“Seriously. Swyteck can help you.”
“Swyteck can’t do shit.”
“That’s not true. He helped me, and I was on death row.”
“Death row, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“I got news for you, big guy,” Falcon said as the gun barrel burrowed into the nape of Theo’s neck. “We’re all on death row.”
THE NEXT FEW minutes unfolded like a war zone around Jack. At least a dozen squad cars roared up Biscayne Boulevard and positioned themselves around the motel in circled-wagons fashion. An ambulance was right behind them. Two City of Miami cops jumped out of their cars and ran toward Officer Lopez, who lay motionless in the parking lot. A quick round of gunfire from room 103 turned them back and sent them scurrying for cover behind their vehicles. Another squad car squealed across the parking lot and stopped between the downed officer and the motel to create a shield. On hands and knees, a paramedic crawled toward Officer Lopez. Thirty feet away, closer to the street, another paramedic hurried toward Officer McKenzie. Jack watched it all unfold from a worm’s-eye view, his cheek flat on the asphalt.
Another officer rushed to McKenzie’s side. The name tag on his breast pocket said D. SWANN. “Where you hit, Brad?”
“The shoulder,” he said. “There’s innocents inside that building. You guys have to hold your fire. How’s Lopez?”
“Don’t know. Paramedic is with him now.”
With a jerk of his head, he pointed toward Jack. “This guy was driving the car that crashed into the building. Could be dangerous.”
“I’m not dangerous, I was carjacked,” said Jack.
“I’ll take care of it from here,” said Swann.
The paramedics placed McKenzie on a gurney, and the ambulance whisked him away. Swann patted Jack down, but before he reached Jack’s wallet, he said, “You’re Jack Swyteck, aren’t you? Governor Swyteck’s son.”
“Yes. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you guys. That’s my client in there with-” He stopped, his chain of thought broken by another round of gunfire.
Swann keyed his microphone. “Hold your fire!” He looked at Jack and said, “What’s your client armed with?”
“Handgun.”
“Pistol or revolver?”
“Pistol, I think.”
“How many ammunition clips?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s his name?”
“Pablo Garcia. He goes by Falcon.”
Swann keyed his public address system. “Falcon. This is the City of Miami Police Department. You are surrounded. Please, just calm down, and hold your-”
The crack of gunfire sent him diving to the pavement. For a split second, Jack thought Swann had been hit, but he was just taking cover. “That’s one pissed-off client you’ve got there, counselor.”
“No kidding. What you need is a trained negotiator.”
“Got one on the way.”
“Good,” said Jack. “Tell him to hurry.”
chapter 18
A t twelve-forty a.m. Alicia dug her ringing cell phone out of her purse and checked the display. It was Renfro, the chief of police. She and Vince were still seated at their outdoor table, talking and listening to music. Alicia plugged one ear with her finger to silence the sounds of the nightclub and took the call. The chief gave her a quick update on Falcon and the possible hostage crisis.
“Where are they?” asked Alicia.
“Biscayne Motor Lodge. You know it?”
“Of course.” Any cop who knew anything about twenty-dollar prostitutes and petty drug deals knew the Biscayne Motor Lodge. “Anyone hurt?”
“Two officers down. Juan Lopez and Brad McKenzie.”
“How bad?”
“McKenzie called for backup. Lopez-It was a headshot.”
“Is he…”
“Yeah, he’s dead.”
“God, no. His wife just had a baby.”
Vince said, “What’s wrong?”
The emotion in Alicia’s voice was more than enough to signal that it was something serious. She reached across the table and touched his hand, as if to say “Just a sec.”
“You’re shaking,” he said.
She wasn’t sure that she was, but Vince had definitely picked up some sign of her distress. Nothing cut through cops like the loss of their own.
The chief continued, “I know that Paulo has pretty much settled on the idea that teaching at the academy is the right place for him, long-term. But he and this Falcon have a history. He at least has that much going for him to start up a dialogue. Do you think-”
“I’d bet my badge on it,” said Alicia.
“Talk to him first. You’ll know what to say to him. Then have him call me.”
“Will do.” After a quick good-bye, Alicia hung up and laid a twenty-dollar bill on the table to cover the last round of drinks. “We have to go, Vince.”
Vince handed the money back to her and opened his own wallet. The bills were folded differently, according to denomination-singles lengthwise, fives widthwise, and so on. He unfolded two tens and laid them on the table. “You bought the first round,” he said.
“Thanks, but we really have to go.”
“What is it?”
“Not good,” she said. “I’ll tell you on the way.”
Ten minutes later, they were speeding across the Julia Tuttle Causeway on their way to the mainland and the Biscayne Motor Lodge. Cruise ships in the Port of Miami lit up the bay like floating hotels. To the west was the Miami skyline, a jagged assortment of modern skyscrapers bathed in a rainbow of colored spotlights. Alicia gave Vince all the details, and the chief’s proposition was hanging in the silence between them.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” said Vince.
Alicia changed lanes to get around a truck. “All you have to do is talk to the guy. He knows you.”
“Talking a homeless guy down from a bridge is one thing. But we’re dealing with a clinically paranoid gunman holed up in a hotel room with at least one hostage, possibly more. That leaves zero margin for error.”
“It’s a phone call, Vince.”
“No, it’s a hostage negotiation. Slight difference.”
“Do you really think that’s beyond your capabilities?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think someone else can do it better?”
“How can I know, damn it?”
“Don’t get testy about it. Just take this for what it is-a vote of confidence from the chief of police.”
He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You just don’t understand.”
