The Abduction

59

Tony Delgado clutched the silent beeper in his hand. Really clutched it. Timing was crucial. He had to react the instant the beeper started to vibrate—the moment his uncle gave the signal.

He stood at an intersection in the second-floor hallway near the elevators and stairway. The cleaning machine rested at his side. One eye was on the door to the stairwell. The other peered down the hallway. The silent beeper suddenly pulsated in his hand—the signal.
He struck a match and dropped it.
Blue and yellow flames raced across the alcohol-soaked carpeting like wind over a wheat field, scorching a path down the hall to the detonation rooms. It hit Room 205 first, then 217, then 235—each one quietly erupting in flames like a fiery game of dominoes. Delgado watched with an arsonist’s curiosity, impressed by his own work. In seconds, the heat was unbearable. More fire than he’d anticipated, moving faster than he’d expected. Too much alcohol.
The hallways were laid out like a square doughnut, all interconnecting, with rooms on the outside facing the streets and an open courtyard in the center. The flame zipped down one hall, turned left, down another, turned left, down the third leg, turned left.
Delgado suddenly felt heat at his back. He turned. The wall of flame had come full circle. He hadn’t been that careless. In a split second, he knew: His own uncle had toasted him.
“Oh, shit!”
His eyes widened as the flames overtook him. His machine exploded, propelling him down the hall in a massive fireball.


Allison leaped from her seat. The explosion shook the entire building. The lights flickered, then went out. Emergency lighting switched on as the fire alarm sounded. Panicked guests screamed and ran in every direction. Thick smoke poured from the second-floor hallways and was filling the lobby.
Allison tugged at the briefcase. The cable lock was secure, leaving no way to free it. She tried opening it to take the money, but the cable was wrapped too tightly around it. That was no accident, she realized, since the kidnapper had selected the briefcase and supplied the cable. The pungent smoke thickened and choked her lungs. Her eyes were burning. She’d just have to leave it. She grabbed a cloth napkin from the table to cover her nose and mouth. Her leather bag was empty save for the gun. She tucked the pistol inside her jacket and left the bag.
Harley’s voice was in her ear. “Allison, what’s going on!”
“Fire!” she said. “They’ve started a fire.”
“Get out.”
“Not without the girls.”
“Allison, just get out!”
Allison ignored him. She leaned over the railing to check the lobby. The emergency lighting was spotty and getting worse with the smoke. An emergency sprinkler was soaking a corner of the lobby near the entrance, but most weren’t activated. The second floor was completely dry.
“They must have vandalized the sprinklers,” she told Harley. “Only a few are working.”
Below, excited mobs were fighting to squeeze through the revolving doors, slipping in the darkness on the wet marble floors. Others tumbled down the stairs in the race to safety. Two men jumped over the mezzanine railing to avoid the traffic jam. In the midst of the confusion, Allison saw one person moving up the staircase, fighting against the flow. It was a young girl. Even in the dim lighting, she knew that face.
“Kristen!” she shouted.
The girl looked up, kept coming.
“Kristen, come this way!”
The noise from the crowd and the pulsing alarm was deafening. She feared Kristen couldn’t hear her. She could barely even hear Harley’s voice, which was right in her ear.
“Do you see Kristen?” he asked—or she thought that was what he’d said.
“Yes. The staircase. They’ve released her!”
Allison ran for the staircase, but the crowd wouldn’t let her pass. Flames shot from the hallway behind her. Staff carried out guests who had been overcome by smoke. Allison kept her eye on Kristen. Strangely, the girl seemed to be heading up the stairs on her own initiative, not in response to Allison’s calls. It didn’t make sense, thought Allison—unless the kidnapper had promised Kristen that her mother would be waiting for her upstairs, a cruel ploy to send the child to a fiery death right before Allison’s eyes. Allison pushed toward the lobby, forcing her way down the crowded staircase one slow step at a time.
She could see the top of the girl’s head, just a few steps below. “Kristen!” she shouted, but the words barely made it from her mouth. The smoke gagged her. She surged forward, forcing her way past the man blocking her way. Just a few steps and a few dozen bodies separated them. She reached as far as her arm would stretch but couldn’t quite get there. She made one final push, one last stretch, closing the gap—and she had her! She had her by the arm!
Their eyes met for an instant, then Kristen screamed and wiggled free—lost as quickly as she was found.
“Kristen!” she shouted. “It’s okay, come back!”
Kristen had turned in the opposite direction. She was moving with the flow down the stairs, away from Allison, frightened and confused—she’d obviously expected her mother or someone she knew.
Allison gave chase. “The disguise,” said Allison, not sure if Harley could even hear her anymore. “The whole world knows what I look like, but Kristen doesn’t recognize the disguise.”
Harley said something in reply, but it was just a painful screech in her ear. “Harley, I’m disconnecting. Too much static.” She pulled it from her ear and continued down the stairs. The smell of smoke filled the lobby. Allison could hear sirens blaring outside the hotel. Hysterical guests fled from the halls, restaurants, and bars—from every direction.
Frenzy, she thought. Total frenzy.
The crowd thinned at the base of the staircase. Kristen ran for the revolving door. Allison sprinted and caught her, wrapping her arms around her. Kristen fought out of fear, but Allison held on, taking the blows.
“It’s all right. Your mother sent me. I’m Allison Leahy.”
Kristen froze. She examined the face, looking past the disguise. A glimmer of recognition came to her eyes, then her face scrunched with disapproval.
“What in the world did you do to your hair?”
Allison smiled cathartically and hugged her with all her strength. Then she whisked her away. “Come on.”
They slowed only for a moment at the bottleneck at the entrance. Together they spilled onto the sidewalk outside with the rest of the crowd, stepping over fire hoses that crisscrossed the wet sidewalks. Cool, fresh air cleared their lungs, causing them to cough. Fire trucks and firefighters were all over the street. Police officers and paramedics helped staggering guests into ambulances and emergency vehicles. Allison recognized an FBI agent at the curb between a police car and fire truck. She took Kristen to him.
“I’m Allison Leahy,” she shouted above the noise. “This is Kristen Howe. Get her in one of these ambulances!”
The agent took her hand, but Allison stopped her. She got down on a knee and looked Kristen right in the eye.
“Kristen, do you know where Emily is?”
“Who?”
“The other little girl. The kidnapper said you would know how to find her.”
“I don’t know anything about another girl.”
Her heart sank. She turned to the other agent. “Take her. I have to find Emily.”
The agent hesitated.
“Take her!” she shouted. She touched Kristen gently on the cheek. “It’s okay. Go with him.”
The agent lifted her off the ground and carried her to the ambulance. Allison put the receiver back in her ear and spoke into her microphone. “Harley, are you there?”
The response was pure static. She glanced at the squadron of emergency vehicles around her. Probably a thousand other radios were operating. Then she heard something, a broken response.
“Allison, one of our agents has Kristen.”
“You don’t say.”
Injured guests staggered by her. The swirl of emergency lights gave everything an orange and yellow cast. A hook and ladder moved noisily into position overhead. Firefighters were carrying stranded guests down from the higher floors.
Allison shouted into her microphone. “Harley, I spoke to Kristen already. She doesn’t know anything about Emily.”
Allison pressed the earpiece, straining to hear. After a brief pause, she heard his response. “I’m sorry, but don’t lose hope. We have agents working on those pictures the kidnapper sent. Maybe something will turn up.”
“Turn up?” she shouted. “In eight years nothing has turned up!”
Static crackled over the line. She couldn’t hear his voice. Her eyes welled as she stared back into the burning building. Kristen was safe, but that was only half the deal. A million dollars for Kristen and Emily. That was the deal.
And now the money was burning in a stupid building.
Or was it? she wondered.
She scanned the mayhem around her, and her sadness turned to anger. It was all a big diversion—that’s all it was. In any kidnapping, the exchange of the child for the money was always where the plan came unraveled—it was where kidnappers were so often captured. This was the perfect way to handle the exchange—mass hysteria. While everyone was rushing from the building, Emily’s kidnapper was happily making off with the money in a briefcase he had specifically requested and that was undoubtedly fireproof.
She tweaked her microphone. “Harley, I’m going back inside.”
“Allison, don’t!”
He said something more, but Allison couldn’t hear. She adjusted the microphone to improve the reception—then someone grabbed her arm.
It was a cop. “Lady, you can’t stand here.”
“Please, I’m the attorney general.”
“Yeah, and I’m the Duke of Earl.”
“Let go,” she said, wrestling free. Static rattled in her ear. She pressed her earpiece again. “Damn it, Harley, I don’t want to go inside without radio contact, but I can’t hear you!”
The cop grabbed her again. “You’re with the press, aren’t you?”
She ignored him. “Harley, are you there?”
“Damn media sharks,” the cop groaned. “Get your bony reporter’s ass behind the police tape.” He ripped the microphone from her ear. The radio went completely dead.
“You idiot!” she screamed.
He grabbed her with one hand. His walkie-talkie was in the other. It squawked, giving Allison an idea. She wrestled free and grabbed his walkie-talkie.
“Hey!” he shouted.
Allison ran off.
“Lady, stop!”
She kept going, disappearing into the crowd. She pushed against the flow and made it back into the lobby. The smoke was beginning to clear below, but it was still clouding from the second floor. She pushed the button on her walkie-talkie.
“I don’t know who I’m talking to, but this is Attorney General Allison Leahy. I need to reach Special Agent Harley Abrams of the FBI immediately.” She left it on, hoping for a response.
Firefighters in full gear had replaced the hysterical guests in the lobby. Black soot and cinders covered the walls and floor. The chandeliers were dark. Emergency spotlights were the only source of light. Traces of smoke irritated her eyes, even though the fire was under control and the smoke had diminished. Most of the firefighters were wearing masks, but it wasn’t absolutely necessary. Allison could breathe without one.
She hurried inside and stopped at the base of the stairwell. The lighting was spotty, but she could see up to the mezzanine and the charred Independence Bar. A lone fireman was crouched by the table where she’d left the money. He wore a complete set of firefighting gear, including a self-contained breathing apparatus, like a scuba diver. Dressed like that, he could walk through any cloud of smoke. And, she realized, he could walk right out of the building without being detected.
As he rose from his crouch, Allison could see it—he had the money in hand. Their eyes met briefly at a distance, him from above and her from below. The man froze. Allison didn’t flinch. His face was barely visible behind the clear fireproof mask, but Allison could have sworn she saw him smile. In one swift motion, he snatched the briefcase and ran for the guest rooms.
Allison charged up the stairs, past the bar, heading at full speed toward the guest rooms. The smoke was thicker upstairs, though not impenetrable. The carpeting had completely burned away. The exposed floorboards were still hot from the flames.
Allison turned down the hall to the second-floor rooms. Glass crunched beneath her feet. The windows facing the inner courtyard had shattered in the explosion. Some interior walls had burned away completely. Others were charred but still standing. An emergency light shined through the smoke like a lone headlight beaming through fog. She was closing on the man in the fire suit. He was struggling beneath the weight of his gear.
He stopped suddenly, turned, and pointed his gun. On impulse, Allison ducked into an open room just as the bullet whizzed by her. She took her pistol from inside her jacket and peered out the doorway. He was running down the hall again. She ran after him.
He fired another shot on the run, but it was erratic. He seemed to be having trouble shooting with the thick fireproof gloves on his hands. Allison kept coming, though the floor was getting weaker. Some boards were completely burned away. She watched her step but refused to stop. She was just twenty feet behind him when the floor gave way beneath his feet.
Allison stopped as he plunged up to his waist in the fire-eaten floor. In his struggle to save the briefcase his gun fell through the opening in the floor. Allison assumed the police stance and pointed her gun at him from behind.
“Freeze!” she shouted.
He kept struggling. He was like a man who’d fallen through the ice and couldn’t pull himself up. Each time he groped for a firm piece of flooring, it broke away beneath him. Flames from below were lapping at his heels. He was barely hanging on—but he was getting away.
“Freeze!” she said again.
He kept inching away from her, though the heavy equipment and air tank were clearly slowing his movement. Finally he reached firm flooring, leaving a gaping hole in the floor between him and Allison. He wobbled to his feet. He started to run, but he’d hurt his leg in the fall. He limped away with the money.
Allison took aim, but she couldn’t shoot. Not without answers about Emily. She aimed lower, for his legs, but under the smoky conditions she feared her shot would come in high. An erratic bullet in the compressed air tank strapped to his back would unleash an explosion that would silence him forever—particularly with tanks that had been heated by the raging fire. She lowered her gun and charged forward, stopping at the hole. It was like gazing into hell—a long way down, nothing but flames.
The hole was slightly off-center. She walked along the intact ridge of flooring near the wall. The charred boards creaked beneath her feet, but she knew she weighed less than the man in all that gear. Her feet slid an inch at a time, one step at a time. Heat shot up from the open hole; it was like standing over a volcano. She moved faster, then leaped the last three feet to more secure flooring.
The kidnapper was just ducking into a room at the end of the hall—unarmed, she assumed, though she couldn’t be certain he didn’t have another weapon. She raced down the hall, gun in hand. The floor was still weak in spots, but she didn’t slow down. If he could make it wearing all that gear, she could surely make it. She stopped in the doorway and pointed her gun.
The man leaped from behind the door and knocked her backward, across the hall. She crashed through the remnants of a charred French door, but she fell only ten inches before the balcony caught her. Behind and below her was the hotel’s central courtyard. Staring at her from across the hall was Vincent Gambrelli.
Still on her back, she aimed her gun. “Stop right there,” she said.
He was framed in the doorway across the hall, fifteen feet away. He pulled off his mask and tossed it aside. He looked huge in his gear, especially with the breathing tank bulging behind him.
“Stop the charade,” he scoffed. “I know you’re not going to shoot me.”
She rose to her feet and stood on the balcony, aiming right at his face. She glanced at the courtyard behind her, fifty feet below. It was a maze of English gardens surrounded by wrought-iron fences with sharp-pointed pickets. The fear of falling forced her forward, but only a step. “I’ll kill you if you come any closer.”
“And where would that leave you? Peter is dead. I’m the only man alive who knows where Emily is.”
“You son of a bitch. Where is she?”
The walkie-talkie crackled in her coat. This time, the voice was familiar. “Allison, it’s Harley Abrams. Where are you?”
“Don’t you dare answer that,” said Gambrelli.
She had two hands on the gun, taking aim.
Gambrelli said, “I’m in control here, Allison. Not you. Not Abrams. Only I know where Emily is. You can’t kill me. You know you can’t kill me.”
The walkie-talkie crackled. “Allison, this is Harley. Where are you?”
Gambrelli heard it. She heard it. Allison didn’t move. He took a step toward her.
“Stay right there!” she shouted.
“Or what?” he sneered. “You’re not going to kill me. You won’t even tell the FBI where you are because you’re afraid they might kill me. You come up here all by yourself, trusting no one else to do the job. You know that if I’m dead, you’ll never find Emily.”
Her hands shook. She wanted to kill him—the man who had sneaked into her house and taken her sleeping baby right from her crib. But she knew he was right. She couldn’t kill him. Not if she ever hoped to find Emily.
Gambrelli took another step. “Now be a smart broad and give me the gun. You and I are going to walk right out of here.”
Her finger twitched on the trigger. Her face cringed with agony. She couldn’t give him the gun. She couldn’t let herself become a hostage. But she couldn’t give up on Emily.
The walkie-talkie crackled once more. “Allison, if you can hear me, those photographs gave us a lead. We found Emily. She’s alive and well in New York.”
Her eyes brightened.
Gambrelli’s face filled with panic.
In desperation he leaped toward her to grab the gun. Allison fell right back onto the balcony, much harder this time. The weight of Gambrelli’s equipment made him like a high-speed train, completely unstoppable. On her back, she felt him tumbling right over her. She yanked his coat with all her strength to keep his momentum going forward. In a split second he was flying over her head, flying over the rail, flying off the balcony, and screaming like a wounded banshee. She turned as he fell to the courtyard below, into the maze of walkways surrounded by wrought-iron fences with sharp-pointed pickets. He was falling face up, leading with his breathing tank. He landed squarely on the iron fence. The sharp picket punctured the tank, releasing an explosion of fire-heated compressed air that rocked the balcony fifty feet above. Allison covered her head from flying debris, then looked down. Shreds of the tattered firefighting suit lay strewn across the courtyard.
Vincent Gambrelli was gone. Completely gone.
Allison shivered as she peered over the railing. “That was for Emily,” she said from above.