Twenty-Three Minutes

John MacIntyre slumps at a battered landline in the NYPD’s Twenty-Sixth Precinct on December 31st, 1999, 10:37 p.m. While revelers pack Times Square awaiting the new millennium, he’s tethered to a squealing phone. The overhead clock ticks too slowly. Most nights, he’d roll with the usual calls—drunk fights, noise complaints—but tonight, the Y2K hysteria means an onslaught of doomsday questions. He’d rather be anywhere else, but a shoulder injury keeps him on desk duty.

He answers a call from a man fretting that at midnight, computers might trigger mass pandemonium. “We’re good, sir,” John says, voice tight with forced patience. He hangs up and exhales. Some folks claim planes will fall out of the sky; others think toasters will rebel. It’s nonsense, but it occupies his shift.

Rubbing his tired eyes, John taps the cradle button to reach CONTROL. “MacIntyre here. Any word on relief?” The dispatcher’s voice crackles: “You’re stuck, John—everyone’s on assignment.” He mumbles a curse, then sips his lukewarm coffee. He’d prefer street duty, but it’s either phone work or nothing while he heals.

The phone rings again. This time, it’s his mother. “Ma, I’m working,” he grumbles softly. She fusses about black-eyed peas for New Year’s luck. “Sounds great, but I can’t leave now,” John says, gentler than before. He hangs up and glares at the rookie who’s smirking nearby. “Mind your business,” he snaps.

He’s still muttering when the phone rings once more. He answers with his usual: “NYPD, MacIntyre.” The tone on the other end is frantic. “Officer, you gotta help me. There’s a hostage situation in a high-rise on the Lower East Side. Keep me on the line for twenty-three minutes, or these people die.”

John straightens, heart pounding. CONTROL’s voice cuts into his earpiece: “We’ve got a lead on that call—stay put. Keep him talking.” John swallows. “All right,” he tells the caller. “Calm down, sir. Where are you?”

A mirthless chuckle crackles back. “I’m not giving you that. You just keep me company. Hostages might survive if you’re good.”

John signals a detective to begin tracing. “Look, I need something to go on—anything. Your name?”

A pause. “Call me ‘Ghost.’ Twenty-three minutes, Officer MacIntyre. If we get cut off, or if I hear a trace beep, game over.”

John’s mind whirs. CONTROL needs twenty-three minutes to trace the call. A perfect match. Coincidence? Or did Ghost know?

“I’ve negotiated before,” John says. “But not like this. Why twenty-three minutes?”

Ghost exhales slowly, as if savoring the question. “That’s all the time you have.”

“All the time I have for what?”

“To prove whether you’re worth saving.”

John’s fingers tighten around the receiver. “Hostages shouldn’t be part of a game.”

“You’d be surprised how many things are.”

John glances at the clock. They need time to triangulate this psycho’s location. “Confession? I’ve got loads of regrets. Be more specific.”

A bitter laugh. “Officer, you’re stalling. Speak or they die.”

John takes a breath, voice tightening. “Fine. I screwed up my marriage. Drank more than I should. My wife left. I don’t see my daughter enough. Satisfied?”

Ghost is silent for a moment. “It’s a start. Keep going.”

John rubs his temple. This is humiliating, but he has no choice. “I froze when my partner was shot. I called for backup too late. He bled out. Now I’m stuck behind a desk.”

Ghost’s tone lowers. “You blame yourself?”

“Every day,” John admits. The words sting. He’s never spoken them so bluntly.

“Good,” Ghost murmurs. “Eighteen minutes left.”

John notes the countdown. “Listen,” he says, “why are you doing this? Do you want ransom?”

“Leverage. Nothing more,” Ghost replies. “Hostages are my bargaining chip.”

John hears a beep in his ear—CONTROL telling him they’re tracing. He covers the mouthpiece and whispers, “How long?” A detective holds up fingers: fifteen more minutes.

John returns to the call. “Ghost, we can help you. If you want a safe exit—”

“No deals. I want you to face who you are. That’s it. Confess your biggest fear.”

John’s jaw tightens. He’s done hostage negotiations before, but never one so… personal. He tries not to dwell on the humiliating knowledge this could be broadcast across the precinct. “Biggest fear, huh? Fine. I’m afraid I’ve lost my edge. I was proud of my instincts on the street. Now? I feel like a liability.”

Ghost grunts. “Not bad. Keep going.”

John flexes his free hand. “All right. The truth is, I’m scared I’ll never be the same cop I was. My old partner was the best, and I can’t see myself walking a beat without him. I feel like a fraud behind this desk.”

Ghost breathes, “Finally. Real fear. Five minutes left.”

John hears a beep in his ear: two more minutes until trace. He just has to stall. “Ghost, maybe you’re dealing with your own regrets. Why else corner me tonight, of all nights?”

A short laugh. “We’ve all got regrets, Officer. Mine just don’t matter as much.”

John peers at the clock: 10:55 p.m. “Ghost, you can’t walk away from this scot-free. Let me help you.”

“Two minutes,” Ghost says. “Answer me this, MacIntyre: do you honestly believe you can be redeemed for letting your partner die?”

John squares his shoulders. “I don’t know if I can be redeemed, but I’m trying. That’s the truth.”

A faint hiss. “Good answer. Now do me a favor: look out your window.”

John stands, stepping to the big window overlooking the street. “I’m looking,” he says warily. “What now?”

Ghost’s voice is eerily calm. “See that fifth floor with half-open curtains? My man’s got a rifle trained on your desk.”

John’s heart pounds. He half-ducks behind the sill. “You’re bluffing.”

A chuckle. “If I was, you’d know. Believe me, a bullet can pierce that glass easy. One minute left.”

John fights to remain steady. “So what do you want? Me to freeze like last time?”

Ghost snorts. “I wanted the truth. You gave it. I told the sniper not to fire. If you’d lied about redemption, you’d be on the floor bleeding right now.”

The line dies.

John stares at the silent receiver. Midnight nears. The city roars outside. The number lingers in his head.

Twenty-three minutes. CONTROL needed twenty-three minutes. So did Ghost. Why?



Maybe tomorrow, he’ll start living differently, finally unafraid to face his demons.