Exit Strategy. Jen J. Danna

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