Chapter 3

"Shots fired, shots fired, 35th floor! Evacuation in progress. Lock down all remaining floors. Internal security level red. Emergency response level red."

Mac Taylor and Don Flack froze in the first floor atrium, stunned by the PA announcement.

"35," Don whispered. "That's the lab!"

Taylor dove through the closing doors of the bright yellow elevator, Flack close on his heels.

"Shots in the lab? How could this be happening?" Flack asked even as both men took their guns off safety, checked magazines, and chambered a round ready to fire. "How many people do you think's up there this time of the afternoon?"

"Fifteen-eighteen," Mac estimated. "Maybe as many as thirty. Depends on how many visitors are in the lab. I asked Adam to clean up the Kepler Jewelry security tapes, so he's definitely there."

"I saw Hawkes in the parking garage around fifteen minutes ago. He's probably in the lab by now."

Mac inserted his control key into the elevator's panel and watched the readout climb--30, 31, 32.

"We'll know is a second."

The instant the lift opened onto the 35th floor, Mac twisted the key, locking the elevator in place. Discordant noise poured through the open doors--screams and cries, voices raised in fear. Uniformed officers, weapons drawn, sought cover behind any available object. Many of them cursed the open, unobstructed view presented by glass walls and see-through furniture. Other officers covered the civilians streaming toward the stairwells.

"I don't see any injuries so far." Mac bobbed his head out long enough to catch a snapshot view of the crime lab. "Maybe that means no one was hurt."

Flack took a moment to pray, "From your mouth to God's ear."

"We won't find out hiding in this elevator. Ready?"

Flack waved the older man toward the open elevator doors. "After you."

The two men sought cover behind the only solid wall--the bright yellow one that surrounded the bank of elevators.

"Adam!" Mac watched as the A/V technician fought against the flow of terrified civilians headed toward the nearest stairwell. "Get downstairs, now!"

"Mac! Mac, wait! There's something you need to know!"

Taylor grabbed Ross by the lab coat sleeve and yanked him to cover.

"Get over here before you get your head blown off. What couldn't wait-"

The technician cut Mac off with uncharacteristic brusqueness. "The shots came from the break room. I don't know how many gunmen are inside but--but I was in Trace when--oh God--Monroe, Hawkes, and Messer are inside. I saw something--a shadow--come up on Messer from behind. Danny fell to the floor. The door closed but the blinds were moving. There were flashes. Gunshots. Lots of yelling then more shots. Since then, nothing."

Taylor and Flack stared down the corridor, towards the break room.

"If our guys had taken down their attackers, they'd've come out by now," Don reasoned.

"That means we have a hostage situation," Mac whispered, "with Danny, Lindsay, and Sheldon caught in the line of fire."

Special Response arrived within two minutes; SWAT Team Beta dispersed to positions all around the laboratory. During that two-minute span, the last civilians escaped into the stairwells. Mac and Don visited their lockers, shed their jackets, and strapped on bulletproof vests.

As the two men returned to the area around the elevators, Mac spotted the tall, rugged form of Captain Larry Baynes, the department's top negotiator. With him stood shorter but bulkier Lieutenant Tom Robbins, commander of SWAT Team Alpha, and a dozen heavily armed and armored tactical response personnel.

"Gentlemen, let's move this to my office," Mac suggested.

Don Flack, Larry Baynes, Tom Robbins, Adam Ross, and four members of SWAT Team Alpha followed Mac into the office, where Flack helped him close the blinds. The flimsy vertical sheets would not protect against a bullet, but hostiles would not be able to get an easy bead on a target. Two uniforms took up station outside the door, ready to provide cover fire should the senior officers need a hurried escape.

"Taylor." Robbins nodded a greeting at the senior detective of the city's crime laboratory. "What do you know about this situation?"

"The shots came from the break room, here." Mac pulled a floor plan out of his credenza, snapped the rubber band, and unrolled the crime lab blueprints across his desk. "It's currently the only room on the floor other than this one with its blinds closed. A witness places at least three of my detectives inside. One assailant is confirmed but there may be more."

"How many shots have been fired so far?"

"I don't know," Mac admitted.

One of the two uniformed patrol officers spoke up, his Staten Island diction even heavier than Messers'. "I was on da floor when it 'appened. I 'eard five distinct dischahges. One roun' went t'rough de break room's glass. The bullet's mos' likely buried in da wall o' the Trace Lab."

"We need to know what's happening in there. At the very least, we need a headcount of the suspects," Lt. Robbins said as he studied the floor plans. "We can't see in through the glass walls because of the closed blinds, sooooo ... From outside, maybe? The closest we can get anyone to the outside window is one of the supports out on the Brooklyn Bridge. The distance is too far for a sniper shot, but maybe we can get a view of what's going on inside the room."

Intimately familiar with the view--and the trajectories--in question, Mac Taylor shook his head. "The angle's all wrong. The 35th floor is higher than the tallest point of the Bridge that might possibly give you a view into the break room. You wouldn't be able to see anything. That's supposing our gunman will leave the shades open."

Robbins sighed and accepted the tactical restriction. "Then we'll have to rely on surveillance from inside the building."

Baynes glared at Adam Ross, the only unarmed, white-coated lab tech in a sea of protective armor and automatic weapons.

"I ordered all non-essential personnel to evacuate the floor," the Captain said.

Mac held Adam in place with a hand on his right shoulder. "Ross is the best A/V technician in the lab," Mac argued. "You'll need him to monitor the equipment and keep the lines of communication open."

"That's good to know," Baynes said, "but depending on how many assailants we're facing and the types of firepower and/or explosives they have, this floor could turn into a war zone without little or no warning. You understand that, right?" he asked Adam. "No panicking or anything if things go south. If you're staying, you're in for the duration. Is that clear?"

Normally the last person in the lab to willingly step into a confrontational situation, Adam Ross met the negotiator eye-to-eye and, while clearly afraid, answered with a rod of steel in his voice, "Those are my friends in there. I'm not leaving until they're safe."

The Captain studied Ross for a long moment before agreeing. "Alright. Go get whatever equipment you need. I want to call that room and end this with as little bloodshed as possible."

Adam deflated, grateful to be of some help. With a brief glance for permission toward Mac, Ross ducked around two nearby SWAT members. Keeping to all available cover, he headed for the A/V lab, directly across from the elevators.

Flack told Mac, "I'll go with him, help him carry the equipment."

"Thanks, Don."

"Mac," Baynes drawled, "I hope you're not expecting to handle the negotiations. That's my job."

"I should handle the call. They're my people. I'm more likely to pick up on any clues and hints they might give than you are."

"True enough, which is why I haven't asked the Chief to order you off this floor. You're too close to this one. You know that."

Mac held Baynes' eyes a solid 30 seconds. His people--his friends--were in danger. He needed to be in control.

Damnit, Baynes is right, Mac realized. I am too close to both the situation and the hostages to handle the contact. I can help best by offering logistical support and relevant intel.

Baynes is the best negotiator in the department. He knows what he's doing. He'll do everything in his power to get Lindsay, Sheldon, and Danny out safely. But as good as he is, he doesn't know my team. Will he put their needs above that of the department? Will he take a risk if it means saving them, or will he stick to regulations because that's safer?

What choice do I have? God, please. Let it be the right one.

He surrendered with a subtle sag of his shoulders.

"Alright. You make the call." Taylor's eyes softened, a plea from one team leader to another. "The lives of my people are in your hands, Lar. Don't let me--or them--down. Please."

Larry Baynes laid his large hand on Mac's shoulder and squeezed.

"I won't, Mac." He gave the shoulder a final pat then turned to the team stationed around him. "Okay, people. Listen up. While the call is active, everyone stay silent. Turn off your cell phones and pagers, now."

He looked to Adam as the AV tech wove his way back through the crowd to Taylor's desk, his arms full of metal boxes and wiring. Behind him came Don Flack, his arms equally full.

Stella Bonasera ducked into the room, her tall, slender form covered with a protective vest.

"Mac, I heard." Stella hurried to his side. "Any news?"

Taylor shook his head. "Nothing. Captain Baynes is about to initiate contact."

Stella studied Mac with a classic slack-jawed double-take. Mac could almost read her mind: Mac Taylor isn't taking charge of this situation! Is the world ending?

"I want every phone line except the one I'm using forwarded to other floors," Baynes continued. "Rig the last remaining line to record every word we say. Will this equipment be strong enough to pick up ambient sounds, something the hostages might be talking about in the background?"

"It'll pick up individual heartbeats if I need it to," Adam boasted. "If there's noise, I'll pull it up."

Larry looked from Mac to Stella to Don. "I don't care what the hostage-taker says or does to provoke a response--no one says anything. Let me deal with it. Okay, everyone ready?"

On Baynes' signal, Adam activated the speakerphone and dialed the number to the CSI's break room telephone.

The line rang once. Twice. Three times. The fourth ring broke off mid-way through.

A cultured, unfamiliar voice answered the ringing phone with an unhurried, "Who is this?"

"My name is Captain Larry Baynes, NYPD. I want to help you end this standoff peacefully."

"Forgive me, Captain Baynes, but I have no desire to share discourse with an impartial negotiator. I researched this assault carefully. I know with whom I wish to confer, someone who has as much to lose as I do myself."

Baynes glanced towards Mac, his expression stony. The experienced negotiator hated when the crooks were intellectually over-stimulated. Adversaries with brains made his job three times as hard.

"And who might that be?"

"Detective Mac Taylor. This is his lab, after all, and his friends. I understand he was in service to this country, as well--a Marine, I believe. I can deal with him and him alone. Do please call him quickly. Time is of the essence in this matter."

Mac stepped closer but said nothing until Baynes, with a frustrated slash of his hand, motioned him to speak.

"This is Detective Taylor."

"Ah yes. As I told Captain Baynes, I have heard much of you, sir. All to the good. You are a man with whom I can deal."

Baynes, a lefty, scribbled onto a pad of notepaper and turned the result toward Taylor Mac deciphered the rushed, backwards-tilted scrawl--try to get his name--and nodded.

"You know about me," Mac said, "but I don't know anything about you. That doesn't seem very fair, does it? Would you tell me your name?"

"My first impulse is to withhold that information," the gunman said. "But logically, you would discover my identity eventually. I may as well save you the trouble. I am Nathan Collier, Professor Emeritus of Literature at Chelsea University."

Mac's eyebrows shot up. He could not keep the surprise and disbelief out of his voice. "Professor?"

Collier's response was ripe with patient humor. "It may seem hard to imagine. Yes, given the circumstances, it definitely would. However, I am certain you have encountered situations in the past, tragedies that combine to force an otherwise law-abiding man to do acts that, under an ordinary state of affairs, would be reprehensible."

Baynes made a circular, reel-him-in motion with his hands--get more information, keep him talking. "Can you tell me about these situations and tragedies?"

"In good time, sir. In good time. Don't fret yourself, Detective. I don't intend to leave you dangling for hours in an effort to 'flex my power,' as it were. Time is on no man's side, least of all mine. Or yours. Or the three people in here with me."

"You have three hostages? How are they?"

"Detective Daniel Messer is unharmed. Detective ... pardon, Doctor Sheldon Hawkes was slightly injured but not seriously--a minor head wound that looks far worse than it is."

A long moment of silence stretched, broken when Mac asked, "And the third hostage?"

Collier's replied, his voice heavy with remorse. "This I ... I sincerely regret. Truly, I do. I fear that Detective Lindsay Monroe is rather seriously injured."

Baynes laid a heavy hand on Mac's shoulder, cautioning him to remain in control. Jaw clenched, back arched, knuckles white-gripped on the edge of the desk, Mac remained silent a long moment before he spoke again. Voice tightly controlled, he asked, "Can I talk to Dr. Hawkes or Detective Messer?"

A second passed, then Hawkes' voice came through the speakerphone, "I'm here, Mac."

"Hawkes? Collier says you're injured?"

"You heard him, Mac. Flesh wound. Messy but not serious. It's Lindsay I'm worried about."

"How bad is she?"

"The bullet struck her from behind, just below the right shoulder blade, and far too close to her spine for my liking. No exit wound, so the bullet's still in there. Had to've been a ricochet since it didn't go straight through. She's lost a lot of blood, Mac. She needs a hospital. Now."

"I'll do everything I can, just do what you have to do. You and Danny behave yourselves. Don't provoke him. Professor?"

"Yes, Detective. I'm still here."

"You say time is against us. Okay. Let's cut right to it. Tell me what you want."

"What do I want?" the man sighed. His tone shifted, became distant, as though drawn to memories or daydreams. "I would want a perfect world, where literature and art are the focus and drive of mankind, not profit or flesh. A world where mankind follows a philosophy of forgiveness rather than one of an-eye-for-an-eye. A world without prisons or death penalties. I doubt I will ever see that world, don't you?"

Though the question sounded rhetorical, Sheldon Hawkes answered anyway. "So long as men wave guns around, shooting from ambush and taking hostages, no. You won't."

"I deserved that, true enough. The deed, however, is done. We must all 'make the best of it.' You wish to live. I have only one demand to make. If Detective Taylor deals honorably and accedes to my terms, I will release you all and surrender myself to the judicial system."

Danny Messer cut in to ask, "And if they don't? Or can't?"

"We all die."