James Grippando - Born to Run

“Now I have a million witnesses,” he said. “All of us can die.”

Secret Service Agent Frank Madera went straight from the Miami International Airport to the Action News standoff.

He hadn’t told the FBI that he was coming, and he assiduously avoided contact with the feds after his arrival. Instead, he tracked down Manny Figueroa in a coffee shop adjacent to the studio. The MDPD SWAT unit had made it their official staging area. Its location was strategic-in a building separate from the studio but within the traffic control perimeter, so that they could mobilize without the entire world knowing about it. Figueroa was standing beside a table of doughnuts and coffee when Madera introduced himself as a member of the president’s elite personal security detail. It was enough to impress anyone, and Madera had his full attention as he explained-falsely-that the Secret Service had arrived to help protect the son of the vice presidential nominee.

“I hope you didn’t bring your own mobile command center,” said Figueroa.

“No,” said Madera. “That’s not what we do. Can you and I talk in private?”

A half dozen members of the SWAT unit were seated nearby in the dining area, waiting for the green light from Figueroa. They seemed incredibly calm, as they were trained to be. In a matter of minutes, one of these guys might storm a building and pump hollow-point ammunition into a man’s skull. Or not. It all depended on how things went. Madera was determined to have a say in that.

“Sure,” said Figueroa. “Step into my office.”

Madera followed him into the men’s room. Figueroa locked the door. Madera stood near the sink with his back to a cracked mirror. Figueroa leaned against the wall beside the electric hand dryer. Madera had never met the man, but he was trained to make quick judgments about people, and he’d already concluded that Figueroa was capable of blowing more hot air than the hand dryer.

“Let me just say this up front,” said Figueroa. “I’ve already backed down to the FBI on leading the negotiations, and I can see that it was a mistake. I’m not backing down to the Secret Service on top of it.”

“Take it easy, all right?” said Madera. “I told you that’s not what this is about, and I’m shooting straight here.”

Figueroa looked skeptical, but he didn’t argue.

“Here’s the bottom line,” said Madera. “This gunman has to go.”

“Excuse me?” said Figueroa.

Madera gave him his most serious look. “The man is a threat to national security. It’s time to take him out.”

Figueroa paused, taking in Madera’s words. “What kind of threat to national security?”

“I can’t divulge the details, but I can tell you this much. It’s no coincidence that one of his hostages is the son of the next vice president of the United States. Nor is it a coincidence that he’s taken control of a television news station. The secrets he intends to reveal on the air are a direct threat to our national security.”

“That’s all fine and good,” said Figueroa. “But you’ve got the FBI here, and they have their own SWAT. Why are you talking to me?”

“It’s not like I’m enlisting a bunch of yahoos. MDPD is the one of the largest local law enforcement outfits in the United States. Its SWAT unit is top notch, and unlike most tactical units, your men have experience, not just training.”

“Well, thanks for the blow job, but I’m not sure I really heard an answer to my question.”

“I can’t use the FBI.”

“Why not?”

“Again, I will be totally honest with you, but if you ever repeat it to anyone, I will deny it vehemently. But only after cutting your balls off. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Have you ever dealt with the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”

“Of course.”

“And has it ever occurred to you that it’s impossible to spell bureaucracy without the bureau?”

Figueroa smiled. “You’ve got a point there.”

“We need to neutralize this threat immediately, and it’ll be dawn before I can get kill-shot authority from the ‘bureau-cracy.’ ”

“Longer,” said Figueroa.

“To be honest, I’m not sure they’d ever approve it. It’s been over a decade since the FBI botched things up at Waco and got seventy-four hostages killed along with David Koresh, and even longer since the shootings at Ruby Ridge. Those events live on, and the FBI worries about its image. I’m sure there are plenty of people here in Miami who will never forget the midnight raid that sent Elian Gonzalez back to Cuba. With this hostage crisis unfolding live on television, an exit plan with this kind of finality is bound to die from an acute case of paralysis through analysis as it works its way up the chain of command.”

Figueroa considered it, but not for long. “There has to be precise coordination. The instant my men make the breach, the power has to be cut off. Or at least the broadcast has to be killed. The MDPD may not be as image conscious as the FBI, but I don’t want a takedown on television either.”

“So you’re up to the task?”

Figueroa was deadpan. “I need to clear it with my director.”

Madera shook his head. “If you go up in your department, I might as well call in the FBI. You’re the MDPD crisis team leader. This is a crisis of national significance. Find some balls.”

Figueroa drew a breath, his chest rising. “All right,” he said. “We’re in.”

Things were quiet in the mobile command center. Too quiet.

Andie had been staring at the television screen too long.

If Demetri was striving for must-see TV, he was failing miserably. The single camera was aimed at Jack and the anchorwoman, who could do nothing but wait quietly and try not to freak out. Demetri was somewhere off to the side, out of view. Long periods of silence gave the Action News commentators and guest analysts way too much time to fill. She tried not to listen to them. Her focus was on the hostages, and it suddenly struck her how unusual this situation was. Hostage negotiation rarely depended so much on sight. In fact, one of the City of Miami’s finest, Vincent Paulo, was blind. For the first time in her entire career, Andie was able to see the people she was trying to save. In some ways it was an advantage. At least she knew they were alive. But being able to see into their eyes, to watch the ever-growing worries on their faces from one moment to the next, more than canceled out any advantage. That constant reminder on the television screen only seemed to emphasize the fact that their fate depended entirely on her next choice of words.

The fact that one of the lives hanging in the balance was Jack’s upped the stakes beyond measure.

Andie stepped outside for some air.

A circle of squad cars was still stationed around the Action News studio, but the uniformed officers had downgraded from a state of readiness to a hunker-down-and-wait mode. It was a subtle difference in posture and demeanor, but it came like clockwork about two hours into every hostage standoff Andie had ever handled. Andie looked up at the stars and breathed in the cool night air. A helicopter whirred above the edge of the crowd-control perimeter, and she was relieved to see that police air coverage had replaced the media choppers. A spotlight swept the strip mall at the western edge of containment, and Andie noticed snipers on the rooftops. They were well within range of the studio. She knew the position of all the FBI snipers. These were not FBI.

Andie checked her cell phone. Still no return call from Jack’s father. She wondered if he’d gotten her messages. Andie was big on vibes, and she didn’t like the one she was getting at the moment. It had been almost an hour since Figueroa had last stopped by the FBI mobile command center to tell her “I told you so, I knew you’d get nowhere in negotiations.” She sensed that something was afoot, and that she wasn’t part of it.