Exit Strategy

by Jen J. Danna

  “Suspect on the move!” His voice filled her ear.

  Keep talking. Tell me where to find you. Tell me you’re okay.

  Adrenaline gave her feet wings and she tore down the catacombs, out through the undercroft, and back up the steps.

  Another gunshot, this time from the direction of the nave. A second answering shot.

  He could have gone outside. He must know if another cop is here, he could be surrounded. Didn’t head to Mulberry, tried to take cover in the church.

  She paused as she got to the double doors, checked the church, and then swung into the nave.

  A quick scan told her the sanctuary was empty.

  “Outside now.” Alex’s words were cut by harsh breaths. “Asked the monsignor to lock the front gates. Can’t get out. He’s heading into the north cemetery.”

  She hit her TALK button as she sprinted through the nave toward the main doors at the back. “10-4. In pursuit. We can corner him there.”

  “I have men in position.” Sanders’s voice this time. “Who has eyes on the north cemetery?”

  “Logan here. I do. West side, as far as the farthest stand of trees.”

  “Morgan here. I’ve got the east side.”

  “We have you covered,” Sanders said.

  Ahead of Gemma, one of the front doors stood open, the space beyond them now dark, as dusk had come and gone. She paused long enough to check for threats and to confirm the six-foot-tall front gate was closed and locked. It was, which only left the shorter, decorative wrought iron fences on either side separating the flanking cemeteries. She went through the outer door in time to see Alex in the dimness landing on the far side of the fence closing off the north cemetery.

  Terrified bleating came from deeper into the cemetery, and Gemma caught the ghostly blur of three white sheep galloping into the rear, darkened corner of the cemetery. The farm animals gave her a jolt of surprise until she remembered the church’s landscaping “crew,” the permanent residents of the grounds during warmer months. Hopefully, they’d stay out of the way.

  Transferring the gun to her right hand, she bolted for the fence, leaping onto the handicap ramp and pushing off with all her might, bracing her left hand on the top of the fence to help her clear the row of decorative metal spikes. She felt the brush of metal as she went over and then landed with a stumbling step, letting her inertia carry her toward one of the obelisks. She stopped, her back to the memorial, looking side to side, but not seeing her brother.

  “Alex.” She kept her voice low, knowing the transducer would pick up her words. “I’m in, and behind the obelisk near the fence. Where are you?”

  “Farther in. Behind the tall headstone with the Celtic cross on top. He’s crouched down behind the bigger tomb with the pitched roof.”

  Thankful for the modern security lights mounted high on the historical building that threw scattered light through the trees of the cemetery, Gemma leaned out and identified the landmark. “Got it. You go west. I’ll stay on the east side.”

  “10-4.”

  “Who has him in sight?” Sanders again.

  “He’s blocked from my angle.” Morgan’s voice.

  “I have him,” Logan said. “He just dropped a magazine and is loading a fresh one. He’s not going down easy.”

  “We’ve got this,” Gemma said. “We have him contained. Do not jump the gun. We can bring him in.”

  “And risk two officers?” Sanders had clearly had enough.

  “Give us a chance,” Alex said.

  There was a pause before Sanders replied, “Do it now, do it fast, and do it safely, or I’m giving the order. Logan, are you ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You are a go. Neutralize the target the moment you feel one of our officers is in jeopardy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Goddamn it. Now we have to finish this in a rush because Sanders is twitchy? Can’t he see his cowboy attitude is putting us in more danger if the end goal is everyone coming out alive?

  The light in the cemetery was patchy, but she was sure every sniper on the A-Team had night vision. They’d have a crystal-clear view of the entire scene.

  Fine. All cards on the table then. Be a negotiator.

  She didn’t hit the TALK button. If she was going to try to negotiate for this man’s life, she was going to keep Sanders on the outside. “John? John, I know you can hear me. It’s time to end this before you get yourself killed.”

  “So I can spend my life in jail? It’s freedom or nothing, Capello.”

  “You’re not going to get free. You know that. And you’d know I was lying if I tried to sell you a line. Honesty always, remember?”

  “Yeah. I remember.”

  “Then let me tell you, you’re surrounded. Sanders has men on the rooftops watching. Throw down your gun and come out. I promise, you’ll be treated with the respect due to an officer. Once NYPD, always NYPD.” Leaning out around the obelisk, she saw Alex on the move, taking advantage of her distracting Boyle, and getting closer.

  “You might think that, but it doesn’t mean everyone else will.”

  “We’ve all lost brothers-in-arms. We’ve all lost family. Give them a chance. You lost your son in a line-of-duty death. They won’t forget that.” Gemma moved, quickly running between markers, crouching down behind a weathered headstone, with a skull sprouting angel wings etched on the top.

  “Maybe not, but the warden and guards and prisoners won’t care.”

  She could see Alex now, pressed flat behind a tall, rectangular column on a wide base. Another fifteen feet and he’d have line of sight on Boyle. If Boyle wouldn’t come quietly, he could be disabled with a carefully placed shot to his right shoulder, rather than killed outright. She knew Alex’s skill with a weapon, and knew he could do it.

  She needed to keep Boyle talking while Alex got into place.

  “John, I understand your pain. You know as well as I do, they’re going to arrest you, but there are mitigating circumstances, and you have a solid career and multiple commendations behind you. Let them, and let me, speak on your behalf.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  Alex darted behind another headstone. Nearly there.

  “Because you’re one of us, and any one of us could be you.”

  “Not good enough.”

  Running out of time. Time to twist the knife. She thought back to the personal details McFarland had dug up. “After Connor was killed, you accepted the Medal of Honor posthumously on his behalf. That’s the highest medal the NYPD can bestow and it says something about how special he was. Meet me halfway and finish this peacefully for Connor and for his memory. He wouldn’t want you to do this for him.”

  “Maybe not, but what’s the point without him?”

  His toneless words, shaded with resignation and bone-deep sorrow, sent a surge of alarm through Gemma.

  The grief in his eyes when he told her about Connor. His glowing pride in the man he’d raised.

  Already too late.

  Boyle burst from behind the tomb, leaping to stand on the stone lid, his gaze trained on Alex, who was already shifting his stance to take his shot.

  Gemma lurched to her feet, sensing his intent. He wasn’t going to hurt Alex. That wasn’t his goal. But he was absolutely going to make it look like it to force Logan’s hand. She hit the TALK button for a last-ditch, personal appeal. “Sean, don’t do this. He’s going for suicide by—”

  Boyle launched himself off the top of the tomb, his gun coming around to train on Alex.

  The shot rang out. Boyle jerked in midair, his trajectory changing from the force of the bullet, to crash to the ground closer to Gemma.

  Gemma ran the rest of the way and crouched down to press two fingers to where the pulse in his neck should have been. A deeper shadow fell across her. She raised her head to find Alex standing over her. She shook her head.

  He turned away with a vicious curse.

  Gemma sank down into the grass beside Boy
le. Blood drenched his shirt and jacket around the entry wound. Logan’s aim had been true. A single shot, center mass, to neutralize the target. Boyle had been dead before his body hit the ground.

  Gemma glared up at the rooftop of the building across the street. A dark silhouette stood tall at the edge of the roof, backlit by the glow of city lights, towering stories over her. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew Logan was staring directly at her. At his handiwork.

  The case was over. Boyle wouldn’t hurt anyone ever again.

  How could a win feel like such a devastating loss?

  CHAPTER 31

  Gemma opened the gate into her father’s backyard and slipped through into the warm, quiet darkness of the August night.

  “You’re sure you don’t want to go inside?” Alex asked from behind her.

  “I will. Just . . . not yet.” Gemma couldn’t put into words the feeling manifested in the tightness of her shoulders, the knot in her stomach, and the sweat dampening the back of her neck. Not even for Alex, and no one could possibly understand more than he could.

  She’d given the case her all, but still couldn’t shake the bone-deep disquiet at its conclusion.

  If you’d given it your all, would two men be dead and a third be fighting for his life?

  She pushed the thought away. Second-guessing herself at this point would only lead to sleepless nights and a dragging weight she couldn’t lift from her shoulders. She needed to find her balance; then she could reflect on the day’s events with a clear head.

  Alex nearly bumped into her when she stopped long enough to toe off her mesh sneakers. Letting her hot, tired feet sink into the soft grass, she couldn’t help the sigh of relief that slipped past her lips.

  She was home.

  She hadn’t lived in this house for years, but somehow her tiny Manhattan apartment had never given her the same emotional connection as this beloved family home. Tonight she desperately needed that connection.

  She picked up her shoes and carried them over to the picnic tables, still arranged for their family meal. They’d been covered with food, plates, and glasses when they’d rushed out earlier in the afternoon, but Rachel and Alyssa had cleared the mess. Now the empty tables echoed her desolate mood and she wondered bleakly if the Sicilian Feast of the Assumption would be an annual reminder of her failure.

  She fell into one of the chairs, listlessly tossing her sneakers into the grass below, and blew out a long, exhausted breath.

  “You can’t beat yourself up over this.” Alex dropped into the chair opposite her. The moon overhead in the clear sky was nearly full and washed the backyard in a silvery glow, though Alex’s face was unreadable in the dim light.

  “You think so?”

  “I know exactly how your mind works. You’re taking responsibility for everything that went wrong tonight. How about taking responsibility for everything that went right? Like the seven hostages you saved.”

  “And the citizens of New York you kept safe while you were out on the streets with him.”

  Gemma whipped around at the sound of her father’s voice.

  Tony stood on the patio with her brother Joe. She’d been so stuck inside her own head she hadn’t even heard them come out of the house.

  Tony crossed the grass to lay his hands on Gemma’s shoulders and bent to press a kiss to the top of her head. “Mia passerotta,” he whispered as his hands squeezed tight. Tight enough for her to feel his fear.

  Guilt bloomed at the pain in his voice paired with the endearment. It had been years, probably more than a decade, since he’d called her his “little sparrow,” as he’d done often during her childhood. If she’d only suspected she’d put her father through absolute hell today, this was confirmation. Laying a hand over his, she held on for a moment with her head bowed.

  When she finally let go, he tipped her face up to his and took a moment to catalog her injuries. She’d cleaned off the blood, but her right cheek was swollen and mottled with dark bruising. She suspected she’d have a hell of a shiner by tomorrow morning, and might never hear the end of it from her brothers.

  “Did EMS see to that?”

  Gemma nodded. “Paramedics checked me out on-site. Gave me the all clear”

  “Good.” Tony circled the table to Alex, to claim the chair to his right. Gemma couldn’t hear her father’s low words to her brother, but from Alex’s sheepish smile, she deduced praise for going after his sister and throwing himself into the fray.

  Joe pulled out the chair beside Gemma and sat down, holding her gaze. Grimly he took in her battered face. “I hear Lieutenant Garcia didn’t condone your operation.”

  Gemma glared at her brother through narrowed lids. Leave it to Joe, the most hard-nosed of the Capello brothers, to start right in on her, before even her father could take her to task. Though she suspected Joe’s anger was less grounded in what she’d done than in how her actions had affected her family, her father most of all. According to Alex, Joe had been with their father for the entire op, and had not only experienced her defection and subsequent disappearance, but had watched his father suffer through it as well. Now he wanted his pound of flesh for what she’d done to all of them.

  No point in beating around the bush: She’d known from the moment she laid down her shield, her family wouldn’t agree with her decision. She met his glare head-on. “No, he didn’t.”

  “You’ve been on the force for... fourteen years? But even though your lieutenant has more than twice your years in blue, and has earned medals for exemplary service, you still thought you knew better than him?”

  That stiffened Gemma’s spine. Seniority didn’t necessarily mean insight into one particular man. And it certainly didn’t replace human lives. “Yes. We’d exhausted all possible options. It all came down to me in exchange for seven lives. Me, an experienced negotiator and a fellow officer, someone who could work with the situation rather than be a victim to it, like the seven hostages were.”

  “And you don’t think he was taking that into account when he made the call not to send in one of his team members?”

  “You weren’t even there. How do you—”

  “Stand down, both of you.” Tony leaned forward, first meeting the eyes of his oldest son and then his daughter. “We’ve all been there, out in the field, when you’ve only got seconds to make a decision that could go either way. We’ve made those decisions and we’ve had others disagree with them. The only way to truly understand that decision is to have been there at the time.”

  Joe shook his head in disbelief. “Why are you giving her a pass on this? I would have thought you’d be angriest of all at the break in command structure.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not happy about some of Gemma’s choices today. But I’m also the one with the most experience around this table. I know how complex these situations can be, and how they can take on a life of their own. You make your best decision at the time with the information you have, and with what your gut tells you is the right call.” His gaze moved to Gemma. “Sometimes you pay for that decision afterward. And sometimes your family also pays.” He met her eyes, held them, and she felt the suffocating weight of the torment he’d suffered that day. “You knew what your decision would do to us.” His gaze shifted first to Joe, and then to Alex. “To all of us.”

  “Yes.” The word was a ragged whisper as she looked around the table. She cleared her throat. “I didn’t have any choice.” She faced her father. “Moreover, you would have done the same thing. If it had been you instead of me in that situation, with a cop who has already crossed the line and a room full of innocent hostages in play, are you telling me you’d have let them die?”

  Several seconds of silence passed as their gazes held. Then Tony frowned. “No.”

  His single-word answer took the air out of Gemma and she sank back into her chair. “Of course, you wouldn’t. Because leaving the innocent to die, no matter what the circumstance, is not you, not if you have a chance of saving them a
nd then yourself. It’s not me.” She met Joe’s level gaze. “It’s not any of us.”

  Some of the tension reluctantly eased from Joe’s shoulders. “No, it’s not.”

  “Garcia came to see me tonight,” said Tony, drawing her attention. “After Logan took Boyle down.”

  Gemma winced at Logan’s name, but did her best to cover it. “What did Garcia want?”

  “To make sure you got this back.” He pulled her shield out of his pocket and slid it across the table to her. “Your service weapon is inside, in the gun safe.”

  Gemma stared at her badge, dumbfounded, her jaw sagging in disbelief. “I resigned. I countermanded his direct order and walked away from the NYPD.”

  “He doesn’t see it that way. Didn’t you notice no one questioned you this evening, or took you into custody for being an accessory to a crime?”

  Gemma blinked at him, realizing that in her focus in completing her task tonight, the fact she was no longer NYPD hadn’t truly registered during the final operation. That persona was bone deep and had been her life for so long, she couldn’t truly fathom not being a cop.

  “Garcia didn’t tell anyone,” Tony continued. “Outside of your team and us, no one knows.”

  “Sanders knows. So does Sean Logan.”

  “If Logan is smart, he’ll keep his mouth shut. The same goes for Sanders. By giving you back your shield, Garcia is accepting responsibility for the wrong call and wiping the slate clean. Consider yourself extremely lucky.”

  Gemma picked up her shield. The NYPD blue enamel was nearly black in the dimness, but the gold glinted in the scant moonlight. She closed her hand over it, feeling a missing piece of her most elemental self slide back into place at the familiar texture of ridges and letters under her fingertips. Relief and a sense of belonging. And such gratitude. Garcia and her father had given her life back to her.