"Anybody call ESU?"
"I don't know. I lost my handy-talkie when we started taking fire."
"You in armor?"
"Negative. I was doing traffic stops. . . . What the hell're we going to do?"
She clicked her Motorola to a particular frequency and said, "Crime Scene Five Eight Eight Five to Supervisor."
A moment later: "This is Captain Seven Four. Go ahead."
"Ten-thirteen at a lot east of six-oh-five Delancey. Officer down. Need backup, EMS bus and ESU immediately. Two subjects, both armed. One with hostage; we'll need a negotiator."
"Roger, Five Eight Eight Five. Helicopter for observation?"
"Negative, Seven Four. One suspect has a high-powered rifle. And they're willing to target blues."
"We'll get backup there as soon as we can. But the Secret Service's closed up half of downtown 'cause the vice president's coming in from JFK. There'll be a delay. Handle the situation at your discretion. Out."
"Roger. Out."
Vice president, she thought. Just lost my vote.
Wilkins shook his head. "But we can't get a negotiator near the apartment. Not with the shooter still in the car."
"I'm working on that," Sachs replied.
She edged to the corner of the tenement again and glanced at the car, a cheap low-rider with its nose against a Dumpster, doors open, revealing a thin man holding a rifle.
I'm working on that. . . .
She shouted, "You in the car, you're surrounded. We're going to open fire if you don't drop your weapon. Do it now!"
He crouched and aimed in her direction. She ducked for cover. On her Motorola she called the two officers in the back of the lot. "Are there hostages in the car?"
"None."
"You're sure?"
"Positive" was the officer's reply. "We got a good look before he started shooting."
"Okay. You got a shot?"
"Probably through the door."
"No, don't shoot blind. Go for position. But only if you've got cover all the way."
"Roger."
She saw the men move to a flanking position. A moment later one of the officers said, "I've got a shot to kill. Should I take it?"
"Stand by." Then she shouted, "You in the car. With the rifle. You have ten seconds or we'll open fire. Drop your weapon. You understand?" She repeated this in Spanish.
"Fuck you."
Which she took to be affirmative.
"Ten seconds," she shouted. "We're counting."