by JA Konrath
I hiked up my jeans, slipped the small blade from my ankle sheath, and used it to cut the zip tie on his wrists.
“Give me your jacket.”
“Undressing me? You rethought that whole waiting-to-see-if-we-lived thing?”
“You’re not that cute.”
“Sure I am.”
Yeah. He was. But I was the one with the gun. I pointed it.
He handed me the garment.
I tore off a sleeve and hiked up his blood-soaked pant leg. I was right, the bullet hadn’t hit bone. In fact, the wound looked more like a deep cut than a gunshot. Still, flesh wounds, as they call them in the movies, were not something to scoff at. They hurt like hell, could render a muscle ineffective, and caused significant blood loss.
“Julie, can you … um … step back a bit?”
She nodded, putting both hands over her mouth as if her very breath was infectious. The dazed expression in her eyes was different than the drug buzz. She looked to be in shock.
I used the jacket sleeve to wrap Kirk’s leg and slow the bleeding. Ebola or not, this was a mission like any other. My life was in danger. Other lives were in danger.
Anyone who got in my way was in the most danger of all.
“Killing is part of your job,” The Instructor said. “You must know when to do it and be able to follow through without hesitation.”
The creak of the bathroom door hinges dumped another dose of adrenaline into my bloodstream. I peered through the space between the stall walls and door and spotted a flustered looking man carrying a briefcase. Judging from the way he moved and his obliviousness to his surroundings, I pegged him to be just what he seemed, a guy who needed to pee.
He sidled up to one of the urinals, just about to open his fly.
I held the Ruger against my leg where he wouldn’t be likely to spot it, but yet it would be ready in case I was mistaken, and opened the door.
Kirk limped out of the stall behind me, followed by Julie.
The guy’s eyebrows jutted upward, then an attaboy smile spread over his lips.
I caught a low chuckle coming from Kirk.
Boys.
We moved to the door. I inched it open, checking the area outside before emerging. I remembered red dots on the signs marking the platform and wound back to it. Sure enough, the number one was among the train lines posted.
Now we just needed the train to make its appearance before the Iranians did.
I focused on our surroundings. Exhaust hung in the air like thick fog, along with the usual mix of body odor and too much perfume. Still, compared to the smells in the bathroom, the air was positively fresh.
Tiled floors and walls bounced the clack of footfalls and rumble of voices until they meshed into a general roar, each sound almost indistinguishable from the other. A brass quartet played New York, New York further down on the platform. And finally, getting closer, I detected the low roar of an approaching train.
I almost didn’t hear the voice.
Farsi.
I turned toward the sound, scanning the crowd. One of the men from the SUV raced down the steps toward us, a cell phone in his left hand, his right tucked under his sport coat, most likely concealing a weapon. His eyes were trained on Julie and Kirk.
The rumble grew louder. People shifted on the platform, positioning themselves for closest access to the doors once the train arrived.
I eyed Kirk. His leg injury would slow him down, but he could still help me. I could no longer afford to sit on the fence. I either had to trust him or not.
I slipped out the pistol and handed it to him. Then I drew my knife from its sheath and opened the serrated, black blade.
“Get her on the train. You cross me, I’ll find you.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
I stepped to the side. The crowd closed in around Julie and Kirk, filling the spot I’d vacated.
Avoiding or heading off a dangerous situation was always preferable to dealing with a threat once it arrived. As an operative, much of my training focused on being aware of everything around me. Not just sight, but sounds and smells and attention to subliminal clues—what most people liked to think of as hunches or intuition. Awareness prevented surprises. It also staved off the sin of tunnel vision.
My Persian friend might be very good with whatever weapon he held under his jacket, but when it came to being aware, his training was lacking.
I circled to the right, moving purposefully but slowly enough not to gain notice. Reaching the benches lining the wall at the back of the platform, I wound through the crowd, keeping watch on the back of my target’s head, moving closer.
My hair clung to the back of my neck. The train’s roar grew louder, drowning out all other sounds, even the patter of my own heartbeat.
I stepped up, only inches behind him.
He didn’t know I was there until I had my left hand on his mouth, fingers bruise-tight across his lips, thumb over his nose, squeezing down. I yanked his head back, to my right shoulder, and at the same time, thrust my knife low and buried it hard into his back, punching through his ribs, penetrating his heart.
He arched and cried out against my hand just as the train swept into the station, the rumble drowning out everything. I held his mouth and kept the blade in his body, feeling it twitch with his heartbeat.
One …
Two …
Three.
The doors whooshed open and the crowd shifted to one side to allow commuters to clear out of the cars.
I moved with the crowd, stepping away and letting him fall, trying to pull my knife back. But the S&W didn’t have a blood groove, and suction held it fast.
By the time he hit concrete, I had blended into the sea of commuters. I wasn’t worried about fingerprints—the knife handle had been treated to resist latents—but I didn’t like being unarmed.
Screams cut through the ambient noise. People pushed and scattered. I saw a dark-haired man ramming his way through the crowd, moving quickly from my right. Trying to help? Afraid of missing the train?
No. Another Persian assailant.
How did all of these assholes get into the country? Didn’t TSA have a goddamn no fly list?
The people departing the train cleared the doors, and the crowd surged forward. I caught a glimpse of Kirk ushering Julie into a subway car.
The new arrival noted the same thing. He veered in the direction of the train.
I angled my trajectory to head him off, bouncing between harried commuters. A voice said something over the public address system, impossible to decipher.
One woman elbowed me as I tried to pass. “Hey, wait your turn.”
I refused to give ground. “You don’t want to get on this train.”
She gave me a sour look but wisely allowed me to squeeze past, not that she really had a choice.
I reached the door a split second before the Persian did and jumped inside, taking two running steps and then grabbing the pole used for standing commuters. Channeling my inner stripper, I whirled around, leading with my feet, ankles together.
As the Iranian stepped onto the train, I plowed into him with both heels.
He flew backward, flying into the sharp-elbowed woman and sending both of them sprawling onto the concrete platform.
I fell to the floor of the train, landing hard on my hip.
He recovered before I did, rising to his knees, pulling a pistol out of a shoulder holster, pointing the barrel square at my chest.
The explosion was deafening, bouncing off steel and cement.
I flinched, expecting the impact, expecting the pain.
The Iranian flinched, looking surprised.
A moment later he slumped to the ground, trying and failing to plug the bullet hole in his chest with his hands.
I guess Kirk was trustworthy after all.
The subway car erupted, screams, crying, stampeding people. I grabbed the pole to keep from being swept out, peering past the surge and into the car, searc
hing for Kirk and Julie. Kirk had concealed the gun and was moving with the crowd, pushing Julie toward the open door, acting as if they were part of the panic.
I did the same, getting to my feet and rushing through the door in front of me. With a gun going off and two dead on the ground, there wasn’t a chance in hell the station agent in the booth would let the train go on as usual. We’d have to find another route downtown.
The sharp-elbowed woman lay on the ground behind the dead Persian spy. She looked up, staring at me with shell-shocked eyes.
“You should have listened to me,” I said as I stepped over the body and blended with the crowd.
I caught up with Kirk and Julie at the closest subway newsstand.
“The two of you. Put these on,” Kirk shoved a Yankees baseball cap, and I LOVE NY tee shirt, and a pair of fuchsia sunglasses into my arms.
I grabbed Julie and ducked into the bathroom. Suppressing my Chicago Cubs fan sensibilities, I shoved my hair up under the hat.
I gave Julie the tee and glasses. She was listless, her jaw slack.
“You hanging in there?” I asked.
She stared at me like she hadn’t realized I was standing next to her.
“You should get away from me.” She bit her lower lip.
“My job is to protect you, Julie.”
“I could make you sick.”
“I’m willing to take that chance.”
She looked ready to burst into tears, but choked it back.
“You’re going to be okay,” I said.
“Really?”
“Yes,” I lied.
She reached out to hug me, then caught herself and shrank back.
Poor thing.
When we emerged, Kirk was waiting for us, dressed in a dark blue NY tee. He gave me his white button down, and I pulled it on as an over shirt and rolled up the sleeves.
As far as disguises went, it wasn’t much. I doubted it would fool the Iranians or the Venezuelans or whatever additional intelligence agencies happened to be after us, but it might keep the cops off our tails. Eyewitnesses in stressful situations tended to remember the simple things, if they remembered anything accurately at all. Changing the general look of our clothing and length of my hair would hopefully get us off the NYPD’s radar.
One concern in a mile-long list.
“We need to get out of here,” I told Kirk. “Think you can hoof it for a while?”
He looked about as excited about the idea as I expected.
“The ferry terminal is at the tip of Manhattan. That’s a long damn way.”
“Then let’s shoot for the Columbus Circle subway station.”
He nodded. “Ever get the feeling we’re retracing our steps?”
“It has occurred to me.”
We emerged from the subway to find rush hour still in play and Lincoln Center’s fountain rimmed with summer tourists and New Yorkers alike. The faint beat of helicopter blades sounded overhead, and my stomach seized until I spotted it. Police this time, not ideal, but at least it wasn’t Hawk Nose and his friends.
I eyed Kirk. In the sunlight I could detect the sheen of fresh blood darkening his pant leg, seeping through my makeshift bandage. If we had to do much walking, I wasn’t sure he would last.
Ditto if Julie sneezed on him.
I had to admit, I was relieved to have Julie away from mass transit. Ever since finding out who she really was, what she really was, the knowledge that her blood could wipe out much of the city weighed heavily on me. The odds of getting her all the way to the tip of Manhattan, then across the harbor to Staten Island, seemed astronomical and growing. Even if she died, she still represented a threat.
It was something I would have to deal with, sooner or later.
“Come on,” I said.
Kirk nodded, sweat already soaking his hair and trickling down his forehead. He picked up the pace, his lips tight with pain.
“You’d better take this.” He handed me the Ruger.
He’d proven himself a good shot, but he was probably right. Running on a bad leg didn’t improve marksmanship. As long as he could shepherd Julie, I’d take care of the rest. I slipped it into my holster just as my phone buzzed.
“Is Ginny there?” Jacob’s electronic voice asked.
“I’m sorry, she left for Phoenix yesterday,” I said, giving the appropriate response.
“Tell me you’re not near Lincoln Center.”
We kept walking. “Are you asking me to lie?”
“That’s what I was afraid of. Get out of there.”
“The police are on their way, I know.”
“The city is on lockdown. They’re calling that tunnel explosion a terrorist act, and some dead Iranians were just discovered in the subway. They’re buttoning up Manhattan. National Guard has been called.”
Shit. So much for our plan to get to Staten Island. I needed to come up with another way out of the city, and I had to do it quickly.
“Listen, I found out some interesting things about our Julie.”
After I filled him in, Jacob was silent for a good ten seconds before speaking.
“What are you going to do with her, Chandler?”
I wished I knew. “I’m not sure. Get her out of New York, for one.”
“You know the threat she represents.”
I glanced at Julie. She looked beaten. Afraid. Confused. It wasn’t her fault our military turned her into a germ warfare incubator.
But life wasn’t fair, and the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few.
“I know,” I told Jacob. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“If the enemy gets her, or even if Uncle Sam gets her and she’s brought back to Plum Island …”
“I know, Jacob. Right now, my main goal is getting her away from here.”
“How?”
I glanced up at the NYPD chopper overhead. It was a long shot, but with Kirk’s help, I might be able to make it work.
“What’s the closest helipad to Lincoln Center?”
I heard the clacking of a computer keyboard over the phone despite the traffic noises all around me.
“Probably your best bet is the Port Authority Helipad at 30th Street and the Hudson.”
“Thanks, Jacob. Oh, and Mr. Kirk is now working for us.”
“You turned him.”
“His deep-rooted sense of patriotism won out in the end.”
“So you offered him money.”
“How do you know it wasn’t my feminine wiles?”
“Was it your feminine wiles?”
“Partly. We also owe him sixty grand.”
“I’ll make arrangements. I trust your judgment, Chandler, and hope this doesn’t have anything to do with him looking like Colin Farrell.”
“I can’t entirely rule that out.”
“Hmm. Well, maybe you two will have a chance to hook up.”
“Maybe.”
“If you live long enough.”
“If any of us do.” I ended the call and squinted at Kirk. “We need a cab.”
He glanced back over his shoulder, and we spotted the men at the same time. More Iranians. Two of them threaded through the pedestrians, each with a hand hidden under their jackets, eighty meters away and rushing toward us at an alarming speed.
Shit. That hadn’t taken long.
“We need to get the hell out of here,” I said, but we were already running, weaving through pedestrians, Kirk gimping along with his arm behind Julie, gingerly guiding her in the right direction. Traffic flowed by on the street, cab after cab with silhouettes in back seats, vacancy lights off, and not a pedicab to be found.
Each equipped with two good legs, the men were closing fast.
I felt the beat of chopper blades in my chest and scanned the sky between buildings. A purple Bell 427 hovered overhead.
Welcome back to the party, Hawk Nose.
We had to get some wheels or this would be over far too soon.
Our trio hobbled along for another
block before a cab with an empty back seat passed us. It stopped at the next intersection, its vacancy light off, signaling it wasn’t looking for passengers.
Not that I was going to let that stop me.
I raced into the street. Grabbed the back door handle.
Locked.
The front passenger window was open, so I reached through, found the handle, and yanked it open.
“Hey! Hey! What do ya think you’re doing?”
“Get out,” I ordered.
“I’m off duty,” he said.
“You see this?” I asked, reaching my hand under my skirt.
“Hell, yeah!” he said. Then he saw I was holding a gun. “Hell, no.”
“Unlock the door.”
“You’re holding me up?”
“Take your cash. I just want the car.”
He frowned. “Look, lady, I got a wife who’s a fat, lazy bitch, a kid in a gang who sells smack, the landlord just served us papers, and this morning I found out I have diabetes. You kill me, you’d be doing me a favor.”
I had barely registered the crack of the gunshot when the windshield spiderwebbed, and the driver gurgled and slumped against the wheel. The bullet had just missed me.
Julie stared, mouth open, as Kirk forced her down behind the cab.
“Get in,” I yelled, ducking inside and hitting the unlock button.
Kirk pushed her into the back seat, climbed in behind her, and shut the door. He slipped his hand behind her back and bent her forward at the waist, out of the line of fire.
I didn’t have time to undo the seat belt and pull out the body, so I slid onto the dead man’s lap and shifted into drive.
The light stayed red. Cars boxed us in from all sides.
I found the two Iranians behind us with my mirrors. The one who had taken out the cabbie crossed the street in front of us, weaving through standing traffic.
Here I’d been totally focused on the pursuers behind and missed the man in front.
I couldn’t miss him now.
He walked closer and closer, until he was just off my left bumper.
Just when I was convinced I’d made my last mistake, the light changed to green, and the river of cars started to inch forward.
Not fast enough.
The man in the street raised his hands, the pistol in his fists pointed at my head.