Chapter 63

CHAPTER 63

“ MOVE! COMING THROUGH! ”

Holmes was running at top speed through Moynihan Train Hall at Penn Station, toward the Seventh Avenue exit, shoving slower-moving pedestrians aside. When he reached the plaza outside, he spotted a taxi queue at the curb. Travelers with backpacks and satchels were waiting in a ragged line. Holmes pulled his wallet from his pocket and waved his PI identification over his head as he ran. “Official business!” he shouted. He jumped into the first cab in line and slammed the door behind him.

The cabbie turned around and glared. “What the hell, buddy?”

“Silvercup Studios in Queens! Life or death! No questions! Go! ”

The cabbie pulled away from the curb with a gut-twisting lurch, cutting off a city bus and getting a chorus of honks from other cars. Holmes pulled an assortment of bills from his wallet and waved them in front of the Plexiglas partition. “I’ll pay you a hundred dollars for every ten miles over the speed limit you can go,” he said.

“You’re nuts if you think anyone’s even moving as fast as the speed limit in this traffic, let alone ten miles over,” the cabbie retorted. “Besides, I don’t need another suspended license!”

Holmes fastened his seat belt. “Don’t worry—I can fix that too! Let’s move!”

The driver gave him a wary look in the rearview mirror. “I’m gonna hold you to that,” he said. He made a hard turn on 34th Street and did his best to bull his way across town, making ample use of the bus lane and running two red lights along the way. He couldn’t do much in the single-file flow of the Queens–Midtown Tunnel except curse and tap his horn, but he earned his money on the east side of the river, blasting up 21st Street through Long Island City and Hunters Point, then zigzagging through side streets to dodge the police barricades as they got close to the studio site.

A block away from the big red Silvercup sign, two patrol cars and a SWAT van blocked the street. Holmes pounded on the partition. “Close enough! Stop here!” He pushed a bunch of bills through the slot, including three crisp hundreds. “See? Big fat tip and not one speeding ticket.”

“They got traffic cams, you know,” said the cabbie. “I could still get nailed.”

Holmes reached back into his pocket and stuffed a business card through the slot. “If they caught you, call me.”

He shoved the back door of the cab open and started running. One of the cops at the barricade held up a hand to warn him off, but Holmes held up his PI identification again and vaulted over the far edge of the barricade, heading for the riot of lights ahead. He was gambling that nobody would give chase or shoot him in the back.

He was sweaty and out of breath when he rounded the corner into the parking lot. The scene was chaos. SWAT teams with automatic rifles were positioned behind vehicles and on top of the building. News vans were parked at the edge of the action, with reporters and cameramen competing for the best angle. All attention seemed to be focused on a single red steel door.

“Brendan!”

Poe’s voice. Holmes spotted his partner at the edge of the scene, and Duff standing on the other side of a patrol car. Holmes pushed past a gaggle of plainclothes detectives, their badges dangling on lanyards over their street clothes, and made his way over to his partner.

“How was Delaware?” asked Poe.

“Clarifying,” said Holmes. “What’s going on?”

“Three baby girls. One female kidnapper.” Poe pointed to the door. “They’re holed up in that studio.”

Holmes looked around. “Why here?” he asked. “What is this place?”

“Film studio,” said Poe. “The babies were here to shoot a diaper commercial.”

Holmes peered over the top of the patrol car. Duff was standing in the open a few yards away, his tall frame looming over a man with a bullhorn.

“Negotiator?” asked Holmes.

Poe nodded again. “He’s been talking with her for the past half hour. No progress.”

The negotiator’s bullhorn was not currently in use. It was dangling by a strap over his shoulder. He was talking through a headset, wires hanging down his side. Duff had an earpiece too. Holmes started toward them. A cop grabbed him from behind. Holmes pounded his hand on the roof of the cop car. “Duff!” he shouted. The captain turned, yanked the earpiece out of his ear, and walked over.

He glared at Holmes. “Now you too?”

“What does she want?” asked Holmes.

“Not much,” said Duff tersely. “Just free passage to JFK with the babies, plus a private jet and a pilot and enough fuel to get across the Atlantic.”

“She’s improvising,” said Holmes. “This wasn’t part of the plan.”

“Well, there’s no way in hell she’s getting any of it.”

“Any way to take her down?” asked Poe.

“We’re trying to get a camera inside,” said Duff. “But the place is built like a brick shithouse. Soundproofed and everything, for movies. We can’t use teargas or flash-bangs because of the babies.” He nodded toward the press vans. “Last thing we need on live TV is a bunch of stunned, deaf infants.”

On the other side of the car, the negotiator pressed his hand tight to his earpiece. He turned toward the captain with a grim expression. Duff jerked his head to call him over.

“Any movement?” Duff asked as the man neared.

The negotiator clicked off his comms device. “She’s giving us fifteen minutes to give them transport,” he said. “Or she’ll start killing the babies.”