by Greg Rucka
She made a face and turned away from me, onto her back, so that we were lying side by side. The streetlight glinted off the hoop in her nostril, gave it an emerald shine like a star seen in a clear night sky. From the kitchen, I heard a chair scrape on the floor, a heavier foot moving away, down the hall. Dale.
"Okay," Bridgett said softly, and it sounded a little angry. "So what's that about?"
"What's what about?"
"This fascination with her. You talk about her like you actually like her, it's all admiration and shit."
I turned onto an elbow, but she wasn't looking at me. I gave it some thought, wanting to be honest, before I said, "She's very skilled. I respect her abilities. That doesn't mean that I approve of what she does."
"There's nothing about this woman that is deserving of your respect, Atticus."
"What she did to us today, it's not something many people could do even if they set their mind to it. The way she used Keith, if you're right about that – and I think you are – that was practically brilliance."
"No. It was sick."
I tried again. "I respect great white sharks for what they do, for how well they do it. This is like that."
It was the wrong thing to say, because she bolted upright and glared down at me. "It's their fucking nature, Atticus, they don't know anything else! We're talking about a woman who murders people for money! How you can even look at her and not be disgusted…"
"This from a woman who is pro-IRA."
"I've never been pro-IRA, I've been anti-occupation. I want the British out of Northern Ireland."
"You've justified, if not advocated, terrorist violence."
"There's a huge difference between trying to liberate an occupied nation and taking money to put a bullet in someone's head."
"Right, and bombing a high street and killing twenty innocent pedestrians, that's a blow for freedom? Terrorism is terrorism, Bridgett. At least what Drama does, she's honest about. She's not a monster, and it's a mistake to try and reduce her to that."
"What she does is monstrous," Bridgett argued. "By definition, she is a monster. And murder is murder, no matter if you're paid to do it or not."
"I'm not saying I approve of what she does. I simply respect her ability to do it."
"Well, I can't separate the two as easily as you can. It's sick. It's evil. It's seriously fucked-up."
"I think you're being a hypocrite. You'll allow for killing for a cause. Well, being paid to kill someone is a cause. May not be a good one, but it is a cause."
"I'm a hypocrite? You're the bodyguard who's defending the assassin, but I'm the hypocrite?" She got out of bed and began tugging on her jeans. "Fuck you."
"Bridgett…"
"No, seriously, fuck you." She finished buttoning her fly and pulled her belt tight, yanking it angrily. "You don't say that and then get to take it back. That you would even defend her behavior is reprehensible."
"I'm not defending her," I said softly.
"Liar."
I didn't say anything and she stuffed the tail of her T-shirt back into her pants, then went out the door. She didn't slam it. I heard Dale in the kitchen ask if there was a problem, and I didn't hear Bridgett's reply. I stared at the ceiling, tense and growing all the more angry.
It didn't bother me that she couldn't see what I saw. Few people could or would admit that they could. Moore, certainly, and Natalie, but even Corry and Dale would most likely balk at admitting to respect for Drama. But that wasn't the problem.
The problem was that Bridgett was so willing to equate that respect with approval. That she would so quickly take the moral high road and accuse me of taking the low.
That pissed me off, and when the anger finally ebbed, I was left with the feeling I'd had when I'd called her in Philadelphia six nights ago, the same sense of dull but rising disaster. I had tried everything I could, had tried for a long time now, and nonetheless I could see the new gap opening between us, as steep and dark and treacherous as the old.
***
Natalie woke me at a quarter of five.
The phone rang at three minutes past six.
Chapter 13
"Starbucks on Third Avenue, two blocks from your apartment," Drama said. "Southernmost bathroom, seat-cover dispenser, instructions inside. It is now oh-six-oh-four hours. You have until oh-six-oh-nine."
She hung up.
"It's a run," I said, and started to relay the instructions. As I spoke, I removed my T-shirt, holding it while Corry began snapping one of the freshly charged radios onto my belt, running the leads to my ear and palm. Natalie was holding my Kevlar vest as if dressing me for a date, and Moore was rolling up my right pants leg, strapping the ankle holster with my Smith Wesson in place.
"She's putting you on foot?" Bridgett asked.
"To start, yes. More instructions to follow."
"We'll get the vehicles. Three cars. You're wearing the tracer?"
"I've got a bug up my ass," I confirmed.
"He finally admits it," Natalie said, and helped me into the vest. While she fastened the Velcro on my left side, Corry pulled it tight on the right. When they were finished, I put my shirt back on and Bridgett handed me my coat. As soon as I had it on, Dale handed me my HK. I chambered the round, settled it in the holster on my waist, then checked my watch.
"Three minutes. I'll keep you posted."
Bridgett blocked my passage, fatigue and strain in her face.
"Sorry about last night," she said. "Stress."
"You and me both."
She moved her head, almost bobbing it, preparing to say more and then discarding the words for lack of time. Corry nudged me.
"Go," he urged. "We'll be with you the whole way."
"You better be," I said, and then I was out the door, taking the stairs as fast as I could.
***
The day quickly made it plain that I was wearing too much for the weather it had in mind. The humidity was rising, and I could feel the sweat on my skin as I ran east toward Third Avenue. The early August sky was thick with high clouds the color of cigarette ash, and several pedestrians were carrying umbrellas. Aside from my jeans, T-shirt, and jacket, I had my HK P7 at my waist, the Smith Wesson 442 on my ankle, my switchblade, my radio, my wallet, and my cell phone. I felt like I was clanking with each step, though I knew everything on my body was secure.
At the corner of Third I checked my watch again, saw that I had ninety seconds, and crossed against the light, dodging traffic and nearly ending the run then and there when a taxi tried to run me down. There was no way to know if Drama was watching or not, either in person or through agents or surveillance of another means, and that meant I had to keep to her schedule. Risking death-by-cab seemed like nothing in the face of what the rest of the day might hold.
The facade of the Starbucks was being renovated, green-black scaffolding all along the front and around the southern corner of the building. Bills were posted on the wood all around, advertising either expensive jeans or an anorexic, party-all-night lifestyle, and upcoming concerts at the Garden and Meadowlands by bands I'd never heard of – yet another sign that I was getting old. There were two entrances to the coffee shop, and I went in the nearest, stopping just long enough to try to locate the bathrooms while noting the four patrons at various tables. I'd never actually been in the place before; much as I like coffee, I don't like Starbucks. They scare me.
There were two bathrooms located in an alcove on the northeast wall of the building, both marked unisex. A sign above each door said to get the key from the cashier, but I tried the knob on the southernmost one anyway. Locked. I turned and ran back to the cashier, a white kid who was rather obviously flaunting the fact that he had the latest issue of Playboy open in front of him.
"Bathroom key," I said.
"You going to get a drink?"
"I've got to pee, you think I need a diuretic? Can I have the key?"
I shouldn't have said "diuretic." It confused him.
"Give me a large of whatever is most like coffee and the key, please. Key first."
He nodded, checked the centerfold, who was not a natural blonde, and then retrieved the key. I took it and headed back to the bathroom, ignoring his shout for me to pay for the coffee first.
The bathroom was empty and the lights were on, and it was surprisingly spacious inside, almost ten by ten. The seat-cover dispenser was on the wall behind the toilet, and I reached through the opening and felt around until my fingertips hit the edge of something hard and cool. It took another two seconds to get a grip and pull it free, and I found that I was holding a box of Glory cigarettes.
Inside was a folded sheet of white paper. I glanced at my watch before reading it, saw that I had five seconds to spare.
The note, which looked like it had come from a laser printer somewhere, read:
You can have her back.
You must follow my instructions without deviation.
You must keep to the schedule.
You will proceed on foot north to 34th Street and turn west. At 7th Ave. you will turn north to West 35th. On the south side of the block between 7th and 8th you will find a 1999 model Lincoln Continental, navy blue, NY license H8X ND4, keyless entry code 443674. Further instructions are beneath the driver's seat.
It is now oh-six-ten hours.
You will be at the car at oh-six-thirty-six hours.
Make me happy.
I folded the note and shoved it into my pocket, dumping the pack of cigarettes in the trash. I returned the key to the cashier, ignored the cup of coffee that was waiting for me, and headed out to the street.
Bridgett's Porsche was idling, double-parked, just outside. Farther down the block I could see Dale's van. Natalie's Audi was nowhere in sight. Wherever it was, Moore sat behind the wheel.
I turned north and started up the street, walking quickly. Drama had ordered me practically across the island, and she'd ordered it on foot. Thirty minutes was enough to make the location, but there wasn't going to be time to window-shop. I'd have to hurry.
Corry came over the radio. "Where?"
"She's sending me across town," I told my radio. "She's specified the route, and she's specified I do it on foot. Destination is West Thirty-fifth between Seventh and Eighth, there's a car there with further instructions. I'm supposed to cross on Thirty-fourth Street."
There was a pause, then Bridgett came on the line. "That's Midtown South, she's sending you to MTS. Why in fuck's sake is she sending you to the busiest precinct in Manhattan?"
"She's trying to draw you guys out, identify my cover. If you try to keep pace with me you'll back up traffic westbound. If you try to get ahead of me, you'll be loitering in front of a police station, and that'll draw attention."
"Which qualifies as alerting the authorities, " Moore said. "We can pull off, let you walk it alone, or we can put people on the ground to cover you."
I was already at Thirty-third, crossing the street with the light and a cluster of pedestrians, a few of whom were trying to determine if I was talking to myself or to them. "Robert, I think getting out of the vehicles is an extraordinarily dangerous thing to do. At least in the cars you all have some protection. People start walking and she'll be able to pick them off at her leisure."
"You think she'll try to take us out? "
"It's a possibility."
"I do not like this, " Bridgett said. "She's trying to get you alone."
"Turning onto Thirty-fourth now," I said. "I'm crossing to the north side of the street."
"I've got you, " Dale said.
"I'm going to loop around, " Bridgett said. "Try to get ahead of you. I'll stay away from MTS until you 're there."
"Confirmed," I said, and fell silent. The foot traffic on Thirty-fourth was getting thicker, and I fell into a clump of pedestrians crossing Lexington. At the light I did another eyeball check, saw that Natalie's Audi was waiting at the light ahead of me, Moore at the wheel, and that Dale was still following behind him. There were a lot of people on the street, men and women moving with the strident purpose of people who have been forced by the need of a living wage to rise early and spend their day in toil.
When I reached Herald Square, Moore tried to slow down to keep me in view, which was a mistake and caused traffic to go apeshit. It wasn't bad enough that Thirty-fourth was a major east-west thoroughfare, at Herald Square it was crossed on the north-south axis by not only the Avenue of the Americas, but also Broadway. Traffic there was always rotten, and by the time I reached Macy's, there was no doubt that, if Drama was watching, she'd made the Audi, which meant she'd pegged Moore. I got an earful of his curses before he gave it up and let Dale take over the tail.
By Seventh Avenue I was feeling the walk and beginning to perspire. The clouds had come together in a high and seamless cover. When I turned onto Thirty-fifth, my watch said it was six thirty-six in the morning.
The street was lousy with cops, either coming to work or leaving, or perhaps responding to some crisis. Cars were parked all along both sides, and the precinct itself was roughly in the middle of the block on the north side, a squat bunker on steroids. Sector cars were parked diagonally in front, and then, farther along in each direction, more vehicles in lines parallel to the curb. Just before the entrance, on the opposite side of the street, was the Lincoln Drama had specified.
"I'm at the car," I told my radio.
"Confirmed, " Corry said, and immediately Moore and Bridgett echoed him.
The vehicle looked entirely in its element, complete with rust speckling its rear bumper and a dent in the front driver's-side panel. Looking through the window as I approached I saw discarded bags of fast food, empty cans of beer crushed on the floor mats. The license plate matched, and the registration sticker was current. On the dashboard there was even a precinct parking permit, a laminated eight-by-ten sheet of paper, lime green, with the NYPD crest on it and the words "Restricted Parking Plate" and beneath it, "Midtown South Precinct." The permit would expire at the end of the year.
I unlocked the car, thinking that if she wanted to blow me up, this was a hell of a place to pick to do it. But the car accepted the code without anything more dramatic than the sound of the lock releasing, and the door opened just fine. Before climbing in I gave the street another look, both sides, back and forth, and there was nothing that caught my eye, and apparently I wasn't worth looking at either. In front of the precinct, six or seven uniformed officers were drinking from paper cups and talking, and not one of them gave me any attention.
Beneath the driver's seat was a folded Triple-A map of Manhattan, with a paper clip holding it shut. I opened the map, and a transit card fell out, along with a slip of paper.
One fare on the card.
Subway stop at the corner of 7th Ave.
Number 9 South to the Ferry Terminal – be in the second car.
It is now oh-six-thirty-eight hours.
You have 18 minutes.
Oh…
Open the glove compartment.
Like the last one, the note was typed.
I stared at it, then at the glove compartment, and the butterflies in my stomach went a little crazy for a second.
In the glove compartment was a cheap Motorola walkie-talkie, yellow, the kind marketed to suburban homeowners as a neat way to keep track of one another should someone get lost while working in the yard or walking their poodle. On a pink Post-it note stuck to its face was the command, TURN ME ON written in block capitals in black ink. There was a black knob at the top, by the antenna, and I twisted it, hearing the click, and then a short squelch of static. Then silence.
I kept it in my right hand as I got out of the car, making for Seventh Avenue. "She's sending me to the Ferry Terminal," I told my radio. "Subway."
"You go down there, we'll lose you, " Corry said. "Radios will be useless, so will the cell phone. I won't even be able to track you."
"You're not telling me anything I don't know."
"We'll split it up.
Dale, Moore, and I will go the long route. Bridgett, can you make theferry?"
Dale broke in over Corry. "Wait a minute. Did she tell you to get on the ferry?"
"No."
"So she could be trying to split us up, send us out to Staten Island ahead of you, then make you double back. "
"It's possible." I was at the head of the stairs down to the station, and from below I could hear the grinding of wheels on metal growing, the sound of a train coming. "Guys, I've got to move. You're going to have to work this out yourselves. I'll radio as soon as I can."
"You damn well better, " Bridgett said.
Moore was on the line as I started down the stairs, asking Dale the best route to the terminal, and then I heard static. The radios we used for business, the one on my belt running leads to my palm and ear, were UHF, broadcasting on a repeater system that could be received throughout the boroughs. Powerful though they were, they couldn't penetrate the Manhattan streets. The Motorola in my hand was another story. It used VHF, and although it wasn't very powerful, it worked on a point-to-point system, basically direct line of sight. Which meant that if Drama was planning on talking to me, she'd have to have a relatively unobstructed view of my position.
The transit card had enough on it for my fare, and I made it through the turnstiles and to the doors of the car just as they were closing. The train started moving before I was able to get a handhold on anything, and I nearly slammed into a classic punk, decked out in black leather with a spiked dog collar and a torn Sex Pistols T-shirt, all topped off with a purple Mohawk. He brought his shoulders up in defense and turned a glare on me, but it changed to curiosity when he saw my face.
"Do I know you?"
"All men are brothers," I said, and wedged myself into the corner at the end of the car. There were no open seats, and at the next stop more passengers came aboard, dressed for work downtown. I tried to catch as many faces as I could, but it was pointless. If Drama was in the car, I couldn't see her.
I put the radio to my ear and heard static, the weak signal. A couple people gave me looks, wondering what the hell I was doing. Most couldn't have cared less.