Every Second. Rick Mofina

       13

      Queens, New York

      Sergeant Paul Roman put two crumpled dollar bills on the counter at Spiro’s Café, took his take-out coffee outside, lifted the lid and blew gently on the surface.

      Today was his last shift before his vacation. Once he punched out, he and his wife would fly to Miami for a one-week Caribbean cruise. He’d hoped to spend most of his day finishing off paperwork at the office.

      So far, so good, he thought. Then his phone rang.

      “Paulie, its Walsh. We got one in Roseoak Park. Bank manager just robbed his own branch—his family’s being held hostage at their home. We need you to get there.”

      Roman took a second to absorb what his lieutenant had said.

      “Where’re they setting up?”

      “Forest Trail Drive and Maple. I’m sending you details now.”

      “On my way.”

      “One thing you should know—the family’s possibly rigged with explosives.”

      Roman’s eyes widened.

      Explosives.

      A hostage negotiator with the NYPD’s Emergency Services Unit, Roman was assigned to ESU Squad 10. It covered the territory known as Queens North, out of the 109th Precinct in Flushing. Squad 10 would be rolling to the scene now, he knew. The bomb squad would be on its way, as well. As Roman cut across the borough he took several hits of coffee and began a mental review of his situation checklist.

      You only get one shot to do things right.

      * * *

      Some forty-five minutes after the call, Squad 10’s big white equipment truck creaked to a halt at a small park at Maple Street and Forest Trail Drive, joining the cluster of other emergency vehicles.

      The location was nine doors down the curved street from the Fultons’ address. Just out of sight of the house, it served as the tactical command post. A dozen ESU SWAT team members, each wearing helmets, armor, headset walkie-talkies, and equipped with rifles and handguns, huddled at the command post, checking and rechecking gear.

      As the commanders developed a strategy, marked units established the outer perimeter. Officers choked off traffic at all access points to Forest Trail Drive. They consulted driver’s license photos of Dan and Lori Fulton, recorded plates and checked vehicles leaving, or attempting to enter the hot zone.

      Other officers began quietly evacuating neighbors, taking them behind the yellow taped lines, ensuring they were clear of the blast radius and line of fire. Everything was done through back doors and side entrances to ensure nothing was visible from the Fultons’ windows.

      Without making a sound, four SWAT team members scouted the area surrounding the house and garage. The stillness held an eerie quiet, conveying a false sense of calm. They deployed an extension mirror to peer into the house and they used a stethoscope device placed carefully against the walls and window to pick up voices or activity.

      They detected no movement.

      They did the same for the garage and detected no activity.

      The scouts were ordered to pull back.

      * * *

      Inside the command post truck, hostage negotiator Paul Roman watched Wilfred Walsh, the tactical commander, study a floor plan of the Fultons’ home, hastily sketched from memory by a shaken next door neighbor.

      “Okay, so here’s what we know,” Walsh said to the other investigators, huddled in the truck. “Dan Fulton, manager of the SkyNational Trust Branch 487, takes a bag of cash from his bank and drives away after leaving a note that reads, ‘Family held hostage at home! Strapped bombs on us!’

      “That’s all we have, so far. We’ve been unable to locate Dan Fulton. His wife, Lori Fulton, has not shown up for work. Billy Fulton’s not at school. We’ve been unable to contact anyone in the house. We’ve got no movement or visuals of people in the house. But that does not mean we don’t have people inside. Until we clear the property, we will regard it as still hot.”

      “Absolutely,” Mac Hirsch, lieutenant for the bomb squad, said. “We regard everything as an explosive, unless my people confirm otherwise.”

      They reviewed options. Using selective sniper fire was ruled out, for the time being. There were no clear targets. Other options: a blitz assault with flash bangs, or unleashing chemicals into the house.

      SWAT commander Kevin Haggerty objected.

      “I’m not sending my people in there until we know it’s clear of bombs.”

      “All right, there’s one alternative—Kevin, you get your people to breach the door, and we’ll send in the robot to search the house and drop a phone, so Roman, here, can start negotiations with whoever’s in there. We’ve got to try to resolve this peacefully.”

      * * *

      The bomb squad’s robot was controlled remotely and equipped with a camera to transmit live feed to the technician manipulating it. It moved with the speed of a tortoise, its tracks humming and whizzing as it took its position at the front door, waiting like a mechanized alien visitor.

      The SWAT team surrounded the entrance, weapons at the ready, as one member used a crowbar to pry the door open. The cracking of the frame echoed in the deserted neighborhood. The robot hummed over the debris, toddled inside and the SWAT team retreated.

      The video pictures were sharp and clear.

      The detective operating the robot used its speaker system, calling on anyone inside to surrender to the NYPD. Roman watched the video feed over the detective’s shoulder and prepared himself.

      He glanced at his phone and the photos of Lori, Dan and Billy Fulton intel had provided him. Dan was a good-looking suburban dad, Lori had an attractive smile, and Billy, in his ball cap with Dad at Yankee Stadium, was the all-American kid.

      The safety of the hostages was Roman’s chief concern. He’d need to find common ground with the hostage taker—was it Dan, who’d cracked under pressure? Or was someone else involved? Roman