Worst Case (Michael Bennett 3)
Mooney was weeping again. He was surprised to see that some of the traders on the floor had ashes on their foreheads. Were they really ready to share in the world’s suffering? To sacrifice themselves?
He took a deep breath.
Time to find out, he thought.
Chapter 89
THE MIDTOWN TRAFFIC had never seemed more impassable while Emily and I tried to carve a path downtown. Minute after precious minute slipped away as we screeched and slanted our way down Lexington through Turtle Bay and Murray Hill, the Flat Iron district, Gramercy Park, Union Square.
“So many neighborhoods, so little damn time,” I yelled with my ear cocked to the radio for the worst.
We were coming into SoHo when my phone rang. Was it over?
“Mooney just forced his way inside the Stock Exchange,” Chief Fleming told me.
“Wh—, wh—, what?” I screamed. “How the hell did he manage that!”
I couldn’t believe it. The security around the Stock Exchange had to be the highest in the city, maybe in the world. It seemed like all of southern Manhattan was one huge blockade after 9/11.
“Right after he snatched the St. Edward’s kids, the son of a bitch took the Exchange’s security chief’s kid from his doorman job at gunpoint. Then Mooney tangled himself, the students, and the doorman all together with the missing det cord and explosives. Dennis Quinn, the security chief, was manning the employee entrance when Mooney showed up, threatening to blow up his kid right on the street if Quinn didn’t let him inside. Quinn let him in. What the hell else was he supposed to do? It doesn’t matter now, does it?”
It sounded like Emily removed the muffler when she scraped the Crown Vic up onto the curb in front of Trinity Church six minutes later. Hopping out, I almost knocked down Chief Fleming, who was standing next to the NYPD Critical Incident bus, parked across the length of Broadway.
“Mooney’s blocked himself off in the balcony above the trading floor where they ring the opening bell,” my boss said over the wail of sirens that seemed to be coming from every direction. “He also just called nine-one-one. He’s made an offer. He says he’ll exchange the St. Edward’s students for their fathers. We have thirty minutes to get them here. We’re contacting them now.”
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