Worst Case

My head spun. Mooney was willing to exchange the kids for their fathers but not for me? Emily and I scrambled to put it together.

“You kidnap two rich kids, bring them down here, and now you want their fathers?” Emily said. “Why not just grab them? Mooney’s a proven freaking mastermind at snatching people.”

How did any of it make sense? And what the hell did the son of a bitch really want?

“What about the people on the trading floor?” I said.

“A lot of them got out. But there’s still maybe three hundred financial workers holed up behind the trading desks. Except for the stairwell to the balcony, he hasn’t sealed any doors, thank God.”

Chief Fleming led us down the block toward the employee entrance at the corner of Broad and Wall. Task force uniforms and tactical cops had taken up positions on both sides of the street. Beneath the giant American flag on the face of the landmark building, scared-shitless-looking brokers and traders in colored smocks and ID necklaces were being evacuated north up Broad Street.

“Snipers?” Emily said.

“That’s the rub,” my boss said. “He’s got the detonator taped to his hands. Even with a head shot, Mooney could still manage to pull the trigger.”

We hurried back up to Broadway once the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team truck arrived. Even superstoic Chow seemed subdued as he stared down the world-famous narrow trench of Wall Street.

He pointed to an overhead satellite map of the Financial district he already had up on the PowerPoint screen.

“All right. First thing we need to do is get that giant flag down off the front of the building. My sniper observers are heading into this office building across Broad Street here. These long windows between the columns on the edifice of the Exchange look onto the trading floor. I place the balcony where Mooney is holed up about fifteen feet to the right of this central window. If we can get him to move maybe even ten feet back, we can blow out the window and angle a shot at him.”

“What about the fact that the detonator is taped to his hands?” Fleming said.

“We’re going to use an extremely high-velocity Barrett M107 fifty-caliber sniper rifle. Coupled with a nonincendiary sabot round, we should be able to minimize collateral damage. We’ll go for the detonator itself before he gets a chance to set it off.”

Emily and I stared at each other, shaking our heads in dismay. What were the odds of coming away from this thing without more loss of life?

“I know,” Chow said. “It’s not pretty by any stretch, but it’s the only tactical play we have.”

Chapter 90

THAT DISMAL NEWS was still ringing loudly in our ears as the St. Edward’s students’ fathers showed up in a squad car.

Tall and fair with graying executive hair, Howard Parrish looked like a CEO out of central casting. I recognized his face from the tabloids due to a very messy divorce he’d gone through the year before. Edwin Mason, short, dark, and wearing glasses, had more of a professorial air in his jeans and sports coat.

“What the hell is this about, my boy? Tell me this instant!” Parrish said by way of greeting as he stepped onto the NYPD’s Critical Incident bus.

“Howard’s right. Could someone please give us the straight story?” Edwin Mason said with a pleading calm.

“Your boys are being held hostage in the Stock Exchange by a man named Francis Mooney,” I said bluntly. “He’s the man who’s responsible for abducting and killing several wealthy young adults in the past four days.”

Parrish’s face went hypertension-tomato-red.

“That damned school sent home a bulletin just yesterday about beefed-up security. How could this be allowed to happen? And why my boy? There’s hundreds of kids at that school. Why mine?”

“There’s more to it than that, isn’t there?” Mason said, looking steadily into my eyes. “You’re leaving something out.”

“There is more to it,” I said. “Mooney contacted us a few minutes ago. He said he’s willing to do an exchange. Your boys for you.”

“For us?” Parrish said, bamboozled. “You mean he wants to hold us hostage instead? Why?”

“In addition to being obviously unstable, Mooney has a radical-left history that goes back to the sixties,” Emily said. “Bottom line, he’s extremely dissatisfied with wealthy people. There’s a whole quasi-political motive wrapped up in his actions. At least, that’s what he seems to believe.”

“Goddamn liberals!” Parrish said, his voice cracking. “The goddamn liberals are actually going to kill my son!”

Mason took off his glasses and put them back on again.

“Does why really matter, Howard?” he said wearily. “Our boys are in real trouble.”

“We’re doing all we can to resolve this,” I cut in. “It’s entirely up to you how you want to play things. We can’t force you to exchange yourselves. We can’t even advise it. There’s no way to guarantee your safety. But if you volunteer, we won’t get in your way. In fact, during the exchange, we might be able to create an opportunity to resolve things.”

“Volunteering isn’t a choice,” Mason said after a second. “My wife died six years ago. My son is the only thing I treasure in this world. Send me in.”

Chewing on a pinkie nail, Parrish stared at the bus floor between his wingtips, deliberating for a few moments.

“Yes, okay,” he finally said. “Me, too. Send me in, too, of course.”

Chapter 91

MY HEART WENT out to the two CEOs as we exchanged their coats for bulletproof vests. Many parents believe that they would gladly give up their lives for their children’s, but these men were actually being given the choice. The simple, staggering courage they were showing blew me and every other cop in the room away.

“I don’t want to die, Edwin,” Parrish said as his eyes welled with tears. He seemed to be speaking more to himself than to anyone there. “But hey, I’ve led a good life. Been really, really fortunate. I always tried to do my best. And if I do go, at least my money will go to my boy and a good cause: the AIDS Research Alliance.”

“Well said, Howard,” Edwin Mason agreed, squeezing Parrish’s shoulder. “That’s the right way to look at things. My dough is destined for Amfar. Millions of people will benefit from what we achieved.”

Wait a second, I thought. Charities again? Something suddenly occurred to me.

“Who does your legal work, Mr. Mason? Who did your will?” I said.

“Ericsson, Weymouth and Roth,” Mason said.

I don’t know whose eyes went wider at the mention of Mooney’s firm, Emily’s or mine.

“That’s fu

Emily and I faded into the corner of the bus.

“Charities? Wills?” she said. “This is definitely co

“Wait a second. Damn it!” I said. “There was something Mooney said in our last conversation. Something about the Ash Wednesday Gospel.”

I whipped out my cell and speed-dialed Seamus. Sometimes having a priest in the family came in handy.

“Listen up. I need your help here, Seamus,” I said. “No monkeying around. Today’s Gospel. Read me today’s Gospel.”

“Don’t tell me you weren’t listening? Remind me to box your ears next time we meet, ye heathen. Okay, I have it right here. Let’s see. Matthew six, one to four: ‘Beware of your practicing your piety before men in order to be seen by them. For then you will have no reward from your Father who is in heaven. Thus, when you give alms, do not sound the trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and the streets that they may be praised by men. Truly, I say unto you, they have received their reward. But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your alms may be in secret, and your Father who sees what is in secret will reward you.’”