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  “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 funny. Small world. Mine, too,” said Parrish.

  Emily and I faded into the corner of the bus.

  “Charities? Wills?” she said. “This is definitely connected. Mooney was the head of Trusts and Estates, wasn’t he?”

  “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.’ ”

  “Wait a second. Read that back about the alms.”

  “ ‘That your alms may be in secret,’ ” Seamus said.

  That was it!

  I grabbed Emily as I slapped the phone closed.

  “I got it! Mooney’s giving alms in secret!”

  “Giving what?” Emily said, confused.

  “Alms. Charity. Don’t you see? In every case, the family had a philanthropic bent. And in every case, the child was the sole beneficiary of mega wealth. When Mooney learned he was going to die, he concocted this whole thing as a way to cut out the child and donat
e as much money as he could directly to charity!”

  Emily stood there with her mouth open.

  “That clever little weasel. That explains the deal with the tests he gave the kids. He was trying to see if they were socially conscious enough to be allowed to inherit their parents’ wealth. That explains why he let the Haas girl live. But how does that help us now?”

  “I’ll tell you how,” I said. “Mooney doesn’t want to exchange the fathers for the kids. He’s not going to exchange anything. Mason and Parrish are both single. Once Mooney sees the fathers, he’s going to kill all of them. The fathers, the sons, and himself. The money won’t even have to wait for the fathers’ natural lifetimes to expire in order for it to go to charity. It’ll happen right now.”

  Carol Fleming came over.

  “What’s the story, guys? Are we sending the fathers in or not?”

  “No way, boss,” I said. “But I think I have a plan.”

  Chapter 92

  “LET’S TALK ABOUT the horrors of the modern world that the greed in this room has helped to create,” Mooney said into the balcony microphone.

  “Let’s go over the crimes that all of you here have helped to perpetrate. The environmental travesties, the worker exploitation and deaths, the public corruption and tax evasion. Do you care about the black lung and asbestosis that your corporate masters inflict on their workers? The pollution that your holy shareholders and investors condone?”

  Mooney looked down at their blank faces.

  “I was like you. I slaved for the corporate machine, protecting it from the law in ways regular people will never be privy to. Protected illegal price fixes and unethical policies against millions of regular working-class people. I saw crimes of unthinkable magnitude. I saw pristine waterways irrevocably befouled with pollution. No one was held responsible. No one went to jail. Why is that? Can anyone tell me?

  “By the way, I can see that many of you here are grossly overweight. But what percentage of the world’s population is starving as we have our little talk here? Anyone have the answer? Don’t be shy.”

  Chapter 93

  IT TOOK US five minutes to confer with my boss and the Hostage Rescue Team chief Tom Chow. Chow made the final arrangements over his tactical mic as Emily and I pulled on ceramic bomb vests.

  “What’s the story now, Detective?” Howard Parrish said as we emerged from the bus. “We’re not going in now? What about my boy?”

  “Something new has come to light. It’s our best chance to resolve this thing without any more innocent people getting hurt. We’re going to do the best we can, sir,” Emily said.

  “That’s not good enough. Fuck that! I want my son alive. If you can’t guarantee that, then I want to go instead of him. I demand to!”

  I stopped and held the executive by his elbow.

  “Listen to me, Mr. Parrish,” I said. “I guarantee you that I will bring your son back to you alive.”

  We walked away.

  “What the hell are you doing, Mike? How can you make a promise like that?” Emily said under her breath as we headed down Wall Street toward the Stock Exchange entrance.

  “Easy,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “If things go south, I won’t be around for him to yell at me.”

  Chow met us at the security barricades and briefed us a final time while we walked through the maze of steel.

  “Everything is in place,” he finally said, stopping by the Exchange’s door. “The rest is up to you two.”

  Emily and I passed the metal detectors in the huge empty lobby. We walked silently, thinking our own thoughts as we stepped down the hall.

  “Good luck, Detective Bennett. This works, I’ll buy you dinner,” Emily said as I stopped by the door that led to the balcony stairwell.

  “Hope you brought your American Express card, Agent Parker,” I said as she continued on, heading for the trading floor. “Because if this works, I’m planning on about fifteen before-dinner drinks.”

  Chapter 94

  COMING DOWN THE hall, Parker was grateful for the speed with which all this was happening. There was no time to think. Which was good. If she’d had to think about things, she knew she’d be walking in the opposite direction.

  A couple of Stock Exchange cops were crouched by the last security station, staring through the window of the entrance to the trading floor. Parker badged them.

  “Where is he?”

  A couple of brokers cringing behind the trading desks whispered loudly.

  “Watch it, lady. That guy’s nuts.”

  “He’s got a gun,” a pudgy white guy with thinning black hair told her.

  She stepped out into the space.

  “You actually thought you’d get away with it, didn’t you, shit for brains! Yes, I’m talking to you, scumbag!”

  “Who are you?” Mooney called over the microphone.

  “Me? I’m a moral person who went to work today,” Emily screamed. “You, on the other hand, are a common murderer, a killer of children, a serial killer, and probably a pervert.”

  “Hey, lady!” one of the brokers said. “Shut up! You’re going to get us all killed!”

  “I am not!” Mooney yelled.

  “I am not!” Emily said, mimicking him. “Who are you kidding? You got off on killing every one of those kids.”

  “Those kids, as you call them, were worthless, useless. They deserved to die!” Mooney screamed. “Their parents should have educated them better. Should have taught them the importance of being human.”

  “Oh, you’re teaching all of us humanity?” Emily screamed. “My mistake. I thought you were just killing children!”

  Chapter 95

  CHECKING MY WATCH, I knelt down next to the tactical “mouse hole” the HRT guys had already made into the hallway wall to avoid the explosives. At the top of the narrow stairs, I unscrewed the fluorescent light and laid it down carefully on the dusty, worn marble tiles and slowly opened the door.

  About twenty feet away with his back to me, Mooney stood at the front railing of the balcony with his captives, yelling down at Emily. Between us, dividing the balcony in half at an angle, was a five-foot-wide stripe of bright sunlight that fell from the Stock Exchange’s front window. I stared at the light intently for a moment before I opened my mouth.

  “Francis! Over here! Hey, don’t listen to her!” I called to him.

  Mooney swung around toward me, angry and confused. He shook the detonator at me.

  “You’re sneaking up on me? Try something, and I’ll do it!” he screamed. “Right now. I’ll do everyone! Where are the fathers? Why is no one listening to me?”

  I stared fearfully at the two high school kids and the security chief’s son, all of whom Mooney had bound himself to. They were pale, listless, sweating, eyes glazed with stress and shock. I thought of my oldest boy, Brian, only a few years younger. I wanted them to live. I wanted us all to live. I had to make this happen. Somehow.

  “Francis! Calm down, man! It’s me, Mike Bennett,” I said, raising my hands slowly above my head. “I’m not sneaking up on you. I have the fathers in the hall here behind me, like you said. I’ll let them in. You let the boys go. Will you work with me?”

  Mooney took a step toward me. His eyes behind his glasses were gleaming now, filled with an unsettling intensity. His taped-together hands holding the detonator were shaking now. I watched his right-hand index finger twitch as it hovered over its trigger.

  I struggled to come up with something to calm him down. Emily’s tirade was supposed to be just a distraction, but it had gotten him so riled up, he might set the plastic off by accident.

  “Where are they?” Mooney demanded, peering into the darkened doorway at my back.

  “At the bottom of the stairwell, Francis. They’re waiting to come up,” I said.

  “You’re lying,” Mooney said.

  “No,” I said, making eye contact with him as I shook my head. “No more lies, Francis. We just want what’s best for everybody. For y
ou. For those kids. The fathers really want to take their sons’ places. They appreciate that you’ve given them the option, in fact.”

  “Yeah, like I believe that,” Mooney said. He took another step closer, his eyes squinting as he tried to peer deeper into the dim stairwell.

  “I won’t let anyone go until the fathers come up those stairs and stand in front of me. That’s the deal, Mike. No negotiating. Bring them up here right now.”

  I turned around as if I heard something behind me.

  “Okay, Francis,” I said. “They’re on the stairs right behind me now. Why don’t we do this? Why don’t you come forward a little and look in the doorway first. You can verify that it’s them. Then you can untangle one of the kids. I don’t want you to think it’s a trick.”

  Mooney stood there, thinking about it.

  “Okay,” he said, taking another step.

  As he came forward, I watched the sunlight from the window glance off his shoe. The light came up his leg, his torso, his two hands grasping the detonator as if in prayer.

  “Got him,” the FBI sniper across the street said into the radio in my ear.

  I dove to the floor.

  Chapter 96

  STANDING IN THE dusty light, Mooney looked at me in confusion as I hit the deck. Then he turned toward the window I’d lured him in front of.

  The shattering of the long front window of the Exchange seemed to happen after Mooney was hit. One second, he was standing there, and the next, the window shattered spectacularly, and he was down, sitting on the floor.

  The blood pumping from Mooney’s wrists looked black on the bright faded marble. I scrambled up as Mooney fruitlessly tried to squeeze the detonator trigger. He was having trouble because his blown-apart hands and wrists were now only barely attached to his arms.

  The .50 caliber sniper bullets had missed the detonator but hit him through both wrists, completely severing the nerves in both hands.

  I felt sorry for Mooney as he wriggled on the floor, moaning and pumping blood.