A collective ripple passed through the line of uniformed patrolmen. Two younger officers near the rear cruiser lowered their shotguns, looking at each other in immediate shock.
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Bradley’s jaw tightened. "Thorne, that’s an unsubstantiated claim designed to distract from—"
"Title 18, United States Code, Section 1114!" I interrupted, stepping out onto the wet stone threshold, dragging Concincaid by the neck. "Attempted murder of a federal officer! Title 18, Section 1201! Kidnapping! If my daughter is harmed, every single officer on this block who participates in blocking this federal response vehicle will be indicted as an accessory before the fact to capital murder! Step out of the roadway, or my team will clear the lane by any means necessary!"
Garrison stepped onto the landing beside me, his gold FBI badge pinned to his outer tactical carrier, holding his secure phone high. "Bradley! This is Special Agent in Charge Garrison! The United States Attorney for the Southern District has just contacted the Police Commissioner directly! The Mayor’s office has ordered your shift stood down! Clear this street right now, or the Tactical Support Branch at Fort Hamilton will be landing helicopters in your precinct courtyard inside fifteen minutes!"
Bradley’s face drained of color. He looked from Garrison’s badge to Concincaid’s bleeding mouth, then back to the forty patrolmen behind him who were already looking at the ground, backing away from their car doors. The blue wall was cracking under the weight of federal reality.
"Stand down," Bradley muttered, his voice cracking into the bullhorn. "Move the cars! Clear the center lane! Move!"
The patrolmen didn't wait for a second order. Engines revved, tires splashed through gutters clogged with autumn leaves, and the blockade split down the middle like the Red Sea.
I threw Concincaid back into the annex hallway toward Deputy Henderson. "Take custody. If he moves a muscle, put him on the floor. Miller, with me in the lead Suburban. Garrison, get the Queens field office in the air."
"Two choppers already lifting off from the helipad at 23rd Street," Garrison said, slapping a spare magazine into my carrier pouch. "Go. Don't lose her."
Miller and I hit the front seat of the heavy armored Suburban before the doors were even fully pulled shut. Miller slammed the transmission into drive, hit the multi-tone siren, and floored the accelerator. The six-liter engine roared, four-wheel drive biting into the wet asphalt as we shot through the gap between Bradley’s cruisers, blowing through the red light at Lexington Avenue with sirens screaming.
"Ramos!" I barked into the hands-free console, gripping the grab-bar as Miller threw the three-ton vehicle into a four-wheel slide around the corner of 60th Street. "Status!"
Static hissed through the speaker, punctuated by the heavy, rhythmic thuds of metal striking reinforced auto-glass.