28

Rudy Spann sat in the small office on the fifth floor of the Metropolitan Correctional Center they had appropriated for the Pendergast operation. He was wearing a wireless headset. His men had set up a small tactical center in the office and were manning various video screens and audio feeds. He paced the floor behind them, occasionally stopping at the window to gaze down on the street below.

Setting up the stakeout had been a piece of cake. They didn’t even need the special van, or teams positioned on rooftops and apartments. The street where the transfer would take place was around the back of the building, on Cardinal Hayes Place, a narrow lane overlooked by government buildings that no one could get into without clearance. So whoever came to make sure the Arsenault transfer took place was going to be on foot, on the street. It was a perfect place for the operation — maybe too perfect, as it might scare away whoever the kidnappers were sending to observe the transfer. They were relying on the stupidity of the kidnappers, and on this point at least Spann had come around to Longstreet’s way of thinking. Anyone who kidnapped a federal agent was taking a big risk to begin with. They were overconfident, and that would be their downfall. The real danger was them panicking and Pendergast getting smoked.

Longstreet’s setup, he had to admit, was extremely clever. And so it gnawed at him all the more that the man was about to bungle things so badly. Here they had a chance to take one of the kidnappers into custody — if he showed up — but Longstreet’s orders had been specific: simply ID him and let him go about his business. That went against all the rules of apprehension Spann had learned at Quantico, and in his FBI experience that followed. Just letting the guy walk away — what the hell was that all about? Arsenault was proving a tough nut to crack. If it were up to him, he’d apprehend this cocksucker and exploit his initial confusion and fear, scare the shit out of him, and get him to talk. Kidnapping a federal agent? He’d be looking at life in prison without parole, if he was lucky, and to get out of that the guy would send his own grandmother down the river. He’d fold in twenty minutes, tell them where Pendergast was, and this business would be wrapped up by the end of the day. But no — Longstreet just wanted to ID the guy and let him walk.

And on top of it, Longstreet wasn’t even there; he’d disappeared as he’d done before — gone for hours at a time — issuing his orders by phone or even sending encrypted emails from undisclosed locations. Who did he think he was, the damn vice president?

The guys manning the consoles were murmuring in their headsets to the rest of the team, which had staked out both ends of Cardinal Hayes, observing and videotaping everyone who came in or out. He listened to their terse, economical exchanges. These guys were professionals; Spann was proud of them.

He glanced at the clock. Three fifteen. The target would be arriving soon or not at all. It was a quiet afternoon, half an hour before the first government offices disgorged their workers. There were people walking back and forth, as always in Manhattan, but from his vantage point — and from the street-level camera feeds in front of him — they were pretty clearly not his man, or woman.

With Longstreet not there, Spann decided he was going to make a small adjustment to the plan. He wasn’t going to let the guy just up and walk; he’d have him tailed. See where he went, where his hidey-hole was. After all, that wasn’t actually contrary to Longstreet’s orders.

He raised his mike and gave the order: Tail the perp on foot. Two men only. Break off if he grabs a cab or calls an Uber. A cab or Uber would be traceable later, so no need to follow. And if an accomplice picked him up in a car, so much the better — they could snag the plates and run them within five minutes.

Three twenty-five. And now he saw a man turn the corner at the Pearl Street end and come walking down the lane. He was dressed in a nice suit, hair slicked back, tan and fit. He looked like a Wall Street stockbroker or hedge fund jackass. Having spent much of his life downtown, Spann knew those guys: they walked fast, really fast. They knew where they were going and were the kind who worked out every day, ate quinoa and kale, and jogged twenty miles a week.

But this guy was walking slow — way too slow. He was pretending to stroll along, smelling the flowers. On the far sidewalk.

He was their guy, dawdling, making sure that the Arsenault transfer was made as promised. Spann didn’t even have to say anything: the others had noticed him, too. He listened on his headset to their conversation.

“You see that guy?”

“Bingo.”

“Zero in with the telephoto. Smile, you’re on candid camera.”

And right on schedule, the black maria turned in at Pearl Street, driving nice and slow. The man, still strolling along, looked up as it approached, trying to appear casual, trying to keep his movement to just a glance, but failing. He stared.

Oh, yeah. He saw his man: Spann could see it in his expression. It was like a gift from the gods.

The transport van passed the guy and made a slow and easy turn into the underground ramp leading to the security courtyard, then waited while the driver was checked; the big gates opened and the van disappeared.

Perfect.

And now he saw his own two guys go into action. One, who’d been sitting on a bench eating a shish kebab from a nearby food cart, tossed the stick in the trash and sauntered down the street. “Dog One following,” the man murmured into his invisible wire.

On the near corner, as the perp went by, his second man, who’d been pretending to have trouble parallel parking his car, got out. “Dog Two following,” he said.

The man took a right into St. Andrews Plaza, walking past the courthouse, and disappeared from Spann’s field of view. Soon the two guys tailing him disappeared as well. The channel remained open.

“Perp crossing Foley Square, heading for Duane,” came the voice of Dog One.

A moment later: “Left on Elk.”

This was an odd route. What was going on?

A moment later: “Left on Reade. He’s got a phone out. Looks like he’s texting.”

The guy was walking around the block. Son of a bitch. “Dog One?” Spann said into the headset. “He might have made you. Keep walking down Elk. Dog Two, take a left on Centre in front of him, going in his direction.”

“Shit. He’s running south on Centre toward Chambers.”

Fuck. Somehow, he’d made the tail. “Take him down,” Spann yelled into the headset. “Take him down! All units converge!”

The whole area was suddenly crawling with cops and in less than fifteen seconds it was over, the man was on his face, cuffed, on the pavement in front of Police Plaza.

“Hold him there, I’m coming down,” Spann said. The tail had screwed up, but maybe this was better. In fact, it was better. This was exactly the outcome he’d wanted all along. They had their man and now he, personally, would break the son of a bitch. By the time Longstreet showed up, they’d have the info they needed and would already be planning the hostage rescue.

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