“Good call,” Low’s voice murmured in his ear. “That makes sense, and it gives us a point of origin.”
“Any reports coming in that match our targets?”
“Possibly. We are sure that they’re on their own, right?”
“I am,” Bolan stated. “Schrueders was the only point of contact they had once they reached New York. There was no indication of any other contact, and during surveillance they acted like they were alone. They have no backup. Why?”
“There’s one report I’ve picked up that might be about our boys. I think so. They must have picked up public transport part of the way—”
“Plenty of places they could pick it up once they got down on the boardwalk along the Hudson,” Bolan said. “They only came part of the way?”
“Uh-huh—I guess they didn’t want to be tracked as easily as they can be by rail. They got partway into Manhattan and then jacked a car.”
“Are we sure it’s them?”
“The victim was alive. She was just pulled out of her car and flung on the road. Lucky she wasn’t run over by oncoming traffic. Bastards didn’t care.”
“Hell, at least they didn’t shoot her, which might have been a mistake from their point of view. Was she was able to ID them?”
“She’s still in Emergency, but it’s superficial and she was able to furnish NYPD with a description. That tallied with our boys, and I was able to take CCTV from the nearest junction and blow it up. It’s not admissible, but I’d say it was them.”
Bolan paused for a moment. He knew that Low was not a man to make any commitment unless he was more certain than most people would be.
“You know what? I’ll go with that. Have we been able to pick them up?”
“Oh, yeah. I love CCTV at times like this. We’ve been able to pick them up in the last five. You want to go meet them?”
“Oh, yes. If we can divert them somewhere a little less populated before they get here.”
“Shit, Cooper, this is NYC. There’s nowhere left here that’s ‘less populated.’”
“You get me a car and let me worry about that,” Bolan said with finality.
* * *
BANJO AND ALI had been terrified by the explosion Amir had set off. The enormity of the blast had sent them sprawling as they ran, and they had a moment of blank fear that it would trigger the explosives they were carrying. The exhilaration that they were still alive should have given them pause for thought. Was their own imminent sacrifice really what they wanted? Instead, it only made them thank God that they were still able to make what they saw as the ultimate sacrifice.
With the man who had been following them taken out of the game, at least temporarily, by the explosion, they had a head start that they intended to use to full advantage. There was irony in the fact that they took the path that Bolan would have ideally directed them, moving toward the outcrop that led down to Sybil’s Cave and out to the waterfront.
Although it had been partially opened a few years before, the cave was not open to the public and they had to break their way into the old pathways leading downward. There was no security on duty, which was perhaps just as well for those who would have been faced with two men who were desperate and unthinking. Ali and Banjo charged through the barriers and wire fencing around the construction areas with their guns in hand and in full view.
Neither spoke to the other, with no communication in their flight, no plan. They ended up on the waterfront because they had nowhere else to run. It was only when they were on the riverbank, with the sirens blaring in the distance above their heads, that they had time to pause. They looked at each other with eyes wide and staring, chests heaving with the effort of their flight and with the tension that surged adrenaline through their blood.
“What in God’s name happened there?” Banjo gasped. “Who is that asshole?”
“Trouble,” Ali panted, before bending over to vomit a thin stream of bile. “We’re on our own now, man. Just us. We’ve got to see this through.”
“How? How are we supposed to do that, man?” Banjo gasped as he doubled over, trying to suck air into his lungs. “That asshole knows what we’re up to—he followed us from D.C. Ain’t no way we’re going to shake him, man.”
Ali forced a grin. “Listen, you think that he managed to survive that? Amir did that to buy us some space, man, and I figure he did us a favor. We owe him, man, so let’s stop worrying and just get on with it.”
That was easier said than done. Both men were doubled over by the effort of their flight, pain creasing their abdomens with every breath. They felt conspicuous, and they looked it as they made their way along the bank until they were able to ascend to the boardwalk. They were covered in dirt and dust, disheveled and walking like men who were exhausted and paranoid. They felt as though everyone coming toward them and walking past them knew who they were. They were attracting attention by the way that they held themselves.
By the time that Bolan was back on his feet and making good his exit from the grounds of the institute, the two terrorists had brushed themselves down both metaphorically and literally. They were now acting and looking like tourists as they boarded the train that would take them across the river and into Manhattan.
The carriage was half-empty when they boarded, and with the rattle of the tracks they were able to stand in an area where they could converse softly and not be overheard.
“You think that asshole was working alone?” Banjo asked.
Ali shrugged. “Maybe.... Does it make a difference?”
“ It could—if he was reporting to the Feds, then they’ll know who we are and they’ll be looking for us. They might have guessed what our target is. How are we going to pull this off, man?”
“You need to chill, brother. We don’t know any of that. What would Mummar do, man? He’d make us split into groups and make reconnaissance of the area. Feds ain’t that hard to spot, even if they’re undercover. All we need to do is get into the museum and the memorial site and then blow, brother.”
“Yeah, right...all they go to do is shoot us down before we get there.”
“Man, they got to catch us first. Listen, Mummar would have the four of us split into two, but that don’t apply now. We need to stick together, watch each other’s back, man. We need to try to keep out of sight, find a way to get there without being picked up easy. Like, first thing we need to do is get off this train. They’ll be watching all the public transport, train and bus. What we need is to get some wheels, man.”
Banjo nodded. As the train pulled into the next station, they moved to the doors and got off, making their way through the exit while scoping the immediate area. There was only one uniformed cop in sight, and he didn’t give them a second glance. If their descriptions had been circulated, they hadn’t reached as far as this officer.
Banjo and Ali walked past him, every fiber of their beings screaming for them to look back to see if he had noticed them. But they didn’t. As they walked down the sidewalk they waited for a shout, for a shot to whistle by them. There was nothing, and it was only when they were around a corner and out of sight that either of them felt able to relax in even the slightest degree.
It was then that they saw the opportunity that they needed. It came upon them before they had the need to plan it, and to Ali it seemed as though it was a sign from providence.
Ahead of them, a white Ferrari swerved its way through the traffic and pulled up at the curb. The roadside door opened, causing oncoming traffic to swerve and sound off angrily, and a middle-aged woman got out, flipping the bird at the passing cars that honked their horns at her. She walked around the car, tottering on her heels, and headed to a hot-dog stand, where she ordered a chili dog from the vendor, who was torn between serving her and looking at the near pileup she had caused in stopping suddenly.
“This is us,
brother,” Ali murmured.
Banjo gave him a startled look. “You are joking me, right? We take that car here with witnesses, and with that hot-dog guy to get in the way? And that car, man.”
“Listen, brother, that car might stand out, but it’s going to be fast and that’s what we need. Don’t matter if they know what we’re in, as long as we can maneuver fast.”
Banjo was unconvinced, but he had little opportunity to argue as Ali moved forward. He had to fall in or else be left behind.
The woman had her chili dog, and paid the vendor with bills and coins that spilled from her purse. She seemed to be drunk, and Ali grinned sardonically. He was doing the people of Manhattan a favor. It would be one less drunk driver for them to worry about, one less DUI for the police to arrest. Of course, they would have other things on their minds before too long, but that was just too bad.
The woman wandered out into the road, having no regard for the oncoming traffic other than to curse at it as she pulled open the door. She didn’t notice the two men with rucksacks heading toward her, picking up the pace as they got closer. Neither did the hot-dog vendor. He was busy serving another customer and had paid the drunk woman no more attention once she had left him too much cash, cursed and wandered off. It was only when he heard her yells, screeching above the traffic noise that he looked up.
What he saw made him pause, openmouthed: two young men stood near the car. The one on the sidewalk yanked open the passenger door of the Ferrari and dived in, while his companion on the other side took the woman roughly by the arm, pulled her away from the vehicle and threw her onto the road. She screamed, tumbling almost under the wheels of an oncoming SUV. It was only by deft driving and braking that the vehicles close by managed to avoid running over her. Those directly behind them somehow managed to avoid rear-ending those cars that had braked.
Ali paid her no heed and had no concern for what happened to the woman. The only thing he was grateful for was that she had left the keys in the ignition and so he had no need to scrabble through the detritus of her purse as it lay on the road. He slid in next to Banjo, who was yelling at him to get going, and slammed his door shut. He fired up the engine and with the briefest of looks at the traffic coming from behind, gunned the engine and squealed away from the curb, slipping the car into gear and hitting the first bend he came to at high speed.
Neither man looked back. They did not see the pileup of traffic, the woman screaming hysterically in the road as she finally registered the fender of a car up against her, the warmth of the metal on her skin. They did not see the shocked hot-dog vendor yell as he finally realized what was happening, drop his customer’s order and run uselessly after them. They did not see some passersby use their cell phones to call 911, while others used their phones to record what had just happened. More than that, they did not see the unblinking eye of the CCTV cameras recording traffic movements, high above them, that caught the whole thing in digital image.
None of that mattered. The only thing that meant anything to them right then was that they had transport and that it was fast. Sure, it was easily identifiable: any vehicle would be to the authorities. What they needed was something that had speed and maneuverability, something they could use to keep one jump ahead of any Feds until they were able to get to their target area and detonate the bombs they carried with them.
The mission had started out being about stealth and subterfuge. They had intended to travel to the target areas, pick their positions and make their sacrifice without anyone being any the wiser until after the event. That was before the man in black had screwed all their plans. Now, having to take the position that the authorities were wise to their plan and also had the means to identify them, their modus operandi had changed. This was no time for subtlety. They had to stay out of the hands of the authorities and assume that the target area would be protected. Rather than slip in the back door, they had to charge the front door and hit the button before they could be shot down.
A daunting prospect for some, no doubt, but not for men who already knew that their destiny was death.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Bolan took over the vehicle from one of Low’s men. It was another Nissan, this time blue rather than silver.
New York traffic was always the same: insane on the verge of gridlock. The city might have cut the crime rate over the past decade to the point where it was actually one of the safest cities in the States, but it still had problems with its drivers and their attitudes to both other drivers and pedestrians. Car horns blared at the slightest imagined transgression, and as Bolan had half an eye on other traffic and was so prone to slowing at moments others saw as opportune, he attracted more than his fair share of attention.
Ignoring the drivers around him, the soldier made his way through the grid system of streets until he was in the area of Manhattan in which the Ferrari had been carjacked. It was maybe too late to pick up the scent, but at least he would have a starting point from where he could begin tracking his prey. Ideally, he could pin them down before they made the memorial site.
That assumption was based on his knowing which way they had traveled. The hot-dog vendor was still at work, the incident of less than an hour before reduced to an anecdote to be recycled many times. Bolan passed him without giving him a second glance, then turned in to the curb, taking in the scene with one knowing glance. Moments later he pulled into the traffic once more.
Bolan reached the turnoff where the Ferrari had left the street. He took the turn and hit the speed dial on his smartphone, which he kept on hands-free and speaker.
“Cooper, you’re at the point of entry, right?” Low asked.
“Just turned off,” the soldier replied. “You get that track on the imaging?”
Low told him yes. His men had gathered intel from the CCTV on the blocks surrounding the area where the incident had occurred. From that, they had been able to compile a route that was now relayed to the soldier.
“How far in front are they?” he asked when Low had given him the data.
“Here’s the thing. They were twenty-five minutes in front until they reached the last location given.”
“Were? What’s happened?”
“Not sure. Somewhere between two setups, they’ve just run off the road and into thin air.”
* * *
“WE JUST GOING to gate-crash the site and blow ourselves to paradise?” Banjo asked with a note of desperation as Ali weaved erratically in and out of traffic, driving as though their enemy were hot on their tail rather than an unknown distance away.
“Yeah, sure, why not? And they’ll just get some kind of antitank shit and blow the hell out of us before we get within half a mile,” Ali snapped. “Use your head, brother. We need to be smarter than that.”
“Then why are you driving like you’re on the fast train to paradise already, man? We’ll get busted or killed—or both—before we’re anywhere near—”
Ali laughed harshly. “We’ve got no time to waste, brother, but we’ve got to be smart. I need the speed to get us to a place and a man who can help us.”
“You know someone?” Banjo asked, keeping one nervous eye on the traffic as Ali cut off a yellow cab to take a corner and almost took out three pedestrians.
“I don’t, but Mummar did. He told me in case of emergency that this is what we should do.”
“He told you? Why didn’t he tell me, man? He think I’m useless or something?”
Ali hit Banjo on the side of the head. “Don’t be stupid, brother. You knew shit I didn’t, and I knew shit you didn’t, and Amir knew shit neither of us did. He trusted me with this because I’m Turkish, not black or Indian. He knew that I could understand this dude better than either of you brothers.”
“Which dude, man? You ain’t making any sense.”
“Shut up and let me see where I am, brother,�
� Ali barked as he peered under the horizon of the windshield to catch a street name. Grunting with pleasure, he threw the Ferrari into a turn against the traffic that caused squeals of brakes and blaring of horns but somehow left them miraculously untouched as they left the main drag and hit a maze of side streets and narrow alleys running between buildings. A sharp left into a narrow way between two five-story blocks took them off the grid of CCTV and into unknown and unseen territory.
Ali slowed the Ferrari suddenly, throwing Banjo forward against the windshield.
“Huss,” the terrorist said, “you want to send us skyward before we’re ready?”
“Chill, brother,” Ali cautioned as he peered among the trash bins and pallets that littered the alley, counting the doorways until he came to the one that made him nod to himself. He took the Ferrari toward the far end of the alley until he came to a loading bay that was deserted. He turned the vehicle in, killed the engine and got out, beckoning Banjo to follow.
“C’mon, help me cover this,” he said, busying himself with pallets, cardboard boxes and tarps used to cover delivered goods, taking them and placing them carefully over the Ferrari so that its shape and color were disguised by the tarps, weighted carefully with the other pieces of trash. “Work of art, man,” he said to himself when they had finished.
“Cool, if we don’t make paradise we can go to the Museum of Modern Art and show off our style,” Banjo said with heavy sarcasm. “Now you going to tell me what you’ve been talking about?”
Ali beckoned him onward. “I’ll do better, brother, I’ll show you,” he said with a sly grin.
The terrorists walked down the alleyway, Ali noting carefully each doorway until they came to the back entrance of the building he sought. When they reached the right door, he stayed his companion with an arm and tentatively tried the fire door. It was unlocked and gave way easily. Ignoring the worried and confused look that Banjo shot him, Ali led his companion into the dark recess that lay behind the door. They were in the stairwell of the fire escape, and their feet echoed on the stone stairs as they ascended two floors. Ali led Banjo through the access door and into a hallway that was in complete contrast to the dank dark one they had just exited.
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