Joe chuckled. “Which guarantees it’s going to be a scheduling issue. Take your call. We’ll be having seconds of cake. If you’re lucky, we’ll leave you some.”
Gemma watched the exchange with amusement. “Joe, another piece of torta?” she offered loudly, and then laughed when her father jabbed an accusing finger at her as he rose while mouthing “troublemaker.” He pressed the phone to his ear and turned his back to the table.
“You bet.” Joe passed his plate down the table toward her. “Make it a big one.”
Standing, she pulled the cake a little closer and picked up the knife. She was just sliding the knife through layers of chocolate when Mark’s phone rang. She froze, her gaze flicking first to Mark and then to Joe. Together, they turned to look at their father.
Tony stood five feet from the table, turned away from his family, his back ramrod straight and his shoulders locked.
Alarm flickered over Gemma’s nerve endings. Something’s wrong.
She studied Mark, who rose to step back from the table. A patrol sergeant with the Fifth Precinct, Marco Capello was experienced, steadfast and capable, and commanded his men with high expectations, but also with compassion and understanding for how hard it was to be a patrol officer in New York City. If anything was going down in his precinct, he’d be looped in immediately.
She met Joe’s gaze just as his phone rang. She could hear his mouthed expletive as clearly as if he’d spoken it aloud. Whatever was going on, it had a potential or confirmed gang connection if they were calling Joe.
“Gemma?” Alyssa asked the question from across the table as she stayed focused on her husband. “What’s going on?”
Gemma set down the knife. No one was going to be eating cake now. “I don’t know. Whatever it is, it’s not good. Alex?”
“I’m in the dark, but I agree—something’s hit the fan.” Alex’s gaze darted from brother to brother. “I can call in and find out.”
Gemma shook her head. “No need. They’ll let us know as soon as they’re—”
Her phone rang. She lunged for it and answered the call. “Capello.”
“I need you down at City Hall now.”
There was no introduction, but she didn’t need one to recognize the clipped voice of Lieutenant Tomás Garcia. “Sir, what happened?”
“Intel is sketchy, but we have a hostage situation.”
“Do you have any details?”
“Almost nothing. Witness statements report multiple hostages and at least one high-capacity weapon.”
Gemma looked at the three other cops around the table, who were all on their feet. “What aren’t you telling me, sir?”
“He may have the goddamned mayor of New York City, Capello. And if he does, he’s going to be the hostage most at risk of a bullet to the back of the head.”
Gemma surged to her own feet and steadied herself with a hand clamped over Alex’s shoulder. She met his eyes as her commander snapped out his final command.
“I’m handpicking the team, and I want you. Get down here now.”
CHAPTER 3
Once they got past the roadblocks, the streets of Lower Manhattan were eerily deserted.
“This is all wrong.” Rachel leaned against the steering wheel, peering out at the deserted sidewalks of Centre Street and the surrounding empty roads. “I’ve never seen it like this, not even at three in the morning. There’s always someone on the streets.”
“They had to clear the area, including shutting down both the Brooklyn Bridge subway station and the bridge itself,” Tony said from the passenger seat. “There was even a big sustainable energy sit-in already in progress on the front steps of City Hall, with a planned march across the Brooklyn Bridge to follow. Luckily, because it was a scheduled demonstration requiring a city permit, the NYPD had extra officers down here for crowd control, so they used those same officers to clear everyone out. Pull over,” he said, pointing at the David N. Dinkins Municipal Building to their right. “We’ve all got our orders and can get where we need to be on foot from here. Teo will want you out of this area right away, so you need to turn around and head back to Brooklyn.”
“I will.”
Gemma, Tony, Joe, and Mark had all been called in as news of the hostage taking spread. While they all felt sober after their holiday lunch, none of them wanted to risk being behind the wheel. Rachel—who hadn’t been drinking, as she was still breast-feeding Nate—had been roped into driving them into Lower Manhattan. Once they made it over the Brooklyn Bridge, they’d been stopped by the cop redirecting traffic away from the Civic Center and down to FDR Drive. After a mass showing of badges, he’d stepped back to let them through, with the promise of Rachel’s immediate return.
Rachel pulled over to the curb and they all climbed out. Gemma met Rachel’s eyes in the rearview mirror and answered her mouthed “Be careful” with a nod. Mark slammed the door shut behind them and rapped his fist twice on the roof of the SUV, sending Rachel on her way. She swung around in a U-turn in the empty street, making her way back to the Brooklyn Bridge and over the East River.
Father, daughter, and sons took a moment together on the curb.
Tony made eye contact with each child in turn. “Be careful, every one of you. I know you’re all supposed to be out of harm’s way, but you know how these situations can turn on a dime. This one’s going to be high profile, and we don’t know what kind of splash the hostage taker plans to make. Stay alert and stay safe.”
Gemma reached up and lightly kissed her father’s cheek. “Same goes for you.”
She gave his arm a squeeze, exchanged silent nods with her brothers, and jogged away from them down Centre Street, taking care to keep to the far side in the unlikely case the hostage taker was at a window on the near side of the building. She flashed her shield at the cop standing on Park Row at the top of Beekman Street and he waved her through. Only then did she consider herself far enough away from the building to cross the road to enter City Hall Park. As she jogged past the Jacob Wrey Mould Fountain in the middle of the park, she threw a quick glance to her right. City Hall was visible at the end of the path, three stories of graceful marble French Renaissance architecture, blindingly white in the afternoon sun. At its center, the figure of Justice stood atop the domed tower, holding her scales aloft to pierce the cloudless blue sky.
Somewhere inside, victims are in danger.
She remembered the frozen terror of staring down the barrel of a captor’s gun, knowing her life could end instantly at his slightest whim.
Gemma ran faster.
She arrowed toward Broadway on the far side and the address Garcia had provided for their impromptu negotiation headquarters. As she broke from the park, heading north, she spotted the location across the street. Only months before, it had been a Citibank branch on the corner of Broadway and Murray until the branch moved to bigger quarters; now the deserted space would be perfect for the negotiation team. Close enough to visualize the building, but far enough out of the way that if bullets flew, they’d be safe.
The golden rule in negotiating was that no negotiator ever died while on the phone with a suspect. That was the trick: physically remove yourself from danger to keep that immediate stress at bay, allowing you to maintain the deadly calm essential in every successful negotiator. Leave the bullets to the Apprehension Tactical Team.
Gemma knew the A-Team would already be on-site, and she scanned the tops of buildings as she sprinted