The television screen flickered, and Jack thought for a moment that they might be going off the air again. Action News was simply resuming its split screen broadcast. This time, however, it was a different reporter with a live update from just outside the traffic-control perimeter.
“This is Haley Vacaro, Action News. I’m standing about a mile from the Action News studio, which is now as close as police will allow traffic to approach on Frontage Road. Police have actually set up a second perimeter of traffic control here to prevent the crowd around the studio from swelling to an unmanageable level. With me is a close friend of Jack Swyteck, one of the three hostages. Sir, if you could step right over here, please, and give us your name one more time.”
“Theo Knight.”
Jack’s jaw dropped, but that was definitely the one and only Theo Knight on television, wearing a T-shirt that read BRINGBACKPORN.COM.
“Mr. Knight, how is it that you know Jack Swyteck?”
“Jack’s a dude, man. He was my lawyer when I was on death row, and we been hangin’ ever since. No pun intended.”
The reporter stepped away. “Well, obviously this is someone’s idea of a joke, and I apologize to our viewers for-”
“It’s true,” said Theo as he stepped back into the picture. “Look at this,” he said, holding up a key.
“What is that?”
“A key to a 1968 Mustang GT-390 Fastback. That’s the green car that crashed through the front door to your studio. I was with Jack when he bought it, and I kept the extra key.”
You kept my damn key? thought Jack. He’d been looking for the spare.
The reporter put a finger to her earpiece to receive a message. Whatever her producer was telling her, it seemed to satisfy her.
“All right, Mr. Knight. What can you tell us about this hostage standoff? Any idea what it might be all about?”
“I really couldn’t tell you, but I have someone with me who definitely knows the story. Her name is Sofia, and she used to be married to that dude with the gun inside the studio.”
The reporter’s eyes lit up, as she’d just hit the jackpot.
Demetri screamed at the top of his lungs, “Nooooo!”
Jack understood the Greek’s reaction immediately, but he also realized that Theo had no idea how much danger he was putting Sofia in.
Demetri moved faster than Jack had ever seen him move as he cut across the set, grabbed the phone, and punched star-69 to get the FBI command center. He shouted his demand in a voice that was more than loud enough for Jack to hear.
“Henning, get Sofia protection, or all bets are off! Do you hear what I’m saying? The same thugs that want me dead also want her dead. You get her some protection right now!”
Agent Frank Madera was in a conference room inside the Action News complex. The business-office wing was a new two-story building that ran perpendicular to the studio, and at Madera’s suggestion, Sergeant Figueroa had moved the Miami-Dade SWAT unit there from the coffee shop. It would serve as their staging platform into the newsroom-partly for logistical reasons, but mostly because it was on the opposite side of the building from the FBI SWAT staging area.
The tactical team was suited up in black gear and ready to deploy, eight contemplative men leaning against the wall in silence. A ceiling-mounted television in the corner was tuned to Action News, keeping them apprised in real time. Madera stood at the head of the conference table, an architect’s blueprint of the newsroom spread out before him. At his side was Officer Sam Reed, MDPD’s top-rated sniper.
“You’ll move in through the main air-conditioning duct,” said Madera, pointing to the blueprint. “There’s a large intake vent here, which provides access to the catwalk over the newsroom.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if the perp has already sealed off the A-C vents,” said Reed.
“You’ll need to be careful,” said Figueroa. “He did say in his first communication that he had a surprise for anyone who tried to come in through the A-C ducts.”
“If it’s impassable, radio us,” said Madera. “Sergeant Figueroa will have to waive off the sniper shot and breach with his tactical team.”
“Got it,” said Reed.
Figueroa said, “What’s the likelihood of success on a shot from up there?”
Reed processed it aloud, his mind a human calculator of angles, percentages, and timing. “Subject on an open news set. Distance about a hundred feet. Possible obstructions-lighting fixtures, hanging cameras, other equipment. Elevated shooting platform should have only minimal adverse impact on bullet trajectory. No wind or other elements to worry about. If that vent isn’t blocked, I’d say we’re looking above the ninety-ninth percentile.”
“For a kill shot?” said Madera.
“T-zone,” said Reed.
A shot to the T-zone-the imaginary area that covered a person’s eyes and nose-was exactly what Madera wanted. It shut a man down like the flip of a light switch, no reaction.
Madera said, “SWAT will breach at the crack of sniper fire. If for some unknown reason the head shot doesn’t take him out, the team does.”
“Roger,” said Figueroa.
Madera turned to address the tactical team as a group.
“Gentlemen, I want to thank each of you for your willingness to serve in this crucial matter of national security. You heard the gunman’s latest demand to speak to the president of the United States. While I cannot go into details, I can assure you that this latest demand is not just another delusional request from a crazy man. This subject has already shot and killed a security guard. He has nothing to lose by killing again, and he has no intention of releasing these hostages alive. Most important, he has put himself on television for the sole purpose of compromising this country’s vital national security interests. We’ve done everything we can to avoid loss of life, even literally pulling the plug on his television broadcast. The gunman’s response was to guarantee the execution of a hostage if he did not get back on the air. Our only option was to resume broadcasting, but that concession cannot stand. Again, on behalf of the president, I thank you. I don’t have to tell you what needs to be done. Each of you is a trained professional. You know the assignment.”
“We do,” said Figueroa.
“Good,” said Madera. “Then let’s get it done.”
Madera checked the television for a quick update. It was a split screen, and an Action News reporter was interviewing a big, muscular black guy dressed in civilian clothes. Madera wasn’t really focused on the interview, but even with divided attention he was able to pick up the important part.
“…but I have someone with me who definitely knows the story. Her name is Sofia, and she used to be married to that dude with the gun inside the studio.”
Madera nearly choked, and the scream he heard from Demetri over the television-“Noooooo”-was his sentiment exactly. His cell rang almost immediately, and he checked the number. It was not a call he could ignore.
“Team, hold your position,” said Madera. He stepped out of the conference room and closed the door, making sure he was alone in the hallway. Joseph Dinitalia was on the line.
“You heard?”
“I’m on it,” said Madera.
“We need them both out.”
“I said I’m on it.”
“You need help?”
“No. The Greek is all lined up.”
“What about Sofia? Do I have to send someone?”
“You mean like the idiots last night with the machine gun who shot up everything but the Greek? Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Then who’s got the old lady?”
Madera drew a breath. “You know what they say: If you want something done right…”
“You got this one?”
“Send a couple men to help me look for her. But when we find her, then yeah,” he said, “I got it.”