Lockdown

Book 3: NYPD Negotiators

by Sara Driscoll

Genres: Police Procedurals; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

It’s every parent’s nightmare—getting a call during the school day from their teenager, huddled in a classroom as the sound of bullets echo in the background. When gunmen invade a Brooklyn school, that nightmare becomes a horrific reality. Talking a suspect into sending his hostages out alive is NYPD Detective Gemma Capello’s specialty. Alerted to a school shooting at her nephew’s high school, she is one of the first officers on-scene. Detective Sean Logan and the Apprehension Tactical Team arrive next and immediately enter the school to apprehend the two shooters, while Gemma remains outside to help students evacuate. But as time stretches on, and there's no word of her nephew, her fear builds that he is one of the lost. Instead of a quickly-resolved mass shooting, one of the two shooters holes up with a group of students and their teacher as hostages, and Gemma steps in to negotiate for their survival. Floors away and armed with only her wits and the sound of her voice to convince him, Gemma fights for control of the situation even as tactical leadership pressures her for a more aggressive strategy. But for Gemma, it’s not about a quick solution. It’s about moving heaven and earth to bring everyone in that classroom home. And she’ll do whatever it takes to achieve that goal.

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 272

Sample

CHAPTER 1

A teenager darted off the sidewalk directly in front of Gemma Capello’s car. She shot one hand out to grab the cake holder on the passenger seat a fraction of a second before she hammered the brakes, throwing her upper body sharply against the seat belt as she jammed her precious cargo against the chair back. Filling the air with colorful Italian commentary, she pushed her curly, shoulder-length brown hair away from where it had tumbled into her dark eyes, and then tracked the boy as he sprinted across the street to join the pack of kids waiting for him on the opposite sidewalk. They greeted him with hoots and back slaps before strolling off down the street, secure in their coolness.

Gemma narrowed her eyes on the group. “If you crushed my cassata because of your need to impress your friends, I’m not going to be happy.” A horn blasted behind her, and she tossed up a hand gesture that would have made her brothers proud—angry Brooklynite meet irritated Sicilian—and hit the accelerator.

She glanced quickly at the container. After the long hours she spent putting it together, her cake had better be intact. Today was the twenty-fifth anniversary of her mother’s murder, a day already bowing under the weight of grief, even all these years later. There was no need for the universe to add anything negative to it.

Knowing time didn’t heal all wounds and today would be full of bad memories, she’d wanted to do something nice for her father, and through him for the rest of the family, because if she knew her brothers—and she did—all four of them would find a reason to drop by the family home today. So she’d spent the entire previous evening making a traditional Sicilian cassata, one of her father’s favorite desserts.

Liqueur-soaked sponge cake, ricotta, and marzipan… what’s not to love?

She’d certainly had a hard time keeping her youngest brother, Alex, out of it. They lived in the same Alphabet City apartment building on the Lower East Side, and he spent much of his free time in her larger and homier unit. The whole time she was baking, he’d been perched at her breakfast bar, chatting, playing with her cat, Mia, and stealing bits of sponge cake while he sipped her liqueur.

He didn’t fool her for one moment. While Gemma was worried about her father and how the following day would impact him, Alex was worried about how it would impact her. Because twenty-five years ago, Maria Capello hadn’t been the only one standing in line at the bank when everything went to hell; her ten-year-old daughter had been with her. When the robbery had gone wrong and suddenly become a hostage situation, they’d been trapped together. Until Maria had tried to talk the two gunmen into releasing the hostages, including her own daughter, and one of the men had silenced her with a bullet to the brain. Then Gemma, blood-splattered and terrified, had been alone.

It was a nightmare of a day for Gemma as well, but she was determined to stay occupied, which meant taking care of her father. He’d taken the day off knowing he’d be distracted—it was never a good situation when the NYPD Chief of Special Operations wasn’t on his game. But spending the day alone was sure to sink him into a funk, so she’d also taken the day and was going to arrive on his doorstep first thing with the proposition of a spontaneous trip to his favorite hole-in-the-wall pub in a few hours for lunch. Later, there would be dinner and cake with the family as they gradually drifted home. It would mean a lot of cooking, but that would also help distract her today.

When the heart hurt, surrounding yourself with family was the best way to make it through.

Sometimes her family drove her crazy; today they would be her refuge.

The second youngest of five, Gemma was the only daughter. Like three of her four siblings and her father, she was an NYPD officer; only Matteo had broken with family tradition and had joined the FDNY. First response was hardwired into them, even if they hadn’t all followed Tony Capello straight into the NYPD. Detective Gemma Capello had been on the force for fourteen years and was now one of the lead negotiators on the NYPD Hostage Negotiation Team.

Her early experience with hostage takers hadn’t prescribed her career, but it had certainly contributed.

She braked to a stop at the intersection of Beverley Road and Coney Island Avenue and had a few seconds for a closer inspection of the cake carrier, only to relax when no smear of lemon frosting was visible against the side. The light changed, and she continued on her way toward Flatbush and the family homestead.

Tony still lived in the house in Brooklyn that had once held all seven of them. Though “rattling around” the family home might be a more apt description—since she and Alex had moved out years ago, Tony had lived alone in the big house. She’d once brought up the idea of selling and her father had been so definite he wouldn’t leave Maria’s home, she’d never suggested it again. In many ways, she understood. There were so many memories there, he couldn’t bear to leave that tenuous connection to his beloved wife behind. And if Gemma was honest, she’d struggle with it, too. At some point, it would have to happen, but part of her was honestly relieved it was still some distance in the future. Maybe in three years, when her father took mandatory retirement, he’d consider it. Maybe, by then, she’d be ready, too.

Her phone rang through her car, and her gaze flicked to her dash screen. Alex. She pressed the button on her steering wheel to accept the call. “I’m not there yet. You know what Brooklyn traffic is like at this time of the morning. Give me another fifteen. Maybe twenty.”

“That’s not why I’m calling.”

The whip-like quality of Alex’s words and the intensity in his tone had the hair on the back of her neck rising in alarm. “What’s wrong?”

“A school shooting was just reported. Gem, it’s South Greenfield.”

Fear slid sinuously like ice water through her veins. “That’s Sam’s school.”

“Yes.”

The oldest Capello sibling, Joe, had two boys, Sam and Gabriel. Gabe was still in middle school, but Sam was a freshman, only a few months into his high school experience, though this was not the experience anyone would have wished for. “Gesù Cristo.” Gemma’s gaze found the street signs at the approaching intersection, and she calculated her position. “Do we know where he is? Has Joe talked to him?”

“No. It just started. They don’t know anything yet.”

She gauged the separation of traffic, signaled, and squeezed in between a delivery van and a sedan. The driver of the van audibly let her know in no uncertain terms what he thought of her driving. “I’m close.”

“That’s why you’re my first call.”

Alex knew her plans for the day, knew her timing. Knew that while she was off duty, nothing would stop her getting there when family was involved. The badge in her bag was all she needed.

She took a right onto Westminster. “Who reported it?”

“Nine-one-one is being flooded with calls from kids inside the school.”

“Even if only a small percentage of students are allowed to have their handset with them during class, that’s still a lot of active phones.” She hit the gas and shot through the next intersection on the last fraction of a second of a yellow light. “Are they tracking social media?”

“I don’t know. They will if they’re smart.”

“Kids with phones will use every communication strategy they have to get the word out.”

“And to share their experience.”

“That, too. I’m six or seven minutes out, max. Leave Dad off your call list.”

“He’s going to be furious to be kept in the dark.”

“Then tell him those were my instructions and he can be furious at me. Hopefully he’s left the TV off and is lying low today. He’ll find out at some point, but hopefully by then we’ll have Sam already in hand. I don’t like what this would do to his head while it’s ongoing.”

“What about what it’ll do to yours?”

“I walked out of the bank that day. He left something behind.”

“So did you.”

We all did. “I’ll manage. I need to call Joe now and let him know I’ll be on-site.”

If Alex didn’t like her dismissal of his concerns, he let it go. “Keep me in the loop.”

“Always.” She disconnected and then used voice commands to call Joe, allowing her to keep both hands on the wheel as she muscled through traffic.

Joe picked up as the first ring barely finished. “I can’t talk now.” His voice was ragged with stress.

“You can talk to me. I’m nearly at South Greenfield.”

“What? How?”

“I was on my way to Dad’s. Was going to surprise him and spend the day because…”

“Yeah.”

“Alex called me and I redirected. I’ll find him, Joe.”

“You think they’re going to let you get close?”

“Do you honestly think they’re going to turn away a hostage negotiator after Platte Canyon and Marinette High Schools?” It didn’t happen often, but those two shootings had turned into hostage situations taking hours to resolve. While both had ended with the death of the shooter, Gemma didn’t mention the student at Platte Canyon High School who’d been gunned down by the hostage taker at the moment law enforcement stormed the room. Joe didn’t need to know details, only that she had a place with law enforcement as they tackled this crisis. “They can try. I’ll set them straight. You’re on your way?”

“Yes. So’s Alyssa.”

Gemma hit Ditmas Avenue and made the turn to the southwest too fast, flying toward South Greenfield.

In the distance, sirens rose as a mournful wail.

“I may not be able to talk, but text me any details you learn. I’ll call as soon as I have him.”

“Gem.” Joe’s voice cracked on the single word, and Gemma’s heart went out to him. Straight-shooting, serious Joe, the responsible older brother… the helplessness had to be overwhelming at a moment when he absolutely needed to keep his head. The moment his boy needed him most, and he was across town—might as well have been across planet—and it would likely be over, for better or for worse, before he was even halfway there.

Most school shootings only lasted approximately fifteen minutes. And five of those minutes had already ticked away.

“I can’t…” Joe stumbled to a halt. “I need…”

“I know.” Gemma understood the impossible mix of emotions he was trying to put into words. She wasn’t a mother, but she was an aunt many times over and she loved her nieces and nephews as fiercely as if they were her own. More than that, as a fellow cop, she knew the kind of evil that could manifest in humankind, just as Joe did, and that had to terrify him as much as it did her. “I’ll be there for him until you get there. He’s ours, Joe.” Her tone went to steel. “They can’t have him.”

“He’s ours,” he repeated, relief ever so slightly lightening his tone that his family was already closing ranks. “Just… hurry.”

“Done. I’ll get in touch when I can. Until then, know I’m fighting to get him out.” She hung up, white-knuckled the steering wheel, and pressed down harder on the accelerator.

Get there.

CHAPTER 2

Detective Sean Logan swayed on the hard bench as the truck moved through midmorning traffic. The truck lurched abruptly—another pothole—and Logan bumped against Detective Scott, their helmets rapping together. Behind his safety glasses, Scott rolled his eyes at Logan before his attention wandered to where Lewis, Perez, and Sims were giving Wilson a hard time about the argument he had with his wife the previous night. Wilson, for his part, sat with his ballistic shield between his knees, his arms folded over the top, looking bored. He’d taken worse from these guys. Hell, he’d given worse.

Another harder jolt and the double benches of officers in the rear of the truck rolled with the motion, the equipment in the narrow open lockers behind them clanking with the sudden movement. Logan gripped the stock of the M4A1 carbine he wore on a single point sling cross-looped around his torso, and settled in for the ride.

It had been a quiet week for the NYPD Apprehension Tactical Team—better known as the A-Team—which, in law enforcement terms, was a good thing. No drug busts, no home invasions to interrupt, no calls for a sniper or an incursion team because some hothead decided if he couldn’t have his wife, who’d announced she was taking the kids and leaving, no one could, and they all had to die. With the lull, the team was spending this week executing arrest warrants, and had just finished executing two in the same Brooklyn apartment on brothers who were a part of the local drug trade. The two men had put up only a minimal fight with their partners and children nearby, and were already contained and on their way to the 63rd Precinct.

Restlessness permeated the truck. It wasn’t that A-Team officers went out of their way to find dangerous situations; rather, it had to do with the kind of men—and, less often, women—who made their way onto the team. A-Team officers had to be able to react to high stress, life-and-death situations with greater calm, logic, and a leveled-up skill higher than that required for most ordinary NYPD operations. The job often attracted adrenaline junkies, and Logan’s teammates were jonesing for a fix. They were cross-trained with a wide variety of skills—including scuba diving, high-angle rope and rigging rescues, and hazardous materials containment. They were ready to meet whatever a situation dealt them.

Now all they needed was the situation.

His last true high-tension case had been the Rikers Island secure facility inmate riot four weeks before, an explosive situation that dragged on for five full days before hostage negotiations broke down and a full tactical response was required. Logan rolled his left shoulder, pleased when there wasn’t even a twinge of residual pain from the knife wound he’d received during the incursion. The inmate who’d tried to gain control during the riot had attempted to make one last stand with a 3D-printed switchblade his girlfriend had sneaked in to him past the facility’s metal detectors. It was sharp as hell and had caught Logan just at the edge of his Kevlar vest, but the plastic hilt had snapped off, leaving Logan with a painful trip to the ER to fish out the blade.

A sudden burst of static exploded from the radio in the cab, drawing his attention to where one of the team members, Detective McPherson, doubled as a driver and Sergeant Nilsson, the only officer in the truck not in body armor, sat in the passenger seat.

“Command to Truck 51.”

Nilsson picked up the handset and raised it to his mouth. “Truck 51.”

“Ten-thirty-four reported. Shots fired at South Greenfield High School. Redirect to Bay Parkway and East 2nd Street.”

The banter in the rear of the truck instantly died and every head swiveled toward the cab.

McPherson hit the sirens and hammered the accelerator, liberally using his horn as they leapt forward. “Three minutes out,” he reported, not taking his eyes off the road.

“Truck 51 responding, ETA three minutes. Command, can you confirm details?”

“Multiple 9-1-1 calls from students. Possible multiple shooters. Local units are responding.”

Logan grabbed the end of the bench for stability as they whipped through traffic, his brain already snapped from relaxed to tactical mode.

This is the kind of job that’ll get local units killed. We need to get there first.

Active shooter protocols specified that whoever arrived first should confront the gunman. And it wasn’t that the patrol cops who’d arrive first weren’t well-trained, competent officers. But they weren’t trained specifically for this kind of crisis, and they certainly wouldn’t be carrying and wearing the gear this kind of situation would likely need.

School shootings could be anything from a spurned kid with a grudge against a girl, to a gang shooting, to a Virginia Tech—like massacre with scores of casualties. But one thing was certain—if they arrived at an active shooter situation, they had one job: run directly toward the gunfire and take the shooter down or out.

This close, they’d hopefully be the first unit to respond, but the NYPD would be sending all available teams at their disposal.

He turned to his officers to find the jocularity of a few minutes ago gone. Instead, flat stares met his.

They were still armed and armored from the arrest warrant they’d just completed. Dressed entirely in black, each officer wore an equipment-packed Kevlar vest, helmet with video cam, radio headset, safety glasses, heavy boots, gloves, and tactical pants with pockets stuffed with anything they might need on the fly. Every officer wore a Glock 19 on his thigh in addition to a rifle on a sling strap.

He doubted any officer in the truck had ever had to deal with a school shooting. New York City had seen a few in its time, but none of the major headline-grabbing nightmares that places like Columbine, Parkland, and Blacksburg had weathered. Hopefully, they weren’t walking into that kind of bloodbath, but they had to be prepared for an explosive situation. The worst part of their job was any situation involving kids, and a high school setup could involve up to thousands of teenagers.

They had to be mentally ready for what could be a high body count.

They were possibly about to walk into the worst situation any of them had ever seen, even in careers like his with nearly a decade and a half on the force. His guys had been restless and hoping for something more interesting than yet another arrest warrant, partly because they’d all experienced the high of a dangerous situation pulled off successfully. But success was never guaranteed. And what the NYPD might consider a success—stopping a shooter from killing any more kids from the moment they stepped on-site—didn’t preclude the heartbreaking toll taken before they arrived. Or, more likely, the stuff of nightmares and PTSD.

Be careful what you wish for. You might just get it.

CHAPTER 3

East 2nd Street was one way, leading away from South Greenfield, so Gemma turned north off Avenue J. Street parking lined both sides of the road, so she pulled into a spot a half block up. She cut the engine, rooted through her bag to quickly grab her wallet and her badge, and jammed the bag under the passenger seat. In about five minutes, this entire area was going to be crawling with first responders; no one was going to break into her car to steal it. She tucked her wallet into the light, hooded jacket she’d put on that morning to ward off the November chill and clipped her badge onto the waistband of her dark wash jeans. One quick look in her rearview mirror revealed the flash of red and blue lights.

Hang on Sam, we’re coming for you.

She thought briefly of texting him, but knew Joe would have already covered that—messages of love as well as a cop’s advice on how to stay safe, stay alive. Her job was to join the law enforcement team outside.

She sprinted down the street toward the flashing lights. Beyond, the east wing of South Greenfield stood four stories tall against clear blue sky. As she approached, the rest of the school came into view. Built in the shape of an elongated, shallow H with short wings, red brick rose four stories tall, with wide windows running in straight lines across the edifice on every floor. A center walkway led to three sets of double doors spaced between four decorative columns that climbed to a roofline parapet with a turret clock.

Even from a distance, she could see a stream of students running from behind the school and a second pouring through the front doors. As she drew closer, both the deep boom of a shotgun and the rapid crack crack of a rifle ripped through the air. Students near the central doors screamed and scattered, some running back into the school, some falling to the ground.

Shooting escaping students? Or at cops to keep them away from the doors?

Two white and blue NYPD vehicles, an SUV and a cruiser, were pulled up even with the edge of the east wing. Answering gunfire came from behind the bulk of the SUV where the dark form of a police officer crouched.

Gemma’s already rapid heart rate spiked higher. She understood returning fire, but what if the gunman had students with him for cover? Would they be able to see that?

As she neared the street corner, a pack of kids cleared the school property and sprinted farther down the street.

Get clear. Stay clear…

She hit Bay Parkway and brought her sprint down to a crouch, making herself as small a target as possible as she dove for cover behind the cruiser. The cop crouched by the hood of the SUV spun around, his Glock locked in a two-handed grip swinging toward her.

Gemma ripped off her badge and held it out. “Detective Gemma Capello, HNT.”

The Glock snapped up to point at the sky. “Goddamn it, I could have killed you, thinking you were another gunman.” Sweat beaded at his temples and his hands were visibly shaking. “Are you crazy?”

“Just on the run and trying not to be a target.” Gemma glanced at the officer’s nameplate—Officer Long. He was young, his blue eyes startled wide, and his lips parted around harsh breaths. He was holding, but she suspected this was the first time he’d come under direct fire and she could sense his fear mixed with dogged determination. “I couldn’t afford to announce my presence loud enough that you could hear or else they”—she cocked her head toward the school—“might have also heard and tried to take me out.”

“They’re sending in HNT? Do we have hostages?”

“Not that I know of, but we could. Wouldn’t be the first time in a situation like this, so I’m handy to have around.” She clipped her badge back into place. “I’m off duty, but got word of the shooting and headed over because I was nearby.” Another two shots and the car shuddered. Both direct hits.

The second officer scurried from around the rear of the SUV. It was a woman, likely ten years older than Officer Long, one with steady hands and a demeanor to match as her gaze dipped down to the badge visible at Gemma’s waistband. “They’re keeping us out.”

“I thought I heard two weapons. Is that correct, Officer…?”

“Tessel. There’s at least two. They’re shooting from the third floor from more than one direction to keep us pinned down.”

“If they’ve done any prep for this, they’ll know active shooter protocol requires us to run toward any gunfire. They’ll try to limit that,” Gemma stated. “On the bright side, while they’re pinning us down, they’re not killing any students and may be giving them time to escape if they didn’t shelter inside a locked classroom. I heard a shotgun and a rifle, both of which would easily cover this distance. And the shotgun would be useful if they have to shoot through barricaded doors.” Gemma carefully eased up until she could peer through the window to the front walk. Her gaze skimmed over motionless bodies. “There are several people down and immobile in front of the school. A lot of kids ran back inside. There’s a group of students and a teacher lined up against the outside wall. They know they’re out of line of sight from the shooters above but are in full sight of us, so we can get to them when possible. They’re safe for now.” She scanned over the expanse of grass fronting the building, past one splayed body, and then snapped back as she registered a minute movement. “Wait! Someone’s dragging themselves away from the school over the grass. They must be injured, but I can’t tell how badly.”

“How far away?” asked Long.

“About thirty feet. They’re headed toward us because they can see the police presence, but if the shooters spot them, they’re dead for sure. We can’t just sit here and watch it happen.” She glanced at the two officers. “Got a spare vest?”

“In the back of the SUV,” said Tessel.

“Grab it for me. Then if you both lay down cover, I’ll go for that student. I can get there and back inside of about twenty seconds. Thirty max. Try to keep the shooters busy that long.”

“That’s a lot of ground to cover. A lot of time to be an open target.”

“I don’t see any other choice. As a bonus, we’re buying time for anyone inside.”

Buying time for Sam.

Tessel went in through the rear door of the SUV and was out again with an extra Kevlar vest in seconds. She tossed it to Gemma, who shrugged it on and quickly secured it over her jacket.

Gemma crept to the front of the sedan, waiting just behind the tire. She looked back over her shoulder. “Ready when you are. Aim high in case the shooters are using hostages as shields.”

“You got it.”

As the fir. . .