James Grippando - Born to Run

Then again, where the hell has he been for the past four hours?

She let it ring through to her answering machine.

“Andie, pick up.”

The voice wasn’t Jack’s. It was the assistant special agent in charge of the Miami field office, Guy Schwartz. Andie launched herself across the bed and grabbed the phone from the nightstand.

“I’m here,” she said.

“Turn on Action News ,” he said.

It probably would have been fair to ask why , but Schwartz’s tone was too urgent to invite questions. Andie fished around beneath the covers and found the remote control beneath an empty bag of mini-marshmallows-consolation food that had nearly made her sick, which was one more reason to be angry at Jack. With a punch of the button she switched channels.

“That’s Jack,” she said.

It was stating the obvious, but the words had come like a reflex. Andie moved to the foot of the bed, closer to the TV.

Schwartz gave her a two-minute summary of everything the FBI understood about the standoff so far. Andie listened as she watched it unfold in real time on television. Action News was broadcasting in a split-screen format, the live hostage standoff on the left and, on the right, their lead anchor broadcasting from the parking lot outside the station. Andie heard her mention something about one dead security guard inside the building, which jibed with what Schwartz had just told her.

Andie said, “The media need to assume that the gunman is listening to everything they’re saying. We need to muzzle that reporter.”

“We’re on it,” said Schwartz.

On the split screen, Andie could see that police were indeed trying to move the entire Action News team to a safer distance.

“Once again,” said the reporter, “ Action News has not yet confirmed the gunman’s identity. However, we do know that he has taken at least three hostages, including Action News weekend anchor Shannon Sertane, cameraman Pedro Valdez, and Miami attorney Jack Swyteck, whom you may know as the son of former governor and vice presidential nominee Harry Swyteck. The gunman has not-wait a minute. It looks as though he may be about to say something.”

Andie increased the volume. Action News changed the on-screen format from split screen to a picture-in-picture mode, relegating the reporter to a small box in the upper right-hand corner. But she kept talking.

“Up until now, we have seen the gunman securing the set inside the Action News newsroom, checking things out, tying up his hostages with electrical cord. Basically getting situated. So far we have only been able to speculate as to his demands and…”

Andie spoke into the phone. “Somebody needs to tell her to shut up and let him talk.”

The reporter’s microphone suddenly went silent, someone presumably having pulled the plug.

The gunman looked into the camera and said, “Good evening.”

Andie noted the accent and waited.

“My name is Demetri, and I want everyone to know right up front that I don’t want to hurt any of these fine people who are here with me tonight.”

Tell that to the dead security guard , thought Andie.

“But I will do whatever is necessary if my demands are not met. Or if anyone is foolish enough to storm the building.” He was speaking very slowly, as if determined to hide his accent from the television viewers. “Let me assure everyone right now that there is no way for the FBI or anyone else to get inside this building without turning this into a bloodbath. I’ve checked it out, and the newsroom has no windows. Sorry, snipers. I’ve locked all the doors and rigged them up nicely so that I’ll hear it if anyone tries to sneak in. I’m sure some genius at the FBI is probably coming up with a plan right now to climb in through the air-conditioning ducts. Well, I’ve thought of that, too. I’m not going to get into specifics, but let me just say that it would be a very bad idea.”

“He’s into this,” Andie said into the telephone.

“A very desperate man making his last stand,” Schwartz replied.

The Greek continued, “I will have several demands to make, so let’s start off with a simple one: we stay on the air. This is a live broadcast, and everything is in real time. There are television screens all over the place in here, so I’ll know if this demand is being met. If it’s not, one of these hostages will die. It’s as simple as that.”

He walked across the set toward the news desk. Jack and the anchorwoman were seated on the floor in front of the desk, their hands tied behind their backs. He stepped closer to Jack, and the camera followed him.

“You don’t want that to happen, do you, Swyteck?”

He didn’t answer.

“Do you?” said Demetri.

Andie gripped the phone tighter. “Answer him, Jack,” she said to the television. Even if Jack couldn’t hear her, maybe she could will him to do the right thing.

“No,” said Jack.

“No what ?”

Jack glared at him, and Andie was getting nervous again. Don’t antagonize him.

“No, sir,” said Jack.

“That’s better,” said Demetri. “So, all you folks at home, sit back, relax, pop yourselves some popcorn, and enjoy the show. I promise you this: it’s going to get good. Really good.”

Demetri walked over to the morning-show couch, made himself comfortable, and put his feet up on the cocktail table. The cameraman kept the show rolling.

On-screen, Action News resumed the picture-in-picture mode, and the reporter returned with a new microphone.

“There you have it, ladies and gentlemen. The man’s name is Demetri, and he has demanded that Action News remain on the air. I’m told that we will honor that request, but sources inform me that, even as we speak, Action News officials are coordinating with law enforcement to determine how best to handle this extremely dangerous and unprecedented situation.”

“Can somebody shut her up ?” said Andie.

“I’m about to shoot her myself,” said Schwartz.

“Where do things stand logistically?” said Andie.

“We’re setting up a mobile command center right now. Should have a dedicated line into the newsroom in a few minutes. I don’t want to wait much longer to make contact. How soon can you be here?”

Andie hesitated. “Are you sure you want me to be your negotiator?”

“You’re the best one I’ve got.”

“But I date one of the hostages.”

Schwartz grumbled. “We’ll sort that out when you get here. I at least need you here on the premises as part of the team. How long till you can get here?”

Andie got off the bed and walked to the closet. “It’ll take a good thirty minutes,” she said.

“Make it sooner,” said Schwartz, and the line disconnected.

Secret Service Agent Frank Madera stepped out of a warm taxi and into a pile of cold New York slush. Black skies over the boroughs had been trying to snow since sundown, succeeding at times, but the rain was stubborn. By 11:15 P.M., an ankle-deep mess of wet slop covered the sidewalks of Queens.

Madera cinched up his overcoat, popped open his umbrella, and waited at the corner. He was one of just a handful of pedestrians braving the weather. Across the street, outside a restaurant called Cafe Luna, was a black limousine. The dark tinted windows made it impossible to see inside, but the motor was running and the headlights shone. The car pulled away from the curb and started to swing around before Madera could even signal the driver. It stopped in front of him, and the rear door opened.

“Get in,” the man said.