Hostage Taker Read online

  Hostage Taker is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Stefanie Pintoff

  Maps copyright © 2015 by David Lindroth, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  BANTAM BOOKS and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Pintoff, Stefanie.

  Hostage taker : a novel / Stefanie Pintoff.

  pages ; cm

  ISBN 978-0-345-53140-7 — ISBN 978-0-8041-7993-5 (ebook)

  I. Title.

  PS3616.I58H67 2015

  813'.6—dc23

  2015001375

  eBook ISBN 9780804179935

  randomhousebooks.com

  Title-page image: copyright © iStock.com/© zinchik

  Book design by Victoria Wong, adapted for eBook

  Cover design: Cristopher Lin

  Cover art direction: Carlos Beltrán

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Part One: Zero Hour

  Chapter 1

  Hour 1

  Chapter 2

  Hour 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Hour 3

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Hour 4

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Part Two: Hour 5

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Hour 6

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Hour 7

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Hour 8

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Part Three: Hour 8 Continued

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Hour 9

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Hour 10

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Hour 11

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Approaching Deadline Hour

  Chapter 51

  Part Four: Deadline Hour Until Hour 14

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Hour 13

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Part Five: Hour 14

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Hours 15 and 16

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Hour 17

  Chapter 91

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  What are you guilty of?

  I already know.

  View the files on the enclosed flash drive. They will apprise you of the situation and what you personally have at stake.

  Your first instinct will be to call the police.

  DON’T.

  Your next impulse will be to call a friend.

  That would be unwise.

  Be assured of three things:

  1. I don’t hurt those who do as I ask.

  2. I won’t kill the undeserving.

  3. Obey my demands, and I will protect what you hold precious.

  PART ONE

  * * *

  ZERO HOUR

  6:47 a.m.

  Good day, New York!

  It’s 41 degrees right now in Midtown, with heavy rain and fog for your morning commute. Luckily, we expect these soggy conditions to be out of here by lunchtime. But bring a fleece lining for those raincoats, because temperatures will continue to plummet throughout the day.

  Today is a Gridlock Alert Day, due to tonight’s Tree Lighting ceremony at Rockefeller Center, which we’ll have live coverage of beginning at seven p.m. We expect tens of thousands of people in the area, so do yourself a favor and take mass transit today…

  Chapter 1

  Cristina Silva had never been a believer.

  When she was a girl, she didn’t believe in fairy tales or unicorns or Santa Claus. Then she grew up and didn’t believe in miracles. Or magic. Or the myth of the American Dream.

  Cristina had always known better than to believe in God.

  But she had faith. The kind she’d learned to live by in AA: If you can’t believe, just make believe.

  At this moment, staring down the steps of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral toward Fifth Avenue, she was make-believing with all her might. Because nothing short of magical thinking was going to help her now.

  She took timid steps forward and blinked the water out of her eyes. Daylight had not yet broken. It was still raining, and drops fell through the gaps in the scaffolding directly above her. The winter sky was murky gray and the streets were blurred by mist. She could barely make out Fifth Avenue, stretching for blocks in front of her.

  Deserted.

  Cristina concentrated on looking around her. Hoping for some sign of life out there in the gloom. She saw none. If there was one time this city ever took a nap, it was near dawn.

  Massive bronze doors closed behind her with a forceful thud. Several thousand pounds of metal—and the images of half a dozen saints—now separated her from the rest of them. Those unlucky fools who, like her, had gone to Lady Chapel this morning. As soon as the Cathedral opened.

  Then she had been singled out—for what, she wasn’t quite sure.

  Where was he?

  Her blood, humming in panic, created a fierce rushing noise inside her head. It was like the ocean, only louder—and more distracting than the gusts of wind and rain that buffeted her cheeks.

  A drenched passerby scurried down Fifth Avenue, buried under a green golf umbrella.

  Cristina opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

  “Help!” she silently pled.

  The passerby did not turn. In the teeming rain,
he couldn’t be bothered with glancing toward gothic spires or intricate marble façades. Never mind a woman wearing a yellow rain slicker and carrying a wooden sign with HELP ME painted in a brilliant shade of red.

  Cristina took a cautious step forward.

  Another umbrella passed, this one black. Then two cars.

  No one slowed.

  Just make a call, she prayed. 311. 911. Report the crazy lady standing in the rain. The one at Saint Patrick’s—a landmark, tourist destination, and religious refuge, all rolled into one.

  She took another step. Craned her neck through the gloom toward the scaffolding high above.

  Was he watching?

  Another step.

  Tears welled in her eyes, mingling with the rain. She knew that Saint Patrick’s was a symbol. The sign she carried was a symbol, too. Even the confession she’d been forced to make was only a symbol. And for all her nonbelieving, she was terrified that she was about to die as a symbol.

  Of God-only-knew-what.

  —

  A block away, Angus MacDonald got off the M4 bus, straight into the chilly puddle that snaked around the corner of Fifty-second Street and Fifth Avenue. Aware of the rain leaking into his supposedly waterproof trench coat, he made a run for it.

  At least, he tried to. Thanks to the arthritis in his joints, sometimes his legs just refused to get with the program. Whoever had coined mind over matter obviously hadn’t hit seventy-four.

  Ahead of him, Angus saw virtually nothing. Only a traffic light that creaked and groaned as it swayed. This wasn’t just Midtown at its quietest. The weather had made it a ghost town.

  Then a man wearing an NYPD rubber raincoat emerged from the fog. Angus watched him cross Fifth Avenue in the middle of the block. Racing for the Cathedral. Not wanting to be late for seven-o’clock Mass.

  It was a reminder that Angus had better move faster—or he was going to be late, too. He cut a forty-five-degree angle. Crossed the avenue.

  The cop made it halfway up the stairs of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. Stopped.

  There was a woman there. Just standing. Her canary-yellow raincoat stood out, even with the elaborate scaffolding that covered the entrance. Angus squinted. She was at least in her mid-twenties, he decided. She looked scared. So tense she didn’t even respond to the cop staring at her. Like he wasn’t even there.

  She just stayed frozen in place, looking around.

  The cop looked around, too.

  There was nothing—and no one—to see. Only rain and fog and mist and the occasional headlights of a passing cab. And, of course, Angus.

  The cop broke away with a shake of his head—as if there was nothing he could do. Then he turned and walked into the Cathedral.

  The cop had been a big guy with a ruddy face, maybe six-one, maybe two-fifty. More suited to taking out street thugs than talking down distraught women.

  Angus resigned himself to being late to Mass. In his experience, young women loved creating drama. He could see his niece pulling a stunt like this: standing in the rain with some silly sign, just to prove a point or get attention after a breakup gone bad.

  “Hey, lady—why don’t you come in out of the rain?” he called when he was within earshot.

  She was so startled she whirled and faced him.

  She’d obviously been lost in her own world, because Angus wasn’t the type to scare people. With his wrinkled black skin, crinkled gray hair, and generous beer belly, he’d even pass for Santa Claus, given an appropriate red suit.

  He reached out a hand to help her—but let it drop when she didn’t move. Since the scaffolding provided scant shelter, he moved toward the massive bronze doors, shaking the worst of the water off his coat like a wet dog.

  She stayed rooted in place, but she angled her head to watch him.

  “My name’s Angus. What’s yours?” He bunched his hands in the pockets of his coat, huddling against the downpour.

  She didn’t reply, although she continued to look at him with an intense stare. Like she wanted to say something, but couldn’t.

  “Just tell me your name. That’s not so hard, right?”

  A whoosh of wind pushed away her bright yellow hood. Her hair blew wildly, and was instantly soaked, but she made no move to cover herself.

  “You’ll catch your death out here,” Angus scolded. “Come inside with me.”

  Again, she didn’t answer. She cocked her head, like she was trying to listen to something. But the only sound came from the driving rain as it pounded the marble steps.

  “It’s time for Mass,” he said. “Whatever’s wrong, whatever’s upset you, let’s talk about it inside, where it’s warm and dry.”

  She looked up, eyes searching the levels of scaffolding.

  “Your sign says HELP,” he pointed out. “I’ll help you. Let’s go inside together.”

  She tried to raise her arms. It was a futile gesture. For the first time, Angus noticed: The sign she held was bound to her hands with tightly wrapped wire.

  A troublesome sensation settled in his gut. No way did she do that to herself.

  High above the Fifth Avenue skyscrapers, there was a flash of light, followed by a booming sound. Something in the atmosphere changed.

  He needed to get help. He needed that cop. The giant bronze doors had just been open. He reached for the door on his right—the one with Mother Elizabeth Seton—and tugged.

  It didn’t budge. Not even when he pulled harder.

  He tried again with the door on his left—the one with the Blessed Kateri Tekakwitha—and failed. He’d have to try one of the side entrances.

  But these doors shouldn’t be locked. Not right before seven-o’clock Mass. Not when he had just seen the cop go inside. Something was wrong.

  Angus forced himself to think straight. Whoever had done this to the woman must be inside the Cathedral. But it would be all right. The cop was a big guy. Surely a big cop could handle whatever threat lurked inside. Angus should focus on the situation out here.

  He turned back to the woman, who was now facing him.

  Her eyes fixed on Angus’s.

  He was trying to decipher the mute plea in them when he noticed a funny red dot dancing on her forehead. It looked just like the laser pointer he used when he taught algebra class.

  Then she was gone.

  The shot was silent as it sliced through her forehead. She crumpled, and suddenly there was slick blood everywhere, mingling with the rain that puddled on the Cathedral steps.

  Angus felt a terrible stinging in his head, though he knew he hadn’t been hit.

  His legs stopped working and he fell to his knees, collapsing beside her.

  The sacrifice of His body and blood, Angus thought, fumbling for his cellphone. Words from the Mass service that he was missing.

  The rain-swept morning was hushed and still. The streets remained deserted.

  Hands shaking, Angus managed to call 911.

  —

  It was another seven minutes before help arrived for the dead woman with the wire-bound hands, still gripping her small wooden sign.

  It would be another nine before the responding officer would notice something else. That the sign she had carried held a message.

  Not the public plea for HELP that she had shown the world. There was a note—a private communication taped on the back of the sign.

  The officer didn’t understand it.

  But he was smart enough to radio it in.

  HOUR 1

  8:17 a.m.

  Good news for your morning commute, New Yorkers: Rain and fog should be lifting within the hour. We’ll have gray skies most of the day, with a slight chance of snow showers by this evening.

  But if you’re headed downtown to work, you might want to avoid Fifth Avenue below Fifty-seventh. We’re receiving reports of police activity in that area…

  Chapter 2

  A hundred blocks uptown, in the downpour that drenched New York City, Eve Rossi placed a stone on top of her stepfa
ther’s grave. It was a custom—albeit one that she didn’t understand. She’d been told that the stone symbolized her memories, durable and everlasting. She’d also heard that it kept demons away. One superstition even held that the stone’s weight would keep the dead man’s spirit grounded in this world. As if Zev Berger would ever have wanted to stick around as a ghost.

  Eve believed none of it.

  Still, Zev had followed certain traditions, so Eve honored this one now. Instead of an ordinary stone, she’d chosen a clamshell from Zev’s favorite beach—a secluded spot on the South Shore of Long Island where piping plovers nested and rough waves crashed into a black rock barrier.

  Clamshells were beautiful, but not in a traditional way: Their irregular purple-and-cream stripes appeared textured. She always expected to feel those brilliantly colored ridges—and yet the shell was perfectly smooth to her touch. Not unlike Zev himself, a tough CIA veteran who never stood for being crossed—but who had always yielded to Eve or her mother.