Exit Strategy

by Jen J. Danna

  “You need to get off the street until things calm down. Especially now.”

  “You’re going to help me find a place to lie low?” The sneer in his voice accompanied the slight curl in his lip.

  “Look, at this point, my goal is for you to let me go. My safety and that of the people around me are all I care about. Once you’re gone, you’re not my responsibility anymore. Then it’s up to the NYPD, the state police, or the FBI if you cross state lines. Do we have a deal? I’ll help you lie low until you can get away, and you’ll let me go at that point and won’t hurt anyone else?”

  He took a moment to consider her, glanced over her shoulder toward the growing wail of sirens, and then back at her. “If you do anything to screw me over, all bets are off. You, and anyone else in my vicinity, will die.”

  Gemma gave a careless shrug she hoped didn’t convey any of her actual misgivings about pulling this off. “Then we’re fine, because I have no intention of dying today. Come on, this way.”

  She realized that while she’d been thinking, she’d overshot her goal by a block, so she steered him up Baxter. Up ahead, a tall, copper-domed building commanded the end of the street, another classic structure of similar architecture to City Hall. This was the old NYPD headquarters, the building that had served the force in the years following Teddy Roosevelt’s years as commissioner. Now it was a condominium building, filled with luxury apartments, but it gave Gemma a boost to see it in the distance. A small link back to the life to which she fully intended to return. That she fully intended to live right now.

  One block over on Hester and the next cross street was Mulberry, the heart of Little Italy. Her goal.

  “Let’s go up here,” she said, pointing down Mulberry where it ran between an Italian café on one corner and a five-star restaurant specializing in seafood on the other. Just crossing the road brought scents wafting out into the street and Gemma’s heart rate settled with the comforting familiarity.

  Coming to Little Italy was a good idea—she knew the area and the people and felt more in control. But the negative side of it was the popularity of the area. It was feast night, and many Italians were out celebrating after the evening’s Ferragosto Mass, and many more had come to join them from outside the neighborhood. Foot traffic picked up sharply and it slowed their pace. However, on the bright side, they were now lost in another crowd of people.

  Gemma crossed the street, darting between two parked cars with Boyle to hit the sidewalk on the east side, in front of a clam house. Farther up the street, she could just make out the sign for La Cassatella, and the splash of red from the patio sprawling over the wide sidewalk.

  She needed a plan, needed to find a place he’d see as a way to lie low, and she’d see as an isolated location, where she would try to apprehend him. She ran through area locations that had been as familiar as home to Gemma and her brother Alex as children when they had the run of the neighborhood. The cigar shop, with its interesting smells, and old Mr. Romano, who slipped them Pastiglie Leone confections that melted on their tongues. The century-old ravioli shop that specialized in every shape of handmade pasta imaginable. St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral, where their mother used to take them on holy days of obligation. The dairy on the corner that sold every kind of cheese imaginable, including their own fresh mozzarella daily. The . . .

  Gemma turned her body’s knee-jerk reaction to freeze in place into a convincing stumble and a glare back at the sidewalk that didn’t have a single crack in it to trip over. St. Pat’s. She remembered the layout in detail, as if it had only been weeks since she’d last been there instead of twenty-five years. She needed a space to get him alone and no place was better suited. Sure, it had a large, soaring sanctuary, with seating for easily 250, but it also had a walled cemetery and catacombs, with a series of crypts below. It was built in 1815, if she remembered correctly, and had been designated a New York City landmark before she was even born. There was no chance they’d made any significant changes on such a historic building, so her mental map would still be accurate.

  Normally the church would be closed and locked by this time of night. But on Ferragosto, a special evening Mass was celebrated. As a result, the church would be open for another half hour. The biggest risk would be visitors or congregants lingering after Mass. Getting Boyle off the streets was paramount, but she needed to ensure she wasn’t simply handing him new potential hostages to escalate the situation. But at this time of night, there would be few others present, and they likely would be heading home soon after.

  It was a chance she had to take.

  Now she had a destination. Next she needed to communicate it to someone else. And there was only one person she could bring into this situation. Only one person with the skills and family background who wasn’t already involved in what was likely now a citywide manhunt. Because no one called Internal Affairs when the city was in crisis.

  Alex was exactly who she needed.

  Dusk was falling and shop and streetlights were beginning to wink on as they passed a florist shop and a designer Italian leather-goods shop. La Cassatella was next on the right, its small fenced patio spilling onto the sidewalk. It was crowded as always, but a wide path to the front door of the bakery was unobstructed.

  Gemma gauged the distance to the patio. Three . . . two . . . one . . .

  Just as they were about to pass the center walkway through the patio, Gemma stiffened, pulling back on Boyle’s hand. “Don’t turn around,” she hissed. “There’s a beat cop across the street.”

  Ignoring her advice, Boyle started to turn, but Gemma yanked on his arm. “Don’t! You’ll attract attention.” She looked around frantically.

  “Go in there.” Boyle let go of her hand, but crowded her into the bakery’s patio. Without another look at the phantom officer, Gemma turned and made her way to the bakery door, and then inside.

  Familiar sights and smells hit her simultaneously. The waft of freshly baked bread and cookies. The sweet aroma of sugar-dusted cannoli and tiramisu. The crisp nuttiness of biscotti and ladyfingers. And over it all, the rich tang of espresso scented the air. The bakery was done in tones of dark wood and Venetian plaster, with rich leather bench seating and recessed arches hung with oil paintings of the Italian countryside. The main counter ran down the left side of the café, with booths and tables running along the right side and into the back.

  Frankie, wearing a red apron to match the patio chairs out front, and with her hair piled into a careless knot on top of her head, stood behind the long glass case stuffed to overflowing with sweets, manning the espresso machine as she chatted with a customer. Behind her, stacks of wide stoneware cups for cappuccinos and Americanos, tall glass mugs for lattes, and tiny espresso cups lined the back wall next to a row of tall coffee syrup bottles. As Frankie turned, she caught Gemma’s eye and her face broke into a smile.

  Knowing Boyle was behind her, but likely taking in every detail, Gemma let all the fear she felt for her friend’s safety wash over her face and gave an almost-imperceptible shake of her head.

  Confused, Frankie’s smile dissolved.

  Gemma turned back to Boyle, who was staring out the wide, front picture window. “Can you see him? Is he still there?” She pushed up on tiptoe, peering out over his shoulder. “He was over there, by the cigar shop. The word must be out now that you got away, or Coulter may have told them you were last seen in the area. They must be plastering your face on every screen and have a BOLO out for you, so everyone will be watching. Is he there?”

  As Boyle continued his visual search, Gemma turned back to Frankie, who stood transfixed, a heavy coffee cup drooping in her hand, her fancy drink forgotten. Gemma met her eyes, mouthed the word “Alex” and made the sign of the cross. Then she turned away. That was all she could do. She wouldn’t risk Frankie in any way by attempting more communication than that.

  “I don’t see him,” she said.

  “I don’t either.”

  “I have an idea. St. Patrick�
��s Old Cathedral is just uptown by about a block or two. What better place for literal sanctuary than a church? Ferragosto Mass always starts at seven so it will be over by now, but the church will still be open for a little longer. It’s only a few minutes’ walk. We have to get out of this crowd before someone recognizes you.”

  “Connor told me about that place. It’s the one with the crypts in the basement, where they do tours.” He gave her a yank, pulling her toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  Gemma knew Frankie would have seen both the stranger and the rough handling. She’d watch them leave and note their direction. She also knew the Capellos weren’t religious, so there would be no reason Gemma would make the sign of the cross. As long as she understood that single-word message, she’d be on the phone to Alex as soon as they were out the door. Then it was up to her brother to figure out where they might be going.

  Gemma left the bakery without daring to look back.

  CHAPTER 25

  The command center at 1 Police Plaza was buzzing with fre- netic activity. Following the chase, information came in at breakneck pace from multiple sources that had teams of officers on the street and mobilized the A-Team to new locations. It was so noisy, Alex almost didn’t hear his phone ring.

  He stepped back from where he stood with Joe and his father, moving to an infinitesimally quieter corner. He pulled his cell phone out of the pocket of his cargo shorts. The name Francesca Russo was splashed across the display with a picture of the smiling blonde. Must be calling for an update.

  He hit the TALK button. “Hi, Frankie. I don’t have any updates on Gemma, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  “I don’t need an update.” Frankie spoke very quickly, with an edge of breathlessness. “She just left the bakery.”

  “What?” It was so loud in the command center, he must not have heard her correctly. He made a beeline to the door and waited to speak until he was in the quieter corridor. “Did you say she was just at La Cassatella?”

  “Yes. Alex, she was acting really strange. She looked . . . scared. Gemma never looks scared.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “No. She was with an older man. I’ve never seen him before. In his fifties, maybe? He treated her roughly, and dragged her out of the bakery before I could talk to her.”

  “Merda. She didn’t say anything to you?”

  There was a pause before Frankie spoke. “Not directly. But I think she mouthed your name to me. That’s why I’m calling.”

  She’s reaching out, looking for help. “That’s great, Frankie. That’s exactly right. Do you know what’s going on at City Hall?”

  “Customers have been talking about it. A gunman took hostages in the mayor’s office.”

  “Yeah. What’s not common knowledge is that Gemma traded herself for the release of the hostages.” He kept talking over Frankie’s gasp. “And then he escaped with her into the subway system. They got off at Canal Street and were chased through the Bowery, but then managed to get away and disappear. Until now. You’ve given us a chance to get her back. Did she mouth anything else? Or just my name.”

  “No, nothing else. She didn’t have more than a second because she was trying not to attract the guy’s attention.”

  “She didn’t want to put you at risk. Somehow she got him in there, and then could only take seconds to find an ally, when she’s otherwise out there on her own.”

  “Maybe. She didn’t say anything else, but she did do one other weird thing.”

  Energy shot through Alex’s spine, jerking him upright. “What?”

  “She crossed herself. Which makes no sense. Minus being invited to weddings and baptisms you guys haven’t voluntarily set foot in a church in more than two decades.”

  Which is exactly why it means something. She’s not preparing to meet her Maker; she’s sending me a message. “Frankie, I have to go. You’re amazing. Thank you.”

  “Alex, please let me know when you know something. Anything at all. I’m so scared for her. Gem is the bravest woman I know. If she thinks she’s in trouble, it’s bad.”

  “It’s bad,” Alex agreed. “I’ll call you as soon as I know anything, I promise.” He hung up and stood motionless for a moment, staring down at his phone.

  Gemma was in Little Italy after a mad dash through the Bowery. After getting that far away, they’d looped back to an area no one would anticipate because it was so deep downtown and they’d just gotten out of there. No better place to hide than in plain sight because everyone was looking for them somewhere else.

  His head snapped up. Hide in plain sight. That was it. The heat was on and every on-duty cop in the NYPD was out looking for them. At some point, Gemma should have been able to get away from Boyle, but hadn’t. Alex knew his sister, knew how her mind worked. Without a doubt, she was sticking to him now because if Boyle was on his own, he’d be a huge risk to the citizens of New York City. While she was with him, she could at least exercise a modicum of control over his actions. And while the rest of the NYPD might not know his location, she was keeping tabs on him, and, in doing so, was able to communicate that location.

  If she hadn’t apprehended him by now, there was a reason. Alex was willing to bet a year’s salary it was because Boyle was armed and she wasn’t, so she was waiting for the opportunity to get the upper hand without getting herself or someone else killed. As long as he remained a threat to the people of the city, she’d be playing along with him and trying to keep him from doing any more violence. And biding her time to bring him down.

  But she’d put out a call for help—to him. Because he was the only Capello not officially on duty who was still an NYPD officer. Because they’d always been close, but their mother’s death had strengthened that bond and kept them linked through thick and thin. Because they shared a history.

  He closed his eyes, thinking hard. She’d crossed herself. What was she trying to say?

  Because they shared a history.

  His eyes flew open. She was going to St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral. The church his mother used to take them to on holy days of obligation. A sanctuary. And one that would be open for Ferragosto.

  Unless he was wrong. Most Precious Blood Church was closer. Or the Chapel of San Lorenzo Ruiz. Or Holy Trinity Ukrainian . . .

  Stop second-guessing. You’re wasting time. You know how she thinks.

  He pushed back into the conference center. He’d report what he knew—Gemma was in Little Italy, she’d had Frankie call him, and she’d crossed herself. In case he was wrong and risked wasting resources boxing in an empty church, he’d leave the NYPD brass to reach their own conclusions for now. If he was right, and he found her at St. Pat’s, he’d call in backup immediately. He’d know one way or the other inside of fifteen minutes.

  It was time to slip out.

  But not before signing out a weapon. And two throat mics so communication between them and the op commander was possible. He’d grab a ride from the first officer in a vehicle he could see. He’d get down to St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral and he’d find Gemma.

  And they’d end this.

  CHAPTER 26

  Gemma sighed with relief as they stepped through the heavy oak doors, out of the hot August twilight, into the cool, quiet of St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral. Just inside the door stood a tall stone font with several inches of holy water. Out of a long-ago habit, she dipped the fingertips of her right hand into the font and crossed herself, the water cool against her overheated skin. Then she led Boyle across the narrow narthex and through the heavy, red swath of velvet drapes, pulled back to allow entrance into the sanctuary beyond.

  As the Gothic Revival sanctuary opened up in front of them, its vaulted ceiling rising to soar stories overhead, Gemma was pulled back into a cascade of childhood memories: Sitting through Mass with her family, washed with the soft glow of the chandeliers that hung overhead, suspended between the massive columns marching down the nave. The fading rays of the sun filtering in colored ribbons throu
gh the stained glass to fall over wooden pews rubbed satiny smooth under her fingertips from centuries of use. The scent of Easter lilies wafting from the huge spray atop the altar, now draped with a snow-white cloth, the color of Resurrection, after weeks of Lenten purple. Waiting at the back of the sanctuary after her mother had slipped into one of the twin confessionals, straining to hear the soft murmur of her voice as she confessed her sins.

  Gemma hadn’t set foot inside this church since her mother died. But even with all those years in between, she realized coming into this place made her feel closer to her mother than she’d experienced in a very long time. To her, the sanctuary emoted a feeling of security, and of being loved, because that had been her association all those years ago. Back when she’d come to Mass in her Sunday best, in a frilly dress paired with short socks and stiff, uncomfortable shoes, with her hair neatly brushed and pinned back.

  And here she was, dressed in denim capris and sneakers, hot, sweaty, and desperate. Bringing an armed, violent man inside a house of peace.

  Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned . . .

  Her attention was drawn by the stillness and silence of the scattering of people seated in and around the pews, broken only by the odd murmur and the soft tread of shoes on the stone floor. She scanned the few congregants who remained after Mass, or who had wandered in to take advantage of the evening hours. An older woman lighting a candle by St. Francis to her left, and five more people sitting in pews, one couple and three singles. The organ in the balcony over their heads was quiet and there was no sign of anyone in the confessional. The church would be closing in about fifteen minutes, so people were on their way home.

  This would be how she would get him alone. And she knew just where to do it.