Chapter 3
THREE
Elwood had finished his briefing before Sandra made it to the end of the block. At four o’clock that afternoon, a 911 call came in from a woman lasting just long enough to communicate she and several others were being held at gunpoint. The dispatcher traced the call back to Corey’s Grocer but was unable to reestablish contact. It was believed that the hostage taker, or HT, had intervened. Her welfare and that of the others was still unknown as negotiators on scene had failed to make contact with the HT. With no idea who he was, or what he wanted, and almost four hours into this, it had the making of a long night ahead. For that reason, she made a quick stop for a barbecue sandwich with mumbo sauce and got back on the road. She’d like to get to Woodbridge as fast as possible, but the little bit of cheese and crackers she ate wouldn’t hold her. In this line of work, you ate when you could. After eating and getting behind the wheel again, she called Olivia.
“Mom?” Olivia’s voice came over the vehicle’s speakers. “Everything okay? I’m still at Avery’s.”
“That’s good. It might be best you spend the night there, if that’s okay with her parents.”
“Mom?”
“Nothing to worry about. I’ve just been called for an incident in Woodbridge, and I don’t know how long I’ll be.” Olivia was old enough to stay on her own, and the building they lived in had twenty-four-hour security, but Sandra still didn’t relish the thought of her teen daughter being alone if the incident dragged out all night.
“I’m sure they’ll be fine with it.”
“Please, just ask them. Or I could see if Eric could come to the penthouse and stay with you.” Eric Birch was a Metro PD detective, and the man Sandra had been seeing for the past few years after meeting him on a call. They had what could best be described as a relaxed, undefined, yet exclusive relationship.
“No offense, Mom, you know I like Eric, but I’d rather hang out here with Avery.”
Sandra smiled. “I thought you’d say that. Let me know if Avery’s parents are okay with you staying over. I’ll hold, or you can put me on with them.”
A dramatic sigh, followed by, “One sec.”
She listened as her daughter asked Avery’s mother, Tammy Porter.
“No problem at all, sweetie,” Tammy said. “Tell your mom to stay safe.”
“Thanks. Did you hear that, Mom?”
“I did. Remember only contact me if?—”
“It’s an emergency. I know the drill.”
“Love you,” Sandra told her daughter, slightly torn between going to her and doing her job. Being a single parent was a challenge every day. It felt like even when the right decision was made, it was still the wrong one.
“Uh-huh. Back at ya.”
Before Sandra could say goodbye, Olivia was gone, and the catchy beat of a nineties dance tune came over the speakers. She turned it up and sang along, letting the song sweep away the tension from the day. It also took her to the past when it would have been popular. Sam was already gone by then, but how he would have hated it. The thought of him took her back to the parole hearing. At least she wouldn’t need to face her brother’s killer for another two years.
She might have pressed her foot harder on the gas. The drive from Washington usually took about forty-five minutes, and she wanted to make up the lost time from stopping.
Her phone rang, cutting off the song mid-chorus, and Eric’s name splashed on the screen. She answered with a smile.
“There she is. How did the hearing go? Sorry I couldn’t call sooner.”
His job made his schedule somewhat unpredictable. “It went well. I think.”
“I’m sure you did a great job stating your case.”
She wished she had the same level of confidence, but the uncertainty of the verdict dampened it.
“When will you hear back?”
“They said by the end of the week.”
“Nothing like living in suspense. I could come over and help take your mind off it.”
“I’d love that, but I’m not home.”
“Oh?”
“I’m on my way to Woodbridge for an incident.”
“After the day you had? Didn’t you book it off?”
“I did, but Elwood didn’t have a choice.” Eric knew her boss, and that their relationship was professional but didn’t stand on formality.
“All right, well, you know what you’re doing.”
“Well, I have been at it a while. I pretty much have compartmentalizing down to a fine art.” It was hard to believe her FBI career had started twenty-five years ago in administration at HQ when she was twenty-two. After two years in that capacity, she enrolled in the FBI Academy, and upon graduating was assigned for the next four years to the Norfolk Field Office helping locate spies, before returning to HQ to work in counterterrorism. That was when she’d met Olivia’s father and had fallen pregnant eleven months later. She took eight weeks off after her birth, and six months after that, left as a single parent, and transferred to the WFO. After a year there working strictly on manhunts, she was recommended for negotiation training, which led to her joining the CNU. She’d been posted at the WFO for the last fifteen years.
Eric laughed. “Well, be safe. I’m sure it will be wrapped by tomorrow night.”
“God, I sure hope so.”
“What do you say to meeting up for dinner at, say, six? We can go to La Gioia Ristorante.”
That was her favorite Italian restaurant, and it was just around the corner from home. Its name essentially translated to “joy restaurant,” and their food lived up to the promise. She felt her spirits lift with every bite. Having that to look forward to would carry her through. “Actually, how about you pick it up and come to my place?”
“ Ooh , I like the way you think.”
“Mind out of the gutter. Besides, Liv will probably be around. Though she likely won’t have any interest in hanging with us old folks for long before she retreats to her bedroom.”
“Liv? No big deal. I even like her. She’s not bad for a teenager,” he teased. “Then I’ll pick up dinner for three. The favorites. Your place tomorrow at six?”
She appreciated that Eric never took issue with Olivia. “Sounds incredible.” She’d hold on to the prospect of tomorrow night to get her through the negotiations. Speaking of, Corey’s Grocer came into view. “I’ve gotta go, Eric, but I look forward to our dinner.”
“Good luck. Though I know you make your own.”
She turned the radio off when they disconnected. The clock on the dash read 7:57 PM when she pulled into the lot. It had taken an hour even to get here, fifteen minutes longer than the usual drive time, but that wasn’t bad considering she’d stopped for a bite to eat.
The grocery store was in a small plaza with a bank, a hair salon, and a doctor’s office. She was flagged down by a uniformed officer and directed to stop with a raised hand. A reporter beat him to her car and rapped on the driver’s window.
“Diana Wesson with PWC News ,” she said through the glass.
“Go. Scram.” The uniformed officer came over and shooed her and her tailing cameraman away. Next, he gestured for Sandra to lower her window, which she did. “This vicinity is closed to the public,” he said.
“FBI Special Agent Vos, here to relieve the primary negotiator.” She held up her credentials and was told to park closer to the road.
Police cruisers peppered the lot, and several uniformed officers stood behind them, using the vehicles as cover. Special Weapons and Tactics officers were present and easy to spot. All of them were suited for war, earning them the nickname in negotiation circles of Neanderthals or knuckle-draggers because their default was a physical response. For the CNU, it was about resolving situations with dialogue, as was their motto. But there were times a balance of both was needed. But in this case, four hours into a standoff was far too soon to seriously consider a breach or physical response.
The MCV, or mobile command vehicle, was positioned closer to the storefront. There were also a few ambulances and medics to the right of the MCV.
Twenty to thirty civilian vehicles were in the lot too and were likely registered to the hostages inside. A van marked with PWC News was parked across the street, and the reporter from a moment ago was gesticulating as she faced her cameraman and spoke with her back to the unfolding scene. But they weren’t the only network.
Sandra would be more surprised if the media wasn’t already here, but they had to go. They could make negotiations a tougher job by raising the stress level in the HT. Considering hostage takers were already under a significant amount of pressure, it was her job to reduce it. Cutting out what was controllable was crucial.
A thin man in his fifties was standing outside the command vehicle puffing away on a cigarette. He crushed the remainder of the butt on the ground as she approached.
She’d put on her bulletproof vest from her go-bag in the back of her car, but it was the FBI embroidered windbreaker over it that would announce her before she said a word. Still, she introduced herself. “FBI Special Agent Sandra Vos.”
“Lieutenant Drew Garrison, team leader. I’m the one who put the call in to the CNU.”
As team leader, Garrison was responsible for overseeing everything from the location of the MCV to assigning duties on scene.
“So is that Vos with one ‘s’ or two?”
“One. It’s the Dutch spelling.”
“Ah. Wooden shoes, wooden head, wooden listen.” He smiled, but she wasn’t amused. She’d certainly heard that one before. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to insult you or really mean anything by it.”
“It’s fine.” And it was. She wasn’t someone who was easily riled. It was a trait that served her well, as a good negotiator was a calm one.
“Come on, then, before I put my foot in my mouth again. Let me introduce you to the team, and we’ll get you up to speed.” He held the door to the vehicle for her and the smell of coffee drifted out. “After you.”
Before going up the steps, she looked across the street again. “We need the media out of here.”
“They’re like cockroaches, aren’t they? I’ve already sent an officer over to get rid of them, but it’s hard to banish them from a public sidewalk. You know with all their constitutional rights and the ‘people have a right to know’ mentality.”
“Depending on how things progress, they might need to preach that all the way to jail.”
Garrison smiled. “I like the way you think.”
Inside, the command vehicle was outfitted with the latest technology. Computers and monitor banks were on the wall with a live video feed showing the face of the building. She could see that the front windows of the store were blocked inside with what appeared to be shelving, and it told her something about the HT. The action of barricading indicated he was prepared to settle in and protect himself from the line of fire. It demonstrated intelligence and forethought. It also told her that he existed in reality, was able to calculate risk, and didn’t have a death wish.
There were three workstations, and a table with a semi-circle bench surrounding it, which was ideal for discussions and briefings. The situation board was within plain view, and Sandra took it in quickly from where she stood. It only offered the basics. Unidentified Male HT, armed, hostage count approx. 30-40.
Once Garrison closed the door behind him, he bellowed, “Listen up, everyone. The FBI’s here. This is…” He turned to her.
“Special Agent Sandra Vos.”
“Vos, right.” He smiled, though Sandra didn’t understand why. “She’s here to relieve Leon as primary negotiator.”
A man in his late forties pushed out his chair from a work surface. He had been seated next to another man, who was in his late thirties, early forties.
“Fox meet Wolfe. His role is coach,” Garrison said, and she understood why he’d smiled before. He must have been planning this little play on words, knowing that one meaning of Vos was fox. Sandra’s father used to always say, Sandy, you’re clever as a fox, my girl.
“Ray’s my first name,” the coach said.
“Sandra.” She’d be working closely with Ray as the coach’s job was to support her by monitoring communication and passing her notes when he picked up on something she might have missed.
Garrison abandoned humor as he circled the room, introducing everyone and their roles. “Detective Richie Osborn, scribe, and Detective Patrick Mahoney, intelligence officer and profiler. Lieutenant Amos Bowen is the team coordinator, but he’s out there doing his thing right now.”
The scribe would record the calls and make a short and concise script of any discussions and reactions from each side. With Patrick playing double roles, he’d jot down essential information to the markerboard and play a part in gathering background information on the HT and hostages. Sandra was more fixated on what the team coordinator was up to. One aspect of his job was to advise the SWAT commander on any developments and determine if it was time for a physical response. But if they were discussing that with any intention, she wasn’t sure why they’d called her. “Excuse me, but what thing exactly?”
“Whether it’s time to take stronger measures.”
“From my understanding, we haven’t made contact with the HT. Is force being considered?”
Garrison smiled tightly. “It is. Four hours have already passed, and as you just pointed out, there hasn’t been any communication.”
Sandra stiffened. “Radio silence is no reason to move in. If anything, it’s the opposite. You’d be going in blind, and innocent people will die.” Sam. Not that he was killed by police, but the memory of his loss rolled over her, nonetheless. It was down to people making poor choices.
“Not everyone sees it that way, but you’ll be alerted if action is going to be taken.”
She understood preparing for the worst-case scenario, but she had to keep her mind set on peaceful resolution. She’d also just arrived and wasn’t about to insert herself as some ego-driven fed. No doubt there was a lot of skill and experience in this room. “Please run me through everything that’s happened so far.”
“Want a coffee while we talk?” Garrison pointed to a coffee machine in an alcove. A few mugs were beside it with a small container of sugar packets and some whitener.
“I’m good for now, but thank you.”
“All right, then.” Garrison gestured for her to sit at the table, and he joined her, as did the rest of the team except for Leon, who stood next to them.
“You probably know the basics. No contact, no ID, the situation came to our attention through a 911 call?” Garrison asked.
“I do know all that. Do we have a recording of the call? I’d like to listen to it.”
Garrison gestured to Patrick, who responded. “We have it, and that won’t be a problem. The call was disconnected before she was able to provide her name, but we traced the number to a Heidi Norris, thirty-seven. We reached out to her husband, and he confirmed she’d popped out for groceries. An officer is at his home with him now and will remain there for the duration of the incident.”
“As you can see, the HT has barricaded the front of the store. That happened not long after we arrived on scene,” Garrison said, moving the briefing along at a swift pace. “He used hostages to do this, but with the sun reflecting off the glass, it was hard to make out much more than silhouettes.”
The early planning was an even stronger indication that the HT was thinking clearly. Rationally, however, was debatable.
“There are three ingress and egress points. One door in the front, two in the rear, counting the rollup at the delivery dock. All are locked. SWAT officers are set up to watch the rear in case he decides to slip out,” Garrison said.
“We believe he’s holding the hostages in an employee lunchroom,” Patrick said, as he slipped her a blueprint of the store. “It’s an interior room on the second floor.”
It would be an intelligent choice as no windows cut back risk to himself and hostages escaping. “The board notes approximately thirty to forty hostages. How was that estimate determined?”
“There are thirty vehicles in the lot, with five belonging to employees on shift. There are five more staff in addition. We’ve run all the plates and have a list of names.” Patrick handed her more paperwork.
“The number could be higher if people walked here, or more than one person arrived per vehicle. Have we tried reaching out to these people?” She used we as an intentional effort to build camaraderie. Not everyone loved it when the FBI walked in, and this was one subtle way that might ingratiate herself with them.
“No answers on numbers linked to the owners of the vehicles. We believe the HT has confiscated everyone’s cellphones,” Patrick said with a frustrated sigh.
Another smart move. “One of those vehicles could also belong to the HT,” she put in.
“Which I’m keeping in mind, but without more to go on aside from male, that’s not getting us anywhere yet. I’ve also pulled backgrounds on the employees. All clean.” He handed her another stack of paper.
Until they knew more, they had to come at this situation from every angle they could think of, and an inside job was just one possibility. She was impressed Patrick thought of this. She looked at the top sheet. It had Manager handwritten in black marker. Brad Stevens was only thirty-one. She shuffled through the pages, noting everyone’s names and job titles. “This is terrific. Where did you get the employee names?”
“The store’s assistant manager. A Marsha Jackson. She’s at home today and available to us if we need anything else.”
“That’s great.” She was building up quite a pile of paper on the table in front of her and lifted the store’s blueprint. “Jackson get this for you too?”
Patrick shook his head. “That came from the plaza owner, a cooperative man as well.”
Bowen and SWAT would use this to strategize entry points. She spotted the three that Garrison had mentioned.
The blueprint had been marked up to indicate the different sections of the store. The place was one story aside from an upstairs office space and a room labeled lunchroom . The main level included a pharmacy, a delicatessen, a seafood counter, and a warehouse with shipping and receiving in the back. She set aside the blueprint and looked at Leon. “Tell me everything you tried to establish contact.”
“No ID, so no cell phone to try. No answer on the store’s landline, or through any suspected hostages’ phone, as Patrick told you. We got a throw phone to the door, but he refused to accept it. He sent a hostage to check it out but had her leave it there. We could see that he was holding a gun to her from the side. No clear sightline to take a shot,” Leon laid out.
Thank God for that! When she looked closer at the video monitor, she saw the phone was still in front of the door. It allowed a single-line connection from the device to a programmed number. In this case, it would feed back to a phone in the MCV. Her first goal was to get that into the HT’s hands. “When was the last time you tried to make contact?”
“An hour ago,” Leon said, “using the bullhorn again and trying to get him to retrieve the throw phone.”
“And where would I find that bullhorn?” Sandra cocked her eyebrows.
Leon pulled it out of a cabinet and handed it over. “Good luck, Vos. You’ll need it. But if that is all you’ll be needing from me, I’m gonna go.” Leon looked at Garrison, who nodded his approval for the negotiator to leave.
She followed Leon out with the bullhorn in her hand. She stood at the front of the MCV to shelter herself from the ever-present media, but it also put her in a vulnerable position. Regardless of her bulletproof vest. But with the amount of fire power around, if the HT showed himself to take a shot at her, he’d likely be taken out before he had the chance. She turned the bullhorn on and held it to her mouth. She knew just how far away to position it to avoid feedback.
“I can only imagine how afraid you must be. It looks like you don’t want to talk. Maybe you fear if you come out to collect the phone, someone out here will shoot you. I won’t let that happen. I’m Special Agent Sandra Vos with the FBI, and I’m sure you don’t want to spend your entire evening in there. Tell me what you’d like to end this, and let me help you.” She spoke slowly and used a calm tone to project authority and trustworthiness. It was unlikely to trigger a defensive reaction. “I’d like to help get you home safe and sound. If that sounds good to you, just collect the phone, and I’ll call you.” She intentionally didn’t set a clock to it. In hostage situations, if actions or decisions were rushed, that was when people got hurt, or worse, dead. She also addressed a basic human need by assuring his safety. She clicked the bullhorn off and turned to go back inside the command vehicle.
“Excuse me!” a man yelled out, his voice ringing with panic.
She pivoted and saw he was being held back by a uniformed officer. But she was curious what made him risk jail by breaking through the cordon.
“Please, wait,” she shouted to the officers. “Let me hear what he has to say.” She guided the man behind the MCV for cover just in case things took a drastic turn.
“Thank God. No one else is listening to me.” The man was breathing heavily, his chest heaving. “My pregnant wife is in there!”