Gemma made a beeline toward the two men who stood in the doorway of what had once been the bank vault. The massive door was propped open against the back wall, and cords and cables ran from the main room into the vault. Inside the vault, Gemma caught a glimpse of a familiar setup of two back-to-back tables. One table was large enough for the primary negotiator and the team member acting as coach, someone who listened in and passed notes suggesting alternate courses of action. The second table provided space for all the recording equipment, another team member to act as scribe, noting every aspect of any communication for instant reference, and the last chair was for the coordinator. In this case, the coordinator was the senior negotiator, who not only functioned as the chief adviser with the most experience, but also as the officer who would run interference with any other departments, including the tactical team. And, most important, the coordinator would be the person standing between his negotiating team and the brass, allowing the team to stay focused on their situation, and not on the politics and pressure that might rise up around it.
A clock displaying the time in large, glowing red numbers was set up at the end of the tables where everyone could see it. That clock would rule their lives during negotiations. The hostage taker would want action and to cut the time short. Their job was to stretch out the situation as long as possible, hoping calmness, sanity, and exhaustion would play to their advantage. Several laptops for research or notes completed the setup.
“Hey,” Gemma greeted the detectives as she approached. “What do we know?”
“Only minimal details so far.”
Elijah Taylor towered above Gemma, as always, dressed to perfection in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit, with a snowy shirt and a burgundy tie that complemented his dark umber skin tone. Taylor was well known as a stickler for details, for his precise notes, and for his calm with a hostage taker when an incident was exploding around him. On the other hand, team members who weren’t pulling their weight up to his expectations were easy targets for any simmering frustration with the situation Taylor couldn’t show the suspect.
“We’re gathering additional details. We need to establish a line of communication to the hostage taker. However, we don’t know where he is in the building. We only have scanty witness reports to go on. The fire alarm was activated, emptying the building, but witnesses report seeing a man armed with an assault weapon with an unknown number of people on the first floor.”
“We’ve tapped into the building’s security feeds, but this guy is completely out of sight. The corridors are deserted.” Fair-haired, freckled, and only about two-thirds Taylor’s size in height and weight, Trevor McFarland wore an ill-fitting, smudge brown suit that hung on his bony frame. Gemma couldn’t care less that he wasn’t a fashion plate because McFarland was a whiz with technology. Communications would be smooth sailing with him on the team once they made contact with the suspect.
Gemma glanced down at her picnic attire—a gauzy, V-necked peasant blouse, white denim capris, and matching mesh summer sneakers—and felt extremely underdressed. But with Garcia’s marching orders, there simply hadn’t been time to detour home to change into her usual no-nonsense dark suit. She pushed the thought away; they had a job to do, and, at most, the hostage taker would only hear her voice. At least she had both her shield and her Glock 19 in a molded, black clip-on holster on her right hip under her blouse—luckily, her service weapon had been in the lockbox in her car when she was called in, so at least she had some of her normal on-duty trappings.
“It sounds like we’re running on very little. The mayor’s office is on the first floor. Do we think he has the mayor? And his staff? What about the first deputy mayor?” she asked.
“That’s unclear.” Taylor cocked his head in the direction of a group of people standing by the front window. “One of the witnesses reported the mayor was inside his offices, but according to his calendar, he was supposed to be off-site at a meeting. The larger issue is that no one can get hold of him. Until we know otherwise, we have to assume the mayor is inside City Hall and does not have access to his phone.”
“There’s been no communication? No request for money or resources?”
“None.”
“Is the A-Team deployed? Do we at least have eyes on the building?”
“You bet,” said McFarland. “Sanders is in contact with them. But unless something’s popped in the last few minutes, they don’t have line of sight on him yet.”
Movement out of the corner of her eye drew Gemma’s attention as Sanders 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
