“Keep your hands up,” a man said.
We did.
“Don’t move.”
We didn’t.
But when the officer finally came upon us, I saw recognition cross his face when he looked at Alex and me, and then he turned around to face those officers who were standing in place behind him.
“Let’s move!” he shouted as he pressed past us. “These three are clear! Call for reinforcements! Ambulances! From what I can see, we’ve got a good dozen down. Maybe more. Move it!”
CHAPTER TEN
“WERE YOU SHOT?” CARLO asked Gia as he yanked off his black ski mask and sped away into the night. “Are you all right? I heard shots go off, I heard you scream, and I also heard the pain in your voice.”
“I got nicked in the arm,” she said as she removed her own mask and then held her left hand over her right bicep to apply pressure to the wound. “But it’s not serious. And don’t look at me like that, Carlo—I’ve been shot before, as have you. It’s just a nick, nothing more. All I need is some peroxide and a bandage, and I’m good. He barely grazed me—whoever the hell he was.”
“And who was he? Where did he come from?”
“Does it really matter? What’s done is done.”
“We got Diana Crane and Mike Fine,” he said. “I saw them fall. But what the hell, Gia?” he said as he swung a left onto Fifth Avenue. “We had Alex and Jennifer Wenn in our sights, but then suddenly they dipped out of sight. Unless I’m wrong, I think they made it.”
“So what if they survived?” she said.
“Are you serious?”
“Look, I get it. If they made it, it’s disappointing. But we did get Crane and Fine, so at least we have something that will satisfy Rowe. The main takeaway here is that with so many dead and wounded, there is no way that the Wenns will believe that they were our targets. And because of that, their guards will remain down, which we’ll need going forward. We did the best we could tonight. It doesn’t always go as planned, Carlo.”
“I understand that.”
“Let’s go home,” she said. “You need to patch me up. I also want to watch CNN and see what they’re reporting. But before we do that, we need to ditch this car. People saw us drive away. There are security cameras on that street. Somebody might have gotten a read on our license plate.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Find a parking space when you’re several blocks away from our apartment. We’ll leave it there.”
“What about the guns?” he said. “We’ve got two AK-47s in the back seat. What are we to do with them?”
“We leave them behind,” she said. “They’re free of our prints. We’ve only ever handled them while wearing gloves.”
“I’m concerned about walking home—they’ll be canvasing the city.”
“Not now they won’t—too soon. But in an hour or so, they will be. They still have to organize, Carlo. And because of that, we have time. Just find us a parking space, and let’s get the hell home.”
Exhausted, she leaned her head against the window and watched the city speed by. Her arm hurt, but she knew it wasn’t much to worry about. Whoever had shot her had barely touched her. In a couple of days, she’d be fine—and ready to end the rest of this.
“There’s a parking space just ahead of us,” Carlo said.
“Where are we?”
“West Fifty-Seventh Street and Tenth.”
“That’s seven blocks away from us. Take it.”
He took it.
“There are two towels on the seat behind you. Grab them. Give one to me.”
He did.
She assessed the sidewalks, which at this time of night and in this neighborhood were not surprisingly empty. Still, she wanted confirmation. “Do you see anyone around us?”
“I don’t.”
“We’ve always worn gloves while in this car, but let’s still wipe it clean, put the guns in the trunk, and get the hell home. Because I don’t know about you, brother—but after what we just did? That shit has already become international news, everyone is talking about it, and I want to hear what’s being said.”
WHEN THEY RETURNED to their apartment on West 50th Street, Gia wrapped her wounded right arm around Carlo’s waist, and leaned in close to him as if they were a couple just back from a night out on the town. As they entered the building, she smiled and nodded at the doorman in an effort to hide her pain from him.
Casually, they crossed the lobby, and Carlo used a metallic key to enter the elevator that was exclusive to their floor. They stepped inside and rose to the penthouse suite, which was on the fortieth floor.
The doors opened directly into the apartment. When Gia stepped out, she looked at the lavish space that stretched before her and once again, she had to give it to Rowe—he hadn’t spared a dime when it came to renting this place.
The suite overlooked the Hudson River and had private access to the roof garden and its fabulous views of the city, which were particularly spectacular at night.
The apartment had three bedrooms, a media room they used to converse with Rowe via computer when necessary, a gourmet kitchen that Gia adored because she loved to cook the Italian recipes that had been perfected by her mother and grandmother—and that her forever-hungry brother loved to eat as much as she did.
“We need to tend to your arm,” Carlo said. “As in now. You’re bleeding.”
“Turn on the television first,” she said.
“I’ll turn on the television when you get your ass into the bathroom, Gia.”
Her brother always had been protective of her. When he was overly protective, it could get on her nerves. But since she had been shot tonight, she gave him a break and a kiss on the cheek, and then pointed at the television in the living room.
“Put it on CNN and turn the volume way up.”
“Fine. Now, go to the bathroom and remove your shirt so I can clean you up. And by the way,” he said. “It better be just a nick. You better not have lied to me.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “I haven’t lied to you. Turn on the TV, and then I’ll let you play nurse.”
FROM THE FIRST-FLOOR bath, Gia and Carlo listened to CNN as he washed her arm with warm soapy water while she gritted her teeth against the pain. She was sitting on the granite countertop wearing pants and a bra.
“You should have stitches,” Carlo said as he inspected her arm. “But since that’s out of the question, I’ll have to patch you up the best I can.”
“You’ve always been a good nurse, Carlo.”
“Hilarious, Gia.”
She turned her head toward the living room. “Did you hear that?” she said. “They’re calling it a potential terrorist attack.”
“I heard it,” he said as he reached for the bottle of peroxide, took her gently by the arm, and held it over the sink. “This is going to sting.”
“An infection will sting a hell of a lot worse.”
He poured the peroxide over the wound. She winced as it sank into her flesh and started to bubble and froth, and then she waited impatiently as he patted her arm dry with a paper towel and then slapped a square bandage on it. Once he was done, she slid off the vanity and hurried into the living room to see what she’d been missing. Carlo joined her on the sofa that sat across from the large television.
On the screen was nothing but chaos.
The street outside Maxine Witherhouse’s mansion was filled with cops, paramedics, people lying on the sidewalk with blankets covering their bodies, and several dozen people wandering around in shock. Gia thought that they looked ridiculous in their blood-splattered eveningwear. Ambulances and police cars cast whirling flares of lights against the buildings on either side of them, as well as against the faces of the stricken.
A blonde reporter was detailing what she’d learned at that point from multiple eye-witnesses. According to her, two individuals had stepped out of what appeared to be a beige sedan and opened fire on some of the most prominent peopl
e in Manhattan, all of whom had been enjoying a party thrown by the well-known socialites Maxine and Bill Witherhouse. It had happened so quickly, the witnesses could only recall that the guns were large and that the terrorists were wearing black ski masks.
“At this point, twenty-two people are confirmed dead and thirteen are confirmed wounded,” the reporter said. “While CNN has learned some of the names of those who died here tonight, we will withhold all names until their families have been notified.”
“Respect,” Gia said with a sigh. “It’s so overrated. Look, it’s going to be forever before they release those names, so why don’t we go to bed, sleep off what’s been one a hell of a day, and deal with the rest of this in the morning?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“At the very least, the Times should have something more in depth when we wake up, as will CNN and everyone else. Either way, I’m exhausted.” She got up from the couch and kissed her brother on the forehead. “Good night.”
He turned off the television and also stood up. “Good night, Gia.”
“Thank you for taking care of me earlier.”
“You’re welcome.”
They started up the stairs to their separate bedrooms. “Look at what we achieved tonight. How many could have gotten away with it?”
“Few,” Carlo said.
And Gia, filled with pride, thought of her Uncle Niccolo—who once had taught her everything he knew—and agreed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IN THE MORNING, GIA woke early and in pain—her arm throbbed. She hadn’t closed the curtains when she went to bed the night before, so sunlight filled her bedroom just as she’d hoped it would. She was eager to learn who had died the night before, so she slipped into a pair of sweat pants and a T-shirt, and then took the stairs to the main level, where she could already hear the television. Surprised, she turned a corner and saw that Carlo was awake and making espresso for each of them. Usually, she was up before him.
“Good morning,” she said.
“How are you?” he asked when he glanced at her. He was wearing nothing but his boxer shorts, which was typical of him. When it came to his body, Carlo had no issues with baring it all, though thankfully he always had worn his boxers around her.
Otherwise, they’d need to have a talk.
“I’m fine.”
He nodded at the granite island. “I doubt that. There are two Tylenol there for you with a glass of water. Take them. And don’t tell me that you don’t need them, because I won’t believe you.”
She took them.
“Thank you,” she said after she swallowed the pills.
“My pleasure.” He handed her the first espresso, and then started to make his own.
“What do we know?” she asked as she added sugar to her espresso.
“Diana Crane and Mike Fine are dead. The Wenns are not.”
“Fuck—the Wenns made it?”
“They did.”
“What else have you learned?”
“I’ve only been up for fifteen minutes, Gia. The Times is on the bar—read their report, but don’t expect much from it, other than that this is being considered a terrorist attack.”
“And thank God for that,” she said as she went to the bar and took a seat in front of the Times. As she sipped her espresso, she quickly read the story while the espresso machine gurgled and spat as it finished filling Carlo’s cup.
“I’m going to need three of these,” he said when he came around and stood next to her.
“You and me both. What is CNN saying?”
“Same thing, but the story is developing. We should go into the living room and listen to what’s being said.”
“Let’s go.”
They sat down on the sofa, Carlo turned up the television’s volume, and for the next thirty minutes, they sat and listened to CNN’s Jake Tapper as he interviewed a whole host of people—the governor, the mayor, the city’s chief of police, senators, and congressional representatives. Over and over again, Tapper asked each person whether this event could have ties to ISIS—and over and over again, each individual deflected, saying that while this clearly was a terrorist event, ISIS had yet to take responsibility for it.
“There has been no claim of responsibility for the attack on jihadi forums,” the mayor said. “But ISIS sympathizers have nevertheless reacted by praising the attack on pro-Islamic State forums. Given the number of victims and the sheer scope of the violence, we expect a lengthy investigation, which will be aided by the FBI’s New York Field Office. If you go to their website, the FBI have set up a hotline for tips. Viewers with any knowledge of who the killers might be are encouraged to call.”
The mayor continued. “I’ve also spoken with Sadyia Khalique, Director of Operations for the New York branch of the Council on American-Islamic Relations, and she released a statement I’d like to read to your viewers,” he said. “She writes: ‘We condemn this monstrous attack and offer our heartfelt condolences to the families and loved ones of those killed or injured. The Muslim community joins our fellow Americans in repudiating anyone or any group that would claim to justify or excuse such an appalling act of violence.’”
Next up was William Bratton, the city’s chief of police, who was asked by Tapper to describe the scene when he had first arrived on site.
“Just to look into the eyes of our officers told my everything I needed to know before I even saw the carnage,” he said. “The men and women who serve on our force have seen it all, but this incident still shook them to their cores. What I want to say to your viewers is this—in the coming hours and days, we will learn more about the victims of this tragedy. Their names, their faces, who they were, the joy they brought to their families and friends, and the difference they made in this world. I urge your viewers to say a prayer for them and their families. Let God give them the strength to bear the unbearable.”
Tapper paused for a moment before he said, “Can you tell us more about what this event was? Was it just a party? Or could it have been fundraising for a cause that some group might have objected to?”
“I’ve spoken to Maxine and Bill Witherhouse, who hosted the event, and they assured me that this was nothing more than a party for their friends.”
“Do you have the guest list?”
“I do,” the chief said.
“Are there any names on that list that stood out to you?”
“This was a social event, and by that, I mean most of New York society was there. Some of the wealthiest and most powerful people in our country were there last night. We plan to interview each guest going forward. That will take time. There were four hundred people there last night—and we need to speak to everyone who was there to see if we can make a connection to what happened. Because of that, I’ll echo what the mayor said earlier—expect a lengthy investigation. We know that people are impatient for answers, but when we deliver those answers—and bring the two murderers in question to justice—please know that we will have answered correctly and definitively. We will find out who did this, and we will make them accountable for what they did.”
“The Witherhouses live in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in Manhattan,” Tapper said. “Certainly there must be security cameras in that area.”
“There are,” the chief said.
“Have you viewed any video yet?”
“I haven’t. Right now, we’re working with all neighborhood residents who employ surveillance equipment to keep themselves safe and are asking for their assistance in solving this case. We expect zero resistance when it comes to people sharing their surveillance feeds with us. We should have video of the shooting by this afternoon.”
“Well, that’s reassuring,” Gia said.
“We knew this was coming and we prepared for it,” Carlo said. “We stole that car just two days ago in Jersey, not Manhattan. Whenever we drove it or laid a hand on it, we wore gloves. And last night, even though we both knew that we’d left no prints on the car, we still
wiped it down—just in case. They’ll find the car and the guns, Gia, but there’s no way they’re going to be able to link them to us.”
She finished her espresso and leaned back against the sofa while Carlo turned the television’s volume down. “How are we going to handle Rowe?” he said.
“We’ll call him in a few minutes. And when we do call? Let me handle him, especially if he’s angry that we didn’t get the Wenns. I don’t know how or why, but somehow we missed them. When they came through the door with the rest of those people, they were standing right in front of us, and we opened fire—yet we missed them. I don’t get it.”
“When we started shooting, they could have ducked from sight.”
“They wouldn’t have had time to.”
“Then explain how they’re alive today.”
“I can’t.”
“Gia, Rowe is going to expect an explanation from us.”
“And we’ve got nothing to give him other than that Diana Crane and Mike Fine are dead, Carlo. At least we got them—both of them dead from an apparent terrorist attack.”
She looked at him when she said that.
“That’s going to be my spin,” she said. “And it’s true—while we didn’t nail the Wenns, at least we got Crane and Fine. And because this is being considered a terrorist event with many wounded and dead, the Wenns have no reason to believe that they were being targeted last night. Because of that, it won’t be long before the Wenns go to another party with their guards down. We’ll tell Rowe that whenever that happens, we’ll make every effort to take them then.”
“He’s already paid us for Meredith, you know?” Carlo said. “I’ve checked.”
“So have I. He came through with his promise, which bodes well for him. He agreed to pay us a million each for Diana Crane and Mike Fine—and we’ll see if he does. As for Jones and the Wenns? That’s another six million. Before we go forward with the rest of them, we need to be certain that we’ve been paid for Crane and Fine. I don’t think it will be an issue, if only because Jones and the Wenns are the people he really wants dead. He feels betrayed by them the most.”
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