by JA Konrath
On impulse, I took out my cell phone, miming making a call. Instead, I took a quick picture of him.
It was natural to be horny as hell after a mission, especially after almost being killed. It was an affirmation-of-life kind of reaction. If I wasn’t going to get laid tonight, I could at least have a photo to get myself off. And fantasy sex was safer than real sex, especially in my profession.
He smiled, then slipped behind the wheel and pulled into traffic.
I watched them follow the flow around the circle and head uptown on Broadway. My role in this was finished, another assignment completed successfully. Soon I would be on my way back to Chicago or on a plane bound for who-the-hell-knew. My thoughts would be on other things, my focus riveted to threats from other quarters. I would file this experience into its compartment in the back of my mind and go on with my life.
The cell phone buzzed against my hip.
I answered.
“I need to speak to Ursula,” Jacob’s electronic voice said.
The code signified urgency, and I could feel a dose of adrenaline surge into my bloodstream.
“I’m afraid she has already left for the hospital.”
“You’ve met with the contact?”
“He just took Julie.” I peered at the cars flooding around Columbus Circle and up Broadway.
“Damn. He’s early.”
“What is it?”
“You were right to have me check him, Chandler. He’s not Morrissey.”
Oh, shit.
“What do you mean?” I knew the suspicion was originally mine, but Jacob’s words carried a shock wave anyway.
“Morrissey’s body was found—or at least part of it was—a week ago in New Jersey. He was mutilated, no face, no hands, so we didn’t identify him right away.”
“But you’re sure it’s him?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t ask how or when. Worrying about that was someone else’s job. “So this guy, who is he?” I was already walking, rimming Columbus Circle, waving my hand for a cab.
Goddamn rush hour.
“We have no idea. Can you describe him?”
“I can do even better.”
I forwarded the photo to Jacob, pleased that being horny might have actually come in handy for once.
“Hmm, he’s cute.” Odd thing for Jacob to say. “I’ll run it through facial recognition software. Hold on.”
I squinted into the distance, breaking into a jog. The limo was still in sight—thank you bumper-to-bumper—but getting further away. As I ran, I fished the business card out of my knife holster.
No name on the card. No phone number either. Just a generic Hotmail address.
I took another scan of the roundabout, searching for a vacancy light in the flood of cabs. A green SUV caught my attention. Rental plates. Five men inside. Not South American, maybe of Middle Eastern origin. But it wasn’t the vehicle or their ethnicity that caught me. It was the intensity behind their eyes, the way they assessed the crowd … just the way I would if I were searching for someone.
Maybe I was being paranoid, but I doubted it.
Keeping my expression neutral, I glanced at the cars beyond, not letting on I’d made them.
“Got a match,” Jacob said after only thirty seconds. Jonathan Kirk. Former special forces. He fell off our radar about a year ago. Apparently he’s been operating without a leash.”
“Merc?” I eyed Broadway, but I’d lost the car.
“Yeah.” Jacob paused, but I could feel what was coming next. “Most recently, he’s been doing wet work.”
“No matter how well you’ve prepared or how thorough you are, sometimes you will make mistakes,” The Instructor said. “The important thing is that you identify the mistake immediately and take steps to salvage the mission. Stay aware, use your brain, your handler, and anything around you to set the operation right. If repair is impossible, cover up your involvement and get out of there.”
I ran, picking and dodging between people on the sidewalk, the phone still pressed to my ear.
“Was Morrissey part of the package?” I asked.
“Yes. Came with the deal.”
A hum rose in my ears. I’d invested myself in protecting Julie, not just because it was my assignment, but because I’d started to care. The possibility that I might have been set up from the beginning to deliver the girl to her death made me grind my teeth.
“Jacob? Are we being used here? Who’s the VIP?”
“You’re thinking Kirk was brought in on purpose?”
“It occurred to me.”
“We don’t have any evidence that Kirk’s working for the VIP. A third party could have intercepted Morrissey before our agency was brought in.”
Of course, Jacob was right. But often playing devil’s advocate could help sort through confusing or complicated situations like this one. I was hoping that strategy would work now, because I was confused as hell.
I kept moving, rimming Columbus Circle, my mind racing as fast as my feet.
“Or Kirk could have taken out Morrissey himself, maybe with the VIP’s blessing.”
When we’d been in the limo, Kirk had a chance to kill Julie and me. But that would have been a mistake. First of all, driving around with two dead chicks in your car wasn’t safe. Second, killing me would have brought a shit storm down on him and whoever controlled him. Better to wait until the heat died down and let me deliver her, thinking the op had ended there.
“He must need her alive,” I said.
“Agreed. Kirk has had sniper training. He could have taken her out without involving you at all. Or you could have been ordered to do it.”
I hesitated. Could I have killed Julie if that was my assignment? Probably not. But there were other female assassins they could have assigned in my place, women who didn’t have a history similar to Julie’s and wouldn’t hesitate to complete the job.
“So why lie to us about the father?”
“It’s the government, Chandler. I think lying is merely the default setting.”
“I don’t like being lied to. Or used.”
Jacob paused for a beat before replying. “I do have one thing. The assignment was routed through the defense department.”
“So the VIP is someone in the Pentagon? Or is it the Pentagon itself?”
“Don’t know. I’m trying to find more.”
And maybe, if I could catch up with Kirk, I could do the same from my end. “Thanks, Jacob.”
“Good luck.”
I stuffed the phone back in my pocket and eyed the streets leading off the circle.
I wanted answers.
I also wanted to make sure Julie was safe.
But apparently I wasn’t the only one looking for her.
The SUV holding the men I’d noticed earlier was just inching onto Broadway.
Cabs clogged the flow of traffic like cholesterol in a fat guy’s bloodstream, but not one had its light on indicating it was for hire. Even if I could flag down a ride, traffic was moving so slowly, I’d never catch the men I’d pegged as Middle Eastern operatives, let alone Kirk. He’d be long gone and so would Julie.
I needed to find another way, and running wasn’t cutting it.
The jingle of a bell caught my ear, followed by a voice speaking heavily accented English.
“Out of the way. Move!”
I spun around just as a bike/cart combination drew even with me, one of the pedicab drivers I’d noticed earlier taking a couple of tourists into the park. I shot out a hand and grabbed the handlebars, wresting the vehicle to a halt.
“Get off,” I said evenly.
He stared at me as if I’d lost my mind.
“Get off. Now.”
I grabbed his left hand and jammed his wrist backward. Using the leverage, I twisted his arm and his whole body moved to the side and off the seat.
“Okay, okay, take it,” he said.
He also held up his wallet. Only in New York.
I releas
ed him, climbing onto the seat.
“Hey, you can’t do that, lady!”
The couple in the cart. I’d almost forgotten them.
I shot the man a hard look. He was in his fifties, soft around the middle, with a bulbous nose, sitting next to a woman who had the exact same face, only twenty years older.
“You and your mom get out,” I said. “This is your only warning.”
“You’re stealing this man’s bike! I’m calling the cops!”
“Call them, Walter!” Mom chimed in. “And make a citizen’s arrest!”
Neither got out.
“Your choice.”
I drove the balls of my feet down on the pedals. Pedestrians in the crosswalk scurrying out of the way, I cut across Central Park West and skirted the edge of the circle and onto Broadway.
“Stop!” Walter yelled. “You’re under arrest!”
North of Columbus Circle, Broadway turned into a boulevard, traffic flowing both up and down town. The faux Morrissey had headed uptown, I suspected on his way to the expressway and maybe the Bronx or New Jersey.
I couldn’t let him make it out of Manhattan.
“Tell her to stop, Walter!”
“Stop!”
“Tell her again!”
“Stop!”
“She didn’t hear you! Tell her again!”
“I said stop!”
“My son said stop!”
Ahead, vehicles choked the street, barely moving. Brake lights flared red. I cranked the bike to the right and jumped the curb onto the sidewalk. The bike’s front tire shuddered, and it was all I could do to keep the handle bars steady. The back cart followed, jolting, and the couple let out squawks of surprise.
“She won’t stop, Ma! I told her to stop, but she won’t stop!”
Forcing pedestrians to dive out of the way, I skirted two food carts and bounced off the edge of a trash can.
I regained my balance and thrust down on the pedals with all my strength, gaining speed. The cart rattled behind me. People shouted obscenities and threats in my wake. Heat poured off the concrete in waves, and sweat soon slicked my back and stung the corners of my eyes. My breathing settled into a rhythm, in and out, in and out, in time with the pump of my legs.
“She’s going faster, Walter! Tell her to stop going faster!”
“Stop going faster!”
“Walter!”
“Stop going faster!”
I went faster.
Trump International Hotel and Tower flashed by on my right, the SUV I’d noticed earlier on my left, screaming from the cart behind me. I’d been trained to pick out details, focus on them, isolate them, and as I whipped past the SUV, I could hear the men inside exclaiming excitedly in a language that sounded like Farsi.
They were Iranian? That conjured up all sorts of new questions.
“Tell her again!”
“Stop going faster!”
“Tell her again!”
“Stop going faster! Ma! She’s still going faster!”
“Walter, I’m getting sick!”
“My mother is getting sick!”
I heard the sound of Walter’s mother getting sick.
“My mother got sick all over me!”
I bet those two were a real hoot at home.
A bus shelter loomed ahead. I swerved to the right.
A group of slow walkers blocked the sidewalk.
“Move!” I ordered, but they ambled on, oblivious to the world around them.
Walter’s mother got sick again. From the sounds of it, she’d had a big lunch.
“Please stop! My mother got sick again!”
“On my new outfit!” Walter’s mother wailed.
“She got sick on her new outfit!”
I cut back toward the street. A phone booth came up fast at the edge of the curb.
A phone booth? Who uses phone booths anymore?
I veered hard to the left. Not fast enough. The cart hit the corner and bounced to one side. We careened off the sidewalk and into the street. Car tires squealed. I counter steered. The cart whipped around and sideswiped a tow truck. Drivers shouted through open windows. Something that sounded like weeping came from behind me, and the odor of Walter’s mother’s lunch mixed with the scents of exhaust and hot pavement.
Regaining control of the pedicab, I swung back in the direction of the sidewalk and again jumped back onto the curb. It seemed safer.
A whimper came from the back seat. “Please let us out!”
“I tried.” I barely avoided a line of newspaper boxes.
“I’ll pay you!”
“Walter, I’m going to wet myself!”
“My mother is going to wet herself!”
“Walter, I just wet myself!”
“My mother just wet herself!”
“Walter, I’m going to be sick again!”
“My mother is going to be sick again!”
Walter’s mother got sick again.
“You have to turn around! My mother got sick and lost her dentures!”
I considered pulling my Ruger and killing them both, but lucky for them my purse was out of reach.
I streaked past an electronics store and two outdoor cafes. I couldn’t pick out the Town Car yet, but I had to be gaining on it. Traffic crawled, traffic stopped, traffic crawled again.
There it was.
With all the identical cars clogging the street, I didn’t know why I was so certain this was the one. But my gut reaction had been right so far. It was time I listened.
I stood on the brakes, leaping off the bike and breaking into a sprint, listening to Walter yell behind me, “She stopped, Ma! I made her stop!”
I wove between cars. He probably wasn’t expecting me, and surprise was my best weapon. I ducked behind a produce delivery truck and, grabbing the back door handle, rode its bumper until it halted at the next light.
Then I made my move.
Circling the truck, I stayed in its lee as long as I could. I only had seconds once I emerged. The man I’d known as Morrissey was sharp. Even though I doubted he’d be looking for me, he would be alert, and since I had no weapon beyond surprise, I had to make this count. I needed to get inside that car, and the best way to do that was to make sure his attention was focused front.
The light changed. The truck started inching forward.
Now.
I swung around the truck and landed on pavement, knees flexed, legs already moving. It only took seconds for me to make it to the driver’s door, and I pulled out my phone as I ran.
My phone had been designed for a multitude of functions, and on one corner, the titanium casing tapered to a conical, seemingly harmless nub. Reaching the car, I rapped that nub against the driver’s window, the full force of my blow concentrated on that small point.
The glass shattered, showering tiny pebbles.
His eyes met mine, the first time I’d seen him anything but calm.
I thrust my arm inside to the shoulder, going for his gun.
He grabbed my arm and held. The cars started to move, and he hit the gas.
I scrambled to stay on my feet, trying to keep up, retain my balance, but it moved too fast. I stumbled and fell, my gym shoes dragging along the pavement, their rubber soles getting rapidly eaten away. The edge of the door pressed into my side, making it hard to breathe.
I caught a foothold for just a second and surged forward, smacking him in the nose with a head butt.
He grunted and his grip loosened slightly.
I reached, my fingers hitting Kirk’s left leg, his holster.
I acted quickly, making a grab for the gun, but his recovery was equally fast. His hand closed over mine, wrestling, hitting, prying at my fingers.
I sensed we would hit the car ahead a split second before impact.
The crunch of steel shuddered through my spine. The car jolted to a dead stop. I hit the hot pavement in a roll, breath exploding from my lungs, head smacking hard. My vision exploded in stars. Tires scre
eched. I heard the Glock skitter, but where it ended up, I couldn’t guess.
A heartbeat and the car door opened, and Kirk came down on top of me.
I struggled for breath.
Kirk’s hands found my neck, my throat. He had my arms pinned under his knees, so I couldn’t reach either of my weapons. Heat enveloped me. His grip was strong, squeezing, closing off my trachea, stopping the flow of blood to my brain, making my vision dim, go dark.
The crack of gunfire exploded in my ears.
Kirk bellowed. His hands released me, and his body lifted from mine.
I gasped, coughed, and gasped again.
A scream shattered the air around me. Not me. Not Kirk.
I forced the darkness back, forced my eyes to see, forced my body to function.
It was Julie. She held the Glock.
She had shot him.
Kirk staggered away from me. Julie raised the gun again but he batted it away, sending it through the air. Then he gripped Julie’s arm, steering her toward the car. He moved awkwardly, each stride jerking, and it was then I noticed the dark glisten drenching one leg of his black trousers.
I pushed up from the street. Pain seared my hands and knees, but I forced it to the background, forced myself to concentrate, adrenaline and training taking over.
Kirk was too focused on Julie and the bullet in his leg to notice me come up fast behind him.
Using the knife edge of my hand, I delivered a sharp blow to the side of his neck, below and slightly in front of his ear. I rotated at the waist, driving all the power I could muster into his carotid artery, jugular vein, and vagus nerve, following through.
His body seized, muscles going rigid, then he slumped forward.
I wasn’t sure if he was unconscious or merely stunned for a few seconds, but either would do. I looped my arm under his and across his back as he crumpled.
“Open the back door.”
Julie stared at me. “Is he … is he dead?”
“Just do it.”
I glanced down Broadway. Although I couldn’t see them, I was sure the Iranians would be here on foot at any moment. Cops too, after the gunshot.
“Unlock the back door. Now.”
She reached in and unlocked it from the inside.
I threw it open and shoved Kirk into the back seat. A quick search of the glove box scored me a handful of zip ties. I used one to secure his wrists in front of him.