"Flat tire," said Jack.
Demetri gave it more gas, mowing down bushes and other landscaping that surrounded the studio. Jack braced for one more bounce as they jumped the curb and sped into the parking lot. The sound of shreddedifcbber flapping against the pavement told of at least two flat tires, rilaybe three.
"You think the doors are locked?"
"It's nighttime in Miami," said Jack.
Demetri pressed the accelerator to the floor, steered the Mustang up onto the walkway, and drove straight for the main entrance. It was a three-story wall of plate-glass windows.
"Down!" said Demetri.
Jack dived to the floor, and it sounded like a hurricane as the car crashed through the door and took down the entire wall of glass with it. Windows shattered, metal twisted, and furniture and debris flew everywhere. The wheels screeched across the tile floor as the car slammed into the reception desk and came to a sudden stop in the main lobby. Through it all, Jack's hands remained tied behind his back, the knotted lamp cord holding like handcuffs.
Demetri drew his pistol, flung open the door, and yanked Jack from the backseat. Fortunately, no one had been in the waiting room or at the reception desk at this hour, but the alarm sounded, and a security guard came running down the open flight of stairs from the upper level.
"This man has a gun!" Jack shouted.
The guard drew his weapon, but not fast enough. Demetri dropped him with a single shot. As the guard tumbled down the stairs, Jack lunged toward the Greek, but he wasn't much of a threat with his hands bound behind his back. Demetri wheeled and clubbed Jack across the side of the head with the butt of his pistol. The blow knocked Jack to his knees. He was even stronger than Jack had thought.
"I'll kill you, too!" he said. "Is that what you want?"
Jack's head was throbbing, and it took a moment to process what he was hearing. The Greek didn't wait for a response. He lifted Jack to his feet and put the gun to his head.
"Now let's do this right, Swyteck. And if you're a good boy, maybe one of us will get out of here alive."
He took Jack past the open stairway first, grabbed the security guard's gun, and tucked it under his belt. Then he pushed Jack through the long hallway, past the darkened set for the Food, Glorious Food show, past the managerial offices and dressing rooms, and through the final set of doors that led to the evening news set.
"Nobody move!" shouted Demetri.
Chaos had already broken loose. Dozens of cubicles with computer terminals occupied a large open work area in front of the set, and the reduced staff that worked the eleven o'clock news were either racing for emergency exits or already outside the building. All but one cameraman had fled the set, along with the weekend producer, the director, the co-anchor, the former Miami Dolphin football player who did the sports wrap up, and the former Miss Florida who guessed at the weather. A single cameraman and an ambitious young anchorwoman were bringing up the rear, dutifully keeping Action News on the air as they raced toward the door.
"We have breaking news literally breaking into the Action News studio!" she said into the wireless microphone clipped to her lapel. She was a weekend substitute, not the regular nightly anchor, and Jack recognized her as the rising Action News star who had chained herself to a palm tree to keep from getting blown away during her report on Hurricane Wilma making landfall.
She was just steps away from the door when Demetri fired a warning shot. It tore through the carpet three feet in front of her, stopping her and the cameraman in their tracks.
"I said, Nobody move/"
Chapter
40
At 11:10 P
. M
. Andie's home telephone rang. She was awake but in bed, wearing her most comfortable and unsexy pair of pajamas, all geared up for a night alone watching Saturday Night Live. Her gut told her it was Jack calling, and she was afraid to answer. She'd probably overreacted to the news that Jack was in a hotel room with his "client," and she feared that if she picked up the phone she might still saddle Jack with the sins of her ex-fiance. No way would Jack do what that creep had done to her.
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 night
-
stand.
"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 r
eflex. 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 onscreen 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.
Chapter
41
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.
It had been two years since Madera had last seen Joseph Dinitalia. He looked the same--handsome, slightly overweight, and still showing the jet-black hair and dark Sicilian eyes that had labeled him a lady killer since high school. That was where the two men had first met. Every day after baseball practice they'd head over to Corona Heights, hit the Lemon Ice King, and talk about their plans to take over the world while watching the old Italian men play bocce ball in the park. After graduation, Dinitalia stayed in New York to join the family business, so to speak. Madera chose the straight path, went to college on an ROTC scholarship, served two tours of duty in the Middle East, and finally came home to a coveted job with the Secret Service. Then he hit a wall: not once, not twice, but six separate times the service turned down his request to work directly for the president. At their twentieth high-school reunion, Dinitalia took him for a limo ride. It was then that he laid out his plan to have the president work for them.
Sometimes Madera cursed his old friend for getting him involved, but it was all too perfect--the two smartest kids from the old neighborhood in Queens, one with the goods on the president of the United States, the other a Secret Service agent who was suddenly--but not coincidentally--handpicked by the president to be his right-hand man. All Madera had to do was whisper into his new boss's ear, and the most powerful man in the world had two choices: grant Dinitalia his wish, or pack his bags and leave the White House.
"LaGuardia," Dinitalia told the driver. "Go the long way around Jackson Heights and come back past St. Michael's."