeth Sharp and Carlos Rodriguez, both newly hired junior bullpen staffers, sat at the far end of the table, their chairs drawn as far away from the body as possible. Elizabeth looked like she’d been crying. Carlos, on the other hand, eyed Boyle like he was waiting for his attention to waver just slightly so he could jump the older man.

  Gemma made a point of catching Carlos’s eye and giving him a subtle head shake. She was just about to get the hostages released. The last thing they needed right now was a hothead blowing the whole plan to hell. His face tightened, but he gave her a brief nod and sat back in his chair.

  She turned her attention back to Taylor, who was in the process of outlining the hostage release.

  “—one at a time, every five minutes. That way, each will be well clear of the property before the next one comes out.”

  “No, that will take too long.”

  Taylor didn’t even pause at the pushback. “Okay, then how about every three minutes. Does that work for you? We’ll have officers at the southeast park exit to escort them out, but they won’t come any closer. Once the last hostage is out, they’ll fall back out of City Hall Park. Do you agree to those terms?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good. We’d like to start with Ms. Sutton. Can you send her out now? I’ll stay on the phone with you for the entire process so you know exactly how we’re doing.”

  “Let me help her.” Gemma started to rise to her feet.

  But Boyle stayed her with one hand. “No. No contact with the hostages. I don’t want any chance you’re feeding them information or a strategy of any kind.”

  Gemma lowered herself back into the chair. “I made you a promise. I’m not going to risk their lives by trying to put one over on you.”

  “Maybe not, but my suspicious nature’s saved my life countless times out there.” He pointed out the door toward the outer perimeter of the building. Toward the city. “I’m not giving it up now.”

  Gemma raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Fair enough. But I think someone will have to help her get on her feet and will have to give her some instructions. She doesn’t look well.”

  Boyle stared at Clara, possibly really seeing her for the first time since he’d struck her, taking in her sheet-white face, bloody abrasion, and shuttered eyes. He pointed at Bowen. “You. Get her up and walk her to the conference room door. Then she’s on her own.”

  Bowen nodded and stood. Curling one hand under her right arm, and the other around her waist, he half lifted her from the chair, Janina helping as much as she could from the other side. Clara swayed for a moment, then got her feet under her, smiling up at Bowen.

  Bowen slowly walked them around the table, clearly repeating the instructions Taylor set out, asking her often if she understood. She said she did, but Gemma wasn’t confident in her ability to manage on her own.

  “You’re sure we can’t send her out with one of the other hostages?” Gemma pointed at the cell phones in the middle of the table. “You’ll be able to see everything.”

  “No. That’s not what I agreed to.” He pointed the AR-15 at Bowen as they stopped near the doorway. “Let her go.”

  Bowen took an extra second or two to make sure Clara had her balance and then let go of her, keeping his hands in clear view as he stepped back.

  The barrel of the rifle now turned to Clara. She flinched and stumbled away from him, reaching out one hand to catch herself on the wall and angling her face away, as if unable to face her coming death.

  “Go.”

  Clara hesitated and then looked up slowly. When Boyle flicked the barrel of the rifle toward the door, she didn’t need any more prompting. She stumbled out the door, heading toward the reception area, the foyer, and freedom.

  “Time marked at six forty-five.” With her eyes fixed on Boyle, Gemma listened to the woman clumsily making her way down the hallway; she was now second-guessing her previous estimation that Clara wasn’t concussed. She was definitely going to require medical care. Fortunately, EMS would be waiting with the ESU at the park entrance. Clara just had to make it down the stairs in one piece. This time, Logan wasn’t standing at the bottom of the steps waiting to catch her. She was on her own.

  It took almost a full minute and a half, easily twice as long as needed, for her to appear through the front doors of City Hall on the streaming feeds. Gemma held her breath as Clara slowly walked to the top of the stairs. Each step was an excruciating exercise in care, but Clara m
ade it down to the bottom without issue. When her head whipped sideways, Gemma knew the officers at the park entrance had called her name to show her where to go. The smile that lit her face was one of relief and joy, and she found the strength to half jog out of sight.

  They’d done it. They’d successfully started to free the hostages. He wasn’t going back on his word. Garcia would be utterly relieved, because she knew part of him still expected Boyle to renege on his part of the bargain. Now they just had to move the rest out.

  One down. Six to go.

  CHAPTER 18

  Alex Capello pushed through the door of the command center for the Emergency Services Unit in 1 Police Plaza, NYPD headquarters only blocks from City Hall. The room was filled with officers in tactical gear awaiting instructions, a few patrol cops in their standard-issue blues, and a communication team monitoring all the ESU teams already deployed. The walls were covered with screens showing different angles of City Hall.

  He spotted his father across the room, deep in conversation with Chief Phillips and his brother Joe. Alex wove through the crowd of officers and equipment, making his way toward the back of the room.

  He felt the shift immediately as the officers around him drew back. In their sidelong glances. Heard it in the whisper of “Rat Squad.”

  He tamped down on his spike of temper. Now was not the time. He wasn’t here as a member of the Internal Affairs Bureau. He was here as an NYPD officer. As a Capello. As family.

  Joe spotted him making his way through the crowd, stepped forward, and sent a narrowed glare at a pair of officers standing nearby. “Stow it. For today, pretend he’s not IAB. For today, he’s one of us.” One eyebrow cocked, he shook his head in disgust at Alex’s Hawaiian shirt. “Even if he is wearing the ugliest shirt this side of the East River.”

  They stammered an apology and moved a few steps farther away.

  Alex threw Joe a wan smile. “Thanks.”

  “You know IAB makes even straight cops squirm. The thought of losing their shields is unthinkable to them.”