“Nate,” Quinn said. “Get a visual.”
There was a pause, then Nate said, “The front window’s tinted. I can’t see inside.”
“How long has he been behind us?” Orlando asked.
Quinn shook his head. “Not long. I checked less than a minute ago, and he wasn’t there.”
As always, Quinn had been keeping watch on the road both in front and behind. Twenty seconds before the initial hit, Quinn was positive the SUV had not been following them.
Orlando’s phone began to ring. It must have gotten disconnected sometime during one of the collisions.
“It’s Peter,” Orlando said, looking at the display on the mobile.
“Tell him we’ll have to call him back.”
Quinn looked back into the mirror as she talked to Peter. The SUV was approaching again. Quinn switched his gaze to the road ahead. The end of the block was coming up quick.
“Hold on,” he said.
He waited until the last second, then whipped the wheel to the right, taking the turn at near full speed. The Ford grazed the corner of his bumper as it shot by, causing Quinn’s car to weave to the left.
The sedan’s tires screeched as they tried to grip the surface of the road, then the car rocked in protest as Quinn straightened the wheel before it settled down.
Quinn looked in the mirror again. The truck had missed the turn and was no longer behind them. He flicked his gaze back and forth from the road to the mirror, expecting the truck to reappear. But it never did.
A half block ahead, several taxis were parked near the entrance to a small hotel. Quinn slammed on the brakes, bringing the sedan to a stop.
“Out! Both of you,” he said. “Grab a cab and follow me. If that guy comes back, see if you can get a visual. Coordinate with Peter. He should be able to get us some backup.”
Nate was out the door before Quinn finished speaking. Orlando hesitated only a moment longer.
“Be careful,” she said.
“Go, go,” he said.
He waited until they were climbing into the cab at the front of the line, then pressed down on the accelerator again.
If Quinn had been the follower, he would have gone up another block and circled around so that he might be able to catch up to his prey at the next intersection. As he neared the end of the street, he slowed and looked left, hoping to get an early glimpse of the truck if it was there.
It being night in New York City, he couldn’t be one hundred percent sure. There had to be dozens of cars within a one-block radius. The majority were cabs, but there were still plenty of private vehicles, including a fair share of SUVs. None, though, were missing a front headlight.
He turned right onto Park Avenue, heading south toward Grand Central Terminal. A few seconds later, he saw Orlando and Nate’s cab pull onto the road behind him.
Still no sign of the one-eyed SUV.
Quinn reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He placed his thumb on the touch screen, deactivating the security lock. Glancing back and forth between road and phone, he found Orlando’s number in his quick call list and touched it. As the line began to ring, he engaged the speakerphone, then set his mobile on the passenger seat, securing the end in the crevice between the back and the bottom cushions.
“As far as I can tell, the tail’s gone,” Orlando said.
“Slow down a little,” Quinn said. “See if he’s hanging farther back.”
“Okay.”
He could hear her relay the instructions to the driver. There was a few seconds’ delay, then the cab slowed.
“Still nothing,” she said a minute later. “I think he’s gone.”
Quinn turned west on Forty-seventh Street, then south again on Fifth Avenue, each time relaying his actions to Orlando. As he crossed Forty-second Street and came abreast of the New York City Library, his phone beeped, indicating he had another call.
“Hold on,” he told Orlando. He switched the calls. “Yes?”
“What kind of car are you in?” It was Peter.
“What? Why?”
“Just tell me.”
Quinn thought for a second. “Buick. A Lucerne, I think. Silver or gray.”
“You need to find someplace to hide that car now!”
“What’s going on?”
“An APB was just issued by the NYPD for a gray Buick sedan with rear bumper damage. Sound familiar?”
“Son of a bitch,” Quinn said.
“They even have the license number. The bulletin says the driver is wanted in connection with a murder. It’s been given top priority.”
Quinn’s eyes narrowed. He’d been set up. He was driving through the streets of New York City with the body of one of the country’s top-ranking intelligence officers in his trunk, and now every member of the New York Police Department was going to be looking for him. Despite the urge to go faster, he slowed down so as not to bring any extra attention to his vehicle.
“I’ll park it and let you know where it is,” he said.
“No. You’ve got to put it someplace no one will find it. We can’t risk someone discovering the body.”
“That’s a little easy for you to say right now, Peter. You’re not the one looking at a federal death sentence.”
“Find a parking garage. All the hotels have them.” When Quinn didn’t respond right away, Peter said, “Are you still there?”
“Yes,” Quinn said. “But it might be a little too late for parking garages.”
One of NYPD’s finest was parked in front of a closed-up newsstand on the left side of the road just ahead, near the corner of Fifth Avenue and West Thirty-sixth Street. There was no chance for Quinn to avoid him, no street he could turn down before passing the patrol car. And pulling over to the curb would only delay the inevitable.
“I’ll call you back,” he said, then switched back to Orlando. “We’ve got a problem.”
He told her Peter’s news while keeping an eye on the cop car as he drove by. Inside there were two officers. They seemed to be talking to each other, not noticing the traffic around them.
There was a moment when Quinn thought he’d made it. But as he checked his rearview mirror to be sure, he saw the cop in the passenger seat look over and point at the sedan.
There was no reason to wait around to see what happened next. Quinn floored it.
“He’s on you,” Orlando said through the phone.
“Yeah … I noticed that.”
Quinn could see the cop car pulling away from the curb, lights flashing in his mirror. He had a half a block lead. He only hoped it was enough.
At first the traffic lights were in his favor. He made it past Thirty-fifth and Thirty-fourth in seconds. But ahead, the light was turning yellow. He slowed only enough to make a wide turn onto West Thirty-third Street. His momentum carried him up onto the first foot of the sidewalk on the left side. If the Starbucks at the corner had still been open, the people inside would have gotten quite a rush.
Quinn straightened the sedan and sped off down the center of the street. He’d just passed the back side of the Empire State Building when the police car rounded the corner from Fifth Avenue. Quinn’s gaze changed from the mirror to the road, and he saw in an instant that his main problem wasn’t behind him, it was ahead.
Instead of cars just being parked along the left side of the road, now there were empty vehicles lining both, cutting the usable road space down to no more than a lane and a half.
“Orlando, where are you?” Quinn asked.
“On Fifth,” she said. “We’re having a little … problem with our driver.”
“Switch cabs. Meet back at the safe point. I’ll be there soon.”
“What are you going to do?”
Quinn hesitated. The light at the upcoming intersection was red. There were half a dozen cars waiting for it to change, blocking the way. Behind him the cop car was coming on fast. He was about to be boxed in.
“Just go. I’ll be there.”
He p
icked up his phone, hit disconnect, then shoved the device in his pocket.
There was really only one choice. He was going to have to run for it, and hope the cops wouldn’t risk hitting innocents by opening fire on him.
As he eased off the gas, he reached under his seat, pulled out his SIG, and placed it on his lap. With his left hand, he reached for the door handle, but stopped before opening the door.
Ahead to his right, an opportunity.
He jammed down on the accelerator, turned the wheel hard to the right, then left again as he negotiated the narrow gap between two parked cars onto the sidewalk. There was the screech of metal on stone as the side of Quinn’s sedan slammed against the marble-tiled building before centering itself on the walkway.
The drivers in the other cars gaped at him as he raced by. Near the corner there was a couple walking down the sidewalk with their backs to him. Quinn jammed his palm down on the horn. The couple turned, their eyes growing wide. At least the woman had sense enough to pull her companion between two parked cars a second before Quinn raced by.
Ahead on the intersecting street, Broadway, cars drove from right to left, unaware of his approach. As he reached the GameStop store on the corner, he glanced in the mirror again. The cops had slowed at the back of the traffic and were trying to maneuver onto the sidewalk behind him. But their driving skills were nowhere near as good as his, and they were finding it more difficult than they’d anticipated.
The intersection was only ten feet away. Quinn pressed the car’s horn with one hand and turned the wheel to the left with the other as he flew off the end of the sidewalk into traffic. His horn was soon joined by others.
Then there was the screech of tires.
Then the crunch of impact.
The sedan had been jolted to the left as a cab slammed into the passenger side. He could feel the Buick wanting to flip over, but it remained upright. Quinn looked over his shoulder. The driver of the cab was staring at him in a daze, the front end of his taxi still touching Quinn’s car.
Quinn pressed down on the accelerator and tried to pull away. But as he did, he could feel the cab wanting to come with him. He threw the Buick into reverse and pushed down on the gas again. That did it. The cab groaned as it spun away, setting Quinn free of the unwanted obstruction. Quinn shoved the transmission back into drive, then took off down Broadway.
Behind him was chaos. Cars scattered all over the place. People standing in the middle of the street. And two cops rounding the corner on foot, guns in hand, but with nothing to shoot at.
For the moment he was alone, but he knew that wouldn’t last long.
He needed to dump the car. Fast.
He turned down West Twenty-seventh and found a spot in front of a jewelry store on the right. It was just large enough for him to fit, and would keep the damaged side of the car facing away from the street. Before he got out, he had to search for his gun. It had flown off his lap during the accident. He could feel the seconds ticking away as he felt around the darkness for it. Finally, he found the SIG stuck between his seat and the door.
Adrenaline still pumping, he all but jumped out of the car. He had to force himself to walk, not run, around the front of the vehicle and onto the sidewalk.
The street was quiet. No one else was out. The only real noise was distant. Cars moving through the city as they did at all hours, a few horns. And sirens. More than on the average New York night. He tried to gauge their location and direction. None seemed to be heading toward him. Yet.
There was a Honda Prelude parked behind his Buick. He knew he’d have no problem getting in and getting it started. And its trunk would be large enough for the body of the Deputy Director.
Quinn walked over to the rear of his sedan, pulled out the key, and stuck it in the lock on the trunk. Only when he turned it, nothing happened. He tried pulling it open with his other hand, but there was only the groan of the vehicle’s springs.
The trunk lid wasn’t going anywhere. It had gotten tweaked during the accident, and would take equipment and time he didn’t have to open it.
He pulled out his phone and dialed Peter. “It’s Quinn,” he said.
“Where the hell are you?”
“You need to send someone for the car.” He gave Peter the address of the building closest to where he’d parked the Buick. “You have to make it quick. The cops are looking for it now.”
“Jesus. I told you to park it in a—”
Quinn hung up, then began walking. It turned out he wouldn’t need the Prelude after all.
CHAPTER
10
BY THE TIME QUINN MADE IT TO THE MARRIOTT Marquis Hotel in Times Square, it was almost 3 a.m. Even then, there were dozens of people about. It was New York after all, where the night people replaced the day people, keeping the city in constant motion.
Escalators took him up several floors to the main lobby level. As he stepped off, his phone began to vibrate. He wasn’t surprised by the name on the display. ORLANDO.
Instead of answering, he looked around, spotting her in seconds. She was across the lobby, standing against the wall. When their eyes met, she lowered her phone and smiled.
A moment later he spotted Nate standing several feet away from her. Quinn’s apprentice was scanning the room, doing what he’d been trained to do in these exact kinds of situations.
“Took you long enough,” Orlando said once he reached her. Per standard procedure, she’d refrained from calling him after they split up.
He gave her a condensed version of what had happened. When he finished, he asked, “Do you know if Peter got anyone to the car yet?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s here, you know.”
“In New York?” Quinn asked, surprised.
“No. I mean here in this hotel.”
That gave Quinn a moment’s pause. “Where?” he said.
“He’s got a room upstairs. He asked me to bring you up as soon as you got here.”
“He asked you to bring me up?”
“I didn’t say I would. We can just leave if you want.”
Quinn paused. Orlando’s suggestion was very intriguing, but after a few seconds he shook his head. “Let’s just get it over with.”
Peter’s room was on the twenty-third floor. The door opened as they approached it. That wasn’t surprising. Quinn had noticed several cameras placed discreetly along the corridor leading up to the door. Those inside had no desire to be surprised by unexpected guests.
Sean Cooper, one of Peter’s men, stood just inside the room holding the door.
“Quinn,” Cooper said.
“Sean,” Quinn replied as he and the others stepped inside.
“Heard about the accident,” Cooper said. “You all right?”
“I’m fine,” Quinn said.
The room had two double beds, a rust-colored couch next to the window, a small desk against the wall, and a television cabinet. Your standard tourist room.
There was a computer on the desk. The screen looked like it had been divided into four images. Feeds from the cameras outside the room, Quinn guessed.
Peter was sitting on the couch, looking at them as they walked in. On a small round table in front of him was a tumbler filled with amber liquid and ice.
Quinn pulled out the desk chair and offered it to Orlando. But she shook her head and sat on the edge of the bed closest to the couch. Quinn took the chair for himself. Nate remained standing, taking up position a few feet behind Quinn.
A full minute passed before anyone said anything.
Peter finally shook his head and said, “That didn’t go as planned, did it?”
“Not exactly the way I would have wanted it,” Quinn agreed. “Did you get to the car?”
Peter picked up a television remote sitting next to his glass and pointed it at the TV. There was a half-second delay before the television came to life. Quinn had to swivel the chair around so he could see. On the screen was a commercial for a car rental agenc
y.
He looked back at Peter, his brow furrowed.
“Hold on,” Peter said, but offered no further information.
The commercial was followed by another for food storage bags, then an ad for a national chain of restaurants. Once the restaurant ad faded to black, there was a moment of nothing, then the screen filled with a graphic animation: CNN Breaking News. Accompanying the graphic was a quick, driving piece of music emphasizing the importance of what was to come.
When the image wiped away, it was replaced by a night view of a city street. A hundred feet from where the camera was positioned were dozens of parked police vehicles, most with lights flashing. For several seconds there was only the noise of the city, then a female voice broke in.
“You are looking at a live shot along West Twenty-seventh Street near Broadway in New York City, where the tragic end of what looks like a kidnapping has been discovered.”
The TV image split into two boxes. One continued to show the scene on the street, while the other contained a shot of one of the overnight anchors, a woman, her hair and makeup perfect. Her face was taut, unsmiling, in the universal news anchor look for “this is serious.”
“I want to bring back CNN correspondent Daniel Costello, who has moved in as close as possible. He joins us via telephone.”
The shot of the anchor was replaced by a still image of a man in his mid-thirties. Under the picture the name Daniel Costello was printed in bold type.
“Dan, as I understand it, the police have still not made any official statements.”
“None so far, Connie,” Costello said, his voice distorted by the phone line. “We’ve been told that a press briefing’s been scheduled for ten a.m. Otherwise they’re pretty much saying nothing.”
“What about the identity of the victim?”
“Nothing has been released yet. What we do know is that the body of a man was found in the trunk of a car parked on West Twenty-seventh Street. Through other sources, we have also learned that the victim was a prominent public figure.”
“But no name,” the anchor said.
“No. There’s been some speculation here, but nothing concrete.”
“We’ve heard that the car in question was involved in some sort of incident earlier in the evening. Can you tell us what happened?”
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