Nikki decided these were the last two seconds she could afford on Hinesburg
and said, “Get ready.”
Numerous high-rise luxury apartments and office towers didn’t make Sutton Place the
friendliest neighborhood for air support. But as the first phase of her deployment
began and her unit moved on foot along East 57th to the front door of the Kluga
Building, those same elevated rooftops provided the dome of cover Agent Callan had
boasted about. In lieu of a chopper, DHS and NYPD sharpshooters kept vigil on the
roofs overhead as Heat’s team silently double-timed up the sidewalk.
Simultaneously, a contingent from ESU’s fabled Hercules Squad mirrored their
movement on East 58th to cover the back exit. When she reached her position mid-
block, two doors from Wynn’s entrance canopy, Nikki hand signaled and her troop
stopped, all of them planting their backs against the stone fa?ade of the building
to minimize their visibility from overhead windows.
“Heat in position one,” she whispered into her shoulder microphone.
“Copy, position one, Heat.” Bart Callan’s voice came back in her earpiece, from
inside the RV. “We have visual of you. Hercules is also confirmed position one.”
“We go in one minute, mark.”
“Copy the mark,” came the voice of the Herc team leader.
Nikki held up a forefinger to the unit and then waited the long minute, trying not
to think of this culmination and all it meant to her life. This was the wrong time
for emotion. It was time to be thinking of only two things. She summoned them, as
she always did, from the Academy. To the little sign posted in every hall, in every
classroom, even in the basement shooting range. The sign that saw her through every
situation: “Good Cops Are Always Thinking Tactics and Cover.”
Above her, behind her, and on the next block stood the best cover available
anywhere. In her logistical planning with ESU and the One-Seven’s site super, the
blueprint review of the building had not only marked tactical access and contingency
passages, but had delineated cover within. Each cop had an assignment on entry and
had memorized the route to get there—from the elevators to the front desk, the mail
room, the private gym, the stairwells, even the trash chute, should Mr. Wynn decide
on such an undignified escape. And who knew, from the fourth floor, he might survive
the drop. If so, Sharon Hinesburg would be waiting.
Twelve seconds to go. Detective Heat breathed some night air, keyed her mic, and as
her last detail before going in, repeated the same thing she had told them back at
the staging area. “Watch yourselves, but try to take him alive. I want to know what
he is working on.”
When her watch zeroed-out the minute, she calmly said, “Green to go.”
And they went.
If it weren’t for the body armor and 9mm machine guns, it could have been a ballet.
Detective Rhymer slid ahead of Heat, as planned, badged the doorman, and stayed
under shelter of the canopy with him to make sure no calls got made to the upstairs.
The double glass doors auto-opened, and an ESU officer sandbagged them to stay that
way. Nikki streamed into the lobby calling out, “NYPD, everyone stop what you’re
doing. Come out from behind the counter and the office with your hands in plain
view, and stand here with Detective Feller.” The suited concierge and the day
manager did just that, finding spots on the polished marble and wearing expressions
of awe and nervousness. “Don’t be alarmed,” Heat assured them. The dark-suited
Hercules Squad pouring in the back entrance and into the stairwells did little to
mollify the pair.