Exit Strategy

by Jen J. Danna

  “Clearly, Garcia didn’t stop you. Why?”

  “McFarland and Taylor got in his way. Kept him occupied while I slipped out. Bastardo.” The last word was a whispered epithet.

  When the silence weighed heavily between them in the middle of the babble of happy conversation, she finally looked back at him. He was studying her face, measuring every nuanced expression.

  “You really did it,” he stated.

  She nodded. “I’m not sure my father will ever forgive me.” She shrugged, letting a tiny fraction of the devastation that played around the edges of her control flicker over her face.

  He sat back in his seat, staring at her in thoughtful contemplation, so caught off guard the hand in his pocket relaxed, the hidden gun falling to rest against his thigh.

  Keep him distracted. “I read up on Connor. He was a fine man, and a good cop, but do you know the note in his record that impressed me the most?”

  Indecision flickered over Boyle’s face, the pull of being able to talk about his boy warring with the need to remain coldly in control. Love for his son finally won out. “What?”

  “It wasn’t his arrest record, although that was solid. It was what he did for a young struggling family. I’m sure you know the story. The one where he found that young boy walking the streets at night alone, on his way to a grocery store to buy food for his little brother because he was hungry.”

  “He took the boy home.” There was a roughness in Boyle’s voice that hinted at strong emotion.

  “And when he dropped the child off, and found the family in difficult financial straits, he went out and bought groceries for them with his own money. So that those kids, that mother, wouldn’t go hungry on his watch. That’s a special kind of man.” She paused, letting her words sink in. “Be proud of the man you raised.”

  “Always.” It was nearly a whisper.

  Gemma glanced at the time and knew they had to be close to arrival at the station. Time to get back to the situation at hand. “So, what’s your plan? You had this escape in mind all along, so you must have a plan. We’re in this together now, so I’d like to know it.”

  But he stayed silent, giving an infinitesimal shake of his head.

  Something to keep working on then.

  They broke from the darkness of the subway tunnel into the brilliance of the white-tiled Canal Street Station.

  “Okay, folks, this is the end of the tour,” said the tour guide as he held on to one of the vertical poles by the middle door. “Thank you again for your flexibility in the last-minute switch to this station. And thank you for your support of the New York Transit Museum. Please watch our website and our newsletters for more information on upcoming tour opportunities.”

  The train slowed to a stop and all three sets of doors slid open. Most people headed for the middle door, where the tour guide stood by the exit, personally thanking all the tour participants. Boyle cupped his left hand under Gemma’s elbow and steered her toward the door at their end of the car.

  They stepped out of the car into a station that was also one of the original twenty-eight, but now Gemma couldn’t help but see the differences between the Canal Street and City Hall Stations. This station had the same type of rectangular tiles lining the walls and square pillars along the edge of the platform, but everything was in straight, boxy lines, and there were no graceful vaulted ceilings. Whereas the City Hall Station had been frozen in time in 1945, the Canal Street Station showed the wear of an additional three-quarters of a century of use. The decorative terra-cotta trim and plaques near the top of the walls along the platform were now faded and smudged with an oily black residue from decades of powder-fine metallic dust and grime blown into the air by speeding subway trains. Above the trim, parts of the black plaster wall had collapsed, revealing the concrete foundation beneath. Gemma couldn’t count the number of times she’d passed through this station before, but now she was seeing it in comparison to a historic crown jewel and couldn’t help but find it sadly shabby.

  Behind them, the familiar two-tone chime sounded and a recorded voice announced the closing of the doors. Seconds later, the out-of-service train pulled out of the platform. The tour participants, moving in pairs or loose groups, remained on the platform waiting for the next 6 train, headed for the turnstiles, or veered off toward the passageway that would take them to connecting subway lines.

  Gemma glanced at the sign hanging overhead in the corridor stretching away to the right, guiding the way to connections to the J, Z, N, Q, R, and W lines. If Boyle was looking to disappear into the city, this would be the fastest way to get out of Lower Manhattan. Any of those trains would take them east into Brooklyn. Or if they waited, an in-service 6 train would take them north into the Bronx.

  The more lost they got, they more jeopardy she would be in. And the less chance she’d have of help being nearby, with most of the city’s law enforcement concentrating in Lower Manhattan.

  “This way.” Boyle’s fingers dug into her elbow as he propelled her across the platform, following the crowd to the connecting lines.

  “Wait.” Gemma pulled back against him. “Are you insane?”

  His eyes narrowed to slits. “Some might think so after today.”

  “They’ll think it more if you get on another subway train.”

  He arched an eyebrow at the suggestion. “Trying to convince me to stay near your cop friends?”

  “I’m not an idiot. Getting you out of the most heavily populated area would be the safest for me and everyone around us. If things go south and a firefight starts, I want less people as collateral damage, not more. But when they figure out you’ve gotten away by subway and you’re down here in the system, they’re going to position cops at every subway exit in the city and on every platform, and you’re going to be a sitting duck on any line. Your only hope of escape, and my only hope of keeping anyone else from dying today, including myself, is for you to get out onto the streets, where you can get lost in the crowd.”

  His crumpled brow and squinted eyes told her she was getting her point through. He’d been thinking speed, but she was swaying him toward caution. He just needed a little more of a push.

  “They’re not going to expect you to be on foot. And then you’re not forced into any particular route. You can pick your own and make changes as needed. What’s your plan? To head for commercial rail and make your way out of the city on Metro-North?”

  “Like I’d share that with you.” He pivoted and yanked her along with him.

  Gemma kept her face composed, but a bolt of triumph shot through her as he steered her toward the floor-to-ceiling, full-height rotating turnstiles that led to the outer stairs.

  A burst of laughter had her looking up and through the vertical steel bars of the fence that separated the fare-paid area from the unpaid. Her steps faltered when she spotted the NYPD blue uniform. From the growled curse in her ear, she knew the moment Boyle spotted the transit police officer.

  The man stood against the wall about ten feet from the turnstile, his thumbs hooked into his utility belt, his posture at ease as he laughed with two civilians. Gemma didn’t recognize any of them, but with a force the size of the NYPD, it was impossible to know all her brothers and sisters in blue. Whether the other two were also officers, either off-duty or undercover transit officers, she couldn’t say. But that single officer could pose a huge threat to herself and everyone around her if he was aware the most wanted man in New York City was only fifteen feet away. A quick glance at Boyle confirmed he knew it too.

  Gemma paused as several people in front of her jockeyed for position at the turnstile and then nearly stumbled as she stepped forward, only to be tugged back by Boyle. He met her eyes, glanced toward the officer, over the crowd around them, and then back at her. His message was clear: There was no way for him to physically hold her and they would be forced to separate and move through the turnstile one at a time, only feet away from a fellow officer. If she tried anything—calling for help, aler
ting the officer that Boyle had a gun, sprinting away, or trying to trap him on the platform side of the turnstile—he would have no choice but to use lethal force to get away.

  He’d already killed once today. She had no doubt he’d do whatever he needed to do to be free.

  She gave him a curt nod. Message received.

  Soon she was at the turnstile. Boyle released her, but she could tell from the way his fingers lingered and slowly pulled away, he didn’t trust this wasn’t all about to go to hell. Gemma braced her hands on one of the horizontal bars and pushed the turnstile, the section bars closing in behind her. Then she stepped through to the far side, stepping forward and then stopping, so Boyle actually collided with her as he came through behind her. She looked over her shoulder to make eye contact, her gaze steady, silently pledging she wasn’t planning any tricks. With an armed officer only feet away, she felt the risk of a firefight was simply too high.

  She started forward, already peering over the heads of the people in front of her, up the stairs to where softer evening light was brightening the far wall.

  When the cry came from in front of her, she jerked her gaze back down to this level, just in time to slam to a halt before plowing into the man in front of her. The cop was already moving toward them, his thumbs pulling free of his utility belt, one hand reaching out and the other dropping toward his firearm.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Gemma caught the change in Boyle’s expression as it morphed from surprise to purpose, and she didn’t even think. Even as he drew back his right arm to pull the gun from his pocket, she grabbed his wrist as tightly as she could. It was awkward, as Boyle still stood behind her, but she managed to forestall his backward motion and drew him toward her until the barrel of the gun, still in his pocket, jammed against her side. She froze, waiting for the shot.

  It never came.

  With a smile, a woman straightened and accepted the bag she’d fumbled from the transit officer. She was laughing as she apologized for her clumsiness, patted him on the arm, and thanked him for his help. With a nod and a smile, the officer stepped back again, his hands at his side, his posture one of attention, but not alarm.

  Gemma forced her fingers to let go of Boyle’s wrist and the pressure of the gun barrel fell away. She shakily released the breath she’d been holding and cast a sideways look at Boyle, only to find him staring at her, his brows drawn together in question. She turned away from him, leaving him to draw his own conclusions, and started to move once the group shuffled forward again. She passed the officer without looking at him, keeping her eyes fixed on the summer sunlight ahead.

  Out to the street, to light and freedom. They mounted the steps, taking the first flight, then over the landing and up to the last flight.

  They were halfway up when the buzz of static came over the transit officer’s radio. “All Precinct Five and transit officers, be on the lookout for two individuals, expected to have traveled to the Canal Street subway station on an uptown six. The male individual is...”

  Then they were out on Canal Street and Gemma didn’t even look to Boyle for guidance, she just headed east, striding down the sidewalk as fast as she could. In the distance, she heard sirens, growing louder as they headed in this direction.

  They were out and alone, where they could get lost in the crowded city.

  She’d saved the hostages. She’d saved the life of every person on that tour.

  Now it was just him and her, one-on-one.

  CHAPTER 22

  Boyle grabbed Gemma’s hand, gripping it as they arrowed through pedestrian traffic down Canal Street. Her hand lay lax in his grip, and while she would have preferred he didn’t touch her, she didn’t try to pull away. He may have been sure she would cut and run and considered her his ticket to safety as an important and handy hostage, but nothing was further from the truth. As she’d told him, she had to look out for the safety of all the citizens around her, just going about their daily lives, leaving a late workday or enjoying an evening out in the city. She had no doubt he would use whatever force was necessary to keep his freedom. And if he thought he was going down, she was sure he’d have no compunction in taking her with him.

  Only blocks away, a new siren joined the street noise.

  Boyle craned his head over his shoulder, searching for any sign of law enforcement. Jerking her along with him, they jogged across Centre Street, just catching the end of the light. They stepped up onto the curb, and cars immediately filled the gap behind them, streaming north and south, cutting off access from the subway station.

  Only a handful of blocks south, the David N. Dinkins Municipal Building rose to fill the skyline, a stark reminder of how little distance they’d put between them and City Hall. From the tightening of his grip and his increased stride, Gemma knew she wasn’t the only one noting it.

  Gemma half jogged to keep up with him. She gave her hand a hard yank. It didn’t pull free, but it was enough to catch Boyle’s attention. “Slow down.” She suited actions to words by dropping into a walk, dragging him with her. “Unless you want to look like you’re running for a bus from here to ...wherever you have in mind, we’re going to attract attention more by looking panicked and running, rather than if we walked through the crowds. Now, where are you trying to go?”

  “Off this damn island. That’s all I’m telling you.”

  Off the island. Out of Manhattan. Probably over state lines. From Manhattan, it wasn’t hard to do. It all depended on which bridge or tunnel you chose; New Jersey was right next door, and Connecticut was only forty-five minutes away. Was he planning on mass transit to take him out of Manhattan? Or did he have a car waiting for him somewhere, maybe with stolen plates so he couldn’t be easily identified?

  He sent her a slitted glare. “Don’t try to convince me we’re a team. You’re figuring out how to take me down.”

  Time to set aside the more conversational negotiator tone and convince him she was more partner than adversary. It might be the only way to bring down his guard for the half second she’d need to gain the advantage. “Don’t tell me what I’m thinking,” she said. “I’ve put my life in your hands in an attempt to save others. That’s my only goal. Remember? No longer law enforcement. I don’t have a horse in this race.”

  “Bullshit. Your family is the ‘horse in this race.’ Your blood is the ‘horse in this race.’ ”

  The rage lighting his eyes came from a bone-deep understanding of that blood. Of continuing a family legacy, of the pride of your child following in your footsteps as you followed in your father’s. She couldn’t imagine the agony of losing that child, but she could understand that his rage was seeded in that tragedy.

  She looked ahead, down Canal Street. They were well into Chinatown here, and the stores flanking both sides of the street displayed signage in both English and Chinese characters. But on the far side of Chinatown, the entrance to the Manhattan Bridge was just a few blocks ahead, curving toward the south. If he was going to stay on foot, that would be his fastest way off the island. Then he could get lost in Brooklyn.

  If only she had a way to contact the NYPD, he could be trapped on the bridge. But even then, civilians could become involved and more hostages taken. No, she needed to keep it to just her. Then she could use skills she’d honed for years. The ones he wouldn’t anticipate, which would put him at a significant disadvantage.

  She’d studied Brazilian jiu-jitsu since before attending the academy. It wasn’t a requirement, but the NYPD liked its officers to have martial arts training on the side. It not only taught them self-defense, but also calm, patience, and control.These were all vital characteristics in any police action, but especially useful in hostage negotiations. Brazilian jiu-jitsu had been Gemma’s choice. It was known for teaching sensible ways to avoid a fight in the first place, but also for techniques that made it easier for smaller, weaker fighters to win in combat when that fight was unavoidable. While Gemma didn’t consider herself weaker in any way, sheer practicality meant
that with her five-foot-seven-inch stature and slim build, she had a greater challenge against larger, more muscular men. But her training taught her she didn’t need to be bigger and stronger than her combatant overall, just stronger than his weakest point.

  As Logan had learned the hard way. He’d upped his game with her after that.

  To use those skills, she needed to get Boyle alone, where she could concentrate on only him. But where in a city of nearly 9 million people could she find that kind of private moment?

  If she wanted to leave the NYPD out of it for now, they’d have to avoid the CCTV cameras. From her days working patrol, Gemma knew the city had thousands of closed-circuit TV cameras spread out over the five boroughs. With the two of them loose in the city, the NYPD would be scanning those feeds, trying to find their location and then track them. It would be impossible to avoid the cameras altogether, but she needed to keep her eyes open for them and then keep their faces off the feeds.

  Boyle, however, wasn’t thinking about eyes in the sky. His eyes were fixed on the distance, down toward the Bowery, where the triumphal arch and colonnade at the entrance to the bridge remained just out of sight. Gemma could read the intent in his preoccupied gaze.

  Foot traffic was predictably heavy for a pleasant summer evening, with a mix of business types and family groups. The sidewalk was crowded, but Boyle had no intention of moving with the flow of traffic. They speed walked past open fruit stalls, odorous fish markets, kitschy souvenir stores with knickknacks and T-shirts emblazoned with New York City slogans, and window after window of sparkling designer knockoff watches and jewelry.

  With a growl, Boyle pushed past a young couple strolling hand in hand down the middle of the sidewalk, ignoring the man’s exclamation as Boyle’s elbow knocked him off balance. Gemma kept her head down, not wanting to start something with a temperamental finance bro wanting to make points with his girl for bravery. All the while, her eyes never stopped moving as she searched for any means of assistance or anyone who could pose a threat. But the crowd around them remained anonymous.