The ballet of revolving lights illuminated New York at dawn. The blue and red lights, so violent, were reminiscent of the city's clubs, only brighter. From inside the office building, a mass of glass and steel, the jewel of Manhattan architecture, they gave the effect of a swipe, like the scanner in a science fiction movie.

The thickness of the glass was supposed to totally isolate the skyscraper from the noise outside, but the racket was so loud that it got through anyway. The sounds were muffled, though. The noise of the helicopter's rotor, which kept spinning in a figure of eight above the building, sounded more like a fan from up here, and the roar of the sirens more like the complaints of wounded animals.

The snipers from the NYPD, the city's police force, had had the building in their sights since the start of the operation, and the panicked call from the security guards, who were reporting the hostage situation. With the strictest respect for protocol, the NYPD had done its best to retrace the course of events and identify the threat. According to their information, they had only one suspect: a young woman in her twenties or thirties, wearing a turquoise suit.

She had broken into the premises of the famous HBO television channel with a group of evening visitors, before taking a gun out of her handbag and locking herself in the director's office with him and other hostages. She also claimed to have planted bombs in the building, which she would not hesitate to set off in the case of a police assault.

Hostage-taking was not a common occurrence in New York, thank God, but the NYPD knew how to handle it. The key was dialogue. Get the suspect talking, find out what he wanted. Eventually, give in a little. But the most important thing wasn't even to arrest him: it was to guarantee the lives of the hostages.

You couldn't be sure of anything, that was the whole point of this kind of operation. The calmest of suspects could suddenly go berserk and lash out, just as the most vindictive could suddenly surrender. So they had to wait and see. Time was on their side anyway.

In the HBO director's office, the telephone suddenly rang. A hand with polished nails grabbed it and pressed the receiver against her ear.

”Yes?”

The voice was the same as it had been since the beginning of the crisis. Calm, composed, pleasant, charming even. Not a bit panicky.

”Miss, it's the police negotiator again. The people around me would like to know if the hostages are all right.”

Two big gold eyes - the wonders of contact lenses these days! - rested on the three figures lying helpless on her polished heels.

”They're fine. I promised not to harm them before the end of my ultimatum...”

Her eyes fell on the digital clock on the wall, its virtual hands ticking away the seconds.

”Which is approaching, by the way. May I ask you what progress you've made with my requests, Mr. Officer?”

”They've been heard by my superiors.”

The female voice chuckled.

”Please don't beat around the bush with me, don't try to buy time. My question is simple: have you or have you not done what I asked?”

”We're doing our best to...”

”That's no, then” concluded the young woman kindly, hanging up the phone.

She smiled as she thought of the discomfited look the poor negotiator must have had, so many meters below. And the reproachful look his colleagues must have given him for having pushed her to hanging up. They must surely have feared that she would start executing the hostages. Good. It would speed up her demands.

It was incredible that they were taking so long! Since she'd been there, they must have had plenty of time to get what she wanted and bring it here!

I mean, it couldn't have been easy. That was why she was reduced to using that method, after all.

She pulled her electronic cigarette from her suit pocket and took a few puffs. It wasn't as good as a real one, but she'd promised her girlfriend she'd cut down on her habit. And if for once she could keep her New Year's resolutions...

Much lower down, at sea level, the police were watching, tight-lipped, the ballet of special forces outside the large glass doors of the building. The bomb squad had found nothing on the scanner, but that didn't mean they had to rush in headlong. They could have been IEDs, those terrifying Improvised Explosive Devices that you could make yourself with a bit of soda, some fertiliser and a pressure cooker.

Caution was the key word for the city's police. So as long as they weren't sure of anything, no movement. Especially since if anything happened to the hostages or the building, they could be sure that the mayor would have their heads. So they did what they had been doing for several hours now: they waited.

Numb from her standing position, the young woman decided to get rid of the pins and needles that had been plaguing her legs for some time.

After taking off her heels, she climbed up onto the desk of the station manager, before jumping down onto the carpet as far as she could.

When she landed, she giggled like a little schoolgirl before doing it all over again.

Visibly bored when the spectacle recurred for the sixth time in the space of a few minutes, one of the hostages muttered something through his teeth along the lines of "she's completely bonkers".

The hostage-taker stopped dead in her tracks, as if the sentence had frozen her in her tracks. She slowly turned her attention to the individual before moving towards him. When she was close enough to touch him, she pulled a pistol from her pocket and waved it in front of the man's face.

”I'm not nuts, she said, her voice harsher than it had been on the phone. I just have requests, and I do my best to get them granted. And don't tell me I'm not treating you right!”

With the muzzle of her gun, she pointed to a pile of magazines and pencils on the floor in front of the prisoners.

”Do you know many hostages who are allowed to keep themselves busy doing crosswords? I'm sure you've never been in a hostage situation like this!”

”We've never been in a hostage situation at all”, stressed the manager, almost vehemently.

”Well, try suggesting that the next time it happens to you, and you'll see what they say. Now do me a favour and stop complaining, or it's tape for everyone!”

The silence that followed the threat was only broken by the crystalline laughter of the hostage-taker.

”Because I haven't neither CD nor DVD!”

”...”

”Oh come on, that one was funny!”

A heavy black SUV drove through the police cordon, sliding doors already open. Inside, two uniformed police officers escorted a silver briefcase. The vehicle had barely stopped when the officers brought the case to the operation commander, who was hooked up to his walkie-talkie.

”So you've got it after all?”

The officers nodded in unison, snapped the locks on the attaché case and lifted the lid.

The Chief of Police glanced inside and winced. A hostage situation for that. This girl was a sick wacko, and yet in forty years in the business, he'd seen some twisted things. He was about to signal to the negotiator to call the terrorist, when a female voice called out to him over the security barrier.

”Sir! Please!”

A young woman in a white dress was struggling with a policeman who was preventing her from crossing the cordon.

”You can't go through, miss, repeated the officer in a monotone voice, there's a police operation in progress and no civilians are allowed on the premises.”

”But it's my girlfriend inside, you idiot! Let me through, I'll talk some sense into her.”

The policeman looked at his boss, who gave a brief affirmative sign with his chin. The families of the hostage-takers were a good weapon to play.

”What's your name?”

”Bonaud”, she said, pronouncing it in the French manner, ”Betty Bonaud. The girl up there is my partner, Ludivine Heartstrings.”

”On the phone, she told me her name was Lyra”, said the negotiator, puzzled.

”That's how she likes to be called. She renames everything, it's her thing. She changed my name to Bonbon, because of my initials and because I work in a confectionery.”

”Strange girl”, exclaimed one of the policemen present.

”You can't imagine how much, sighed Betty. Can I see her? How is she?”

”She's locked herself in the HBO director's office with some hostages, and she's only made one request. That we bring her... this, murmured the negotiator, pointing to the briefcase.”

Betty glanced inside and scowled.

”It's my fault, I should never have shown her that scene. That'll teach me to introduce her to TV shows.”

”If you want to talk to her, I was dialling the number” said the negotiator, waving the phone.

Betty grabbed it quickly and put it to her ear.

”Lyra darling, it's me.”

”Bonsie! How are you? Did you have a good day at the sweet shop?”

”Yes, quite well”, replied the young woman in a bored voice. ”But I'm not talking to you about my day. You've got to stop this nonsense and get the hostages back downstairs.”

”Do they have what I want?”

”Yes.”

”For realsie? You're not just saying that to mess with me, are you, Bonsie? Did you see it?”

”I even touched it. It's the real one, the same as in the show. And the police commander assures me that if you free the hostages and give yourself up, they should even arrange for you to keep it.”

Betty put the receiver away from her ears as Ludivine's joyful shout echoed throughout the district. She handed the phone back to the negotiator with a nod. It shouldn't be long now.

And indeed, less than five minutes later, the hostages walked through the doors of HBO, immediately taken over by the emergency services.

Ludivine herself appeared shortly afterwards, arms over her head, gun limply dangling from one of her fingers.

Four policemen in assault gear surrounded her and before she could protest, disarmed her by force, despite her willingness.

They then handcuffed her and ruthlessly put her in the back of a car. The vehicle did not leave immediately. Not until the police were sure that there was nothing more to fear on the station's premises.

”So?” asked the head of the operation to the bomb squad.

”Negative, no trace of explosives, even IED. She was bluffing.”

”And her gun's a fake”, added an officer, examining the pistol. ”It's just a piece of painted metal. Only smoke and mirrors, too.”

Betty breathed a sigh of relief. She knew that Ludivine wasn't capable of doing that for real, however determined she was.

”So she's not going to be charged, is she?” she said to the police, her voice full of hope.

”Your girlfriend still managed to take a hostage and mobilise a large part of the New York police force. It's up to the judge, but my guess is she'll get a heavy fine and some community service, or even a bit of time. The only question is, was it worth it?”

Betty turned her head towards the back of the police car, watching Ludivine's delighted face from the window. For her girlfriend, the answer seemed obvious.

The latter couldn't contain her smile despite the discomfort of the handcuffs as she looked at the treasure in the briefcase, which she had been allowed to keep with her. The real silicone prop hand from Games of Thrones, the one from Jaime's amputation scene. She'd been dreaming about it ever since Bonbon showed her the episode, and this was the only way she could get her hands on it; no pun entented. The young woman was delighted. Especially if she could keep it.

”Come on, sweetheart”, announced the driver after slamming the door and revving the engine, ”I'll take you to the station. But as I'm having a good day, you have the right to choose the music I play during the drive.”

She slowly raised her head to the rear-view mirror.

”Have you got the red album by the Beatles?”

”I must have it, yes”, replied the policeman.

The young woman's lips curled into an imperceptible smile.

”First record, track five, please.”

The music blared in the car as it sped off into the New York night. From the back seat, Ludivine Heartstrings, known as Lyra, whistled for a few seconds before accompanying John Lennon's band vocally.

I want to hold your hand...

Author's Note

First published on the french website MLP Fictions in 2014