by Dave White
He reached down to click off his seatbelt. Then he pulled the keys from the ignition and used them to pop the airbag. It deflated with a soft hiss.
He reached out, and unhooked the radio from its plastic stand. No sound came from it. Callahan hoped it still worked.
He stepped on to the road as a Toyota Tercel pulled into the shoulder. Callahan felt his legs go weak, but he bent his knees and was able to keep his balance. An old man, balding, with a potbelly and thick glasses, got out of the car.
“The police are on their way. I called them from my cell phone. That guy in the other truck was crazy.” He stepped toward Callahan. “Are you okay?”
Callahan pulled the trenchcoat’s pistol and aimed it at the old man.
“I’ll be fine if you lend me your car.”
The old man’s hands shot up above his head, and he started whimpering. Callahan got into the car. He put the radio on the passenger seat. The car smelled like cigarettes and lemon air freshener.
No time to fool around.
He was definitely going to be out of a job. But that didn’t matter.
Callahan put the car in gear and shot out into the right lane of the highway, setting off another round of car horns.
He sped onto Route 3, and then another twelve miles, finally seeing signs for the Lincoln Tunnel, but not the other SUVs. Finally, as traffic slowed on the tunnel approach, he spotted both of them, one right after another, half a mile up. People spending visiting the city for the holiday.
The approach to the Lincoln Tunnel was called the Helix. It was a three lane road that swung in a half circle over Weehawken and Hoboken, and then opened like the mouth of a river to a bed of tollbooths. John’s SUV and Verderese’s were caught in the curve underneath a giant billboard for Mad Men.
Callahan rolled forward, and swung into the left lane, which seemed to be moving faster. It was, and Callahan started to make up ground in his pursuit. Each inch seemed to be a mile, but his targets were barely moving. He wanted to lean on the horn, to scream for everyone to get out of the way. But he didn’t, he just gassed the Tercel as much as he could and inched closer.
He hoped Duffy had gotten some men to the mouth of the Tunnel like she’d promised. Port Authority was supposed to stop every suspicious looking truck or car. But he’d never actually witnessed a car stopped.
He hoped Duffy had gotten some the descriptions of the SUVs down on paper. He hoped they knew what cars to stop.
He wondered where Sandler had disappeared. He wasn’t in any of the SUVs. And Callahan hadn’t seen him outside the hangar when they all piled into the trucks.
Verderese and John found some room in the traffic and rolled forward. They seemed to be moving at the same speed as Callahan now. He wasn’t going to catch them before the tunnel.
Come on, Duffy. Do your job. Stop them.
The SUVs ahead of him had cleared the toll. Callahan looked for any of the uniforms to stop them. They didn’t. One of the Port Authority cops turned his head and talked to the cop next to him just as the trucks went by.
What if Tony decided the bomb should just go off in the Tunnel? What if there was a malfunction?
Callahan had no idea what kind of weapon it was, just that it was one of Ameritech’s bombs. It could go off at any time.
Both SUVs disappeared into the tunnel as Callahan cleared the tolls as well. He wasn’t stopped either. He pulled into the mouth of the tunnel and hoped he’d see daylight on the other side.
John looked at the digital clock on his chest as it beeped on. Twenty five minutes. Christine had pressed a button on a small remote device, just as they exited the tunnel. Exactly as Verderese had said she would before they left the hangar.
Air wouldn’t go into his lungs. His chest tightened. Something burned at the edge of his eyes. And it wasn’t the water that had been resting above them in the tunnel that had caused the anxiety.
You’re doing this for Michelle, and Hannah, and Ashley. You won’t let anymore of your friends die.
Callahan was coming after him. Maybe there was a chance. He promised he’d save them.
Maybe John wouldn’t have to die.
Maybe no one would.
The digital clock beeped another second off.
Callahan came out the other end, the gloom of the tunnel replaced by the gray of the city.
Outside the Lincoln Tunnel the road split. The right headed toward Madison Square Garden and the lower 30s, the left lanes went uptown. Both SUVs turned left, uptown. Callahan turned uptown as well.
Verderese’s SUV slowed and Callahan passed him.
It was an easy call. Stop John first. Find Michelle later.
He followed the SUV on to 12th.
Toward the water. What was on the water?
The Intrepid was an obvious choice, lots of tourists, even this early in the morning. Plus even with only holiday traffic on the West Side Highway, they’d still get thousands.
They’d get thousands anywhere in New York on any day of the year.
Callahan watched the SUV slow at a red light that intersected with the West Side Highway. He pulled the car over to the side of the road, put it in park and got out.
Callahan jogged up the middle of the street toward John’s SUV. He figured he had less than a minute before the light turned green. And only fifty yards to cover. He could do it.
No problem.
The aircraft carrier was docked about half a mile away. It wasn’t active anymore, now used as an Air & Space Museum. It was a perfect target, after getting press for being refurbished and then docked in port again. It’d only recently re-opened. The damned thing was going to be mobbed.
He pumped his legs, fire burning up his thighs, the wind pushing into the bruises and cuts on his face. He shut his eyes for a moment and focused only on his breathing. It was like running track in high school; it was like his training at Harvey Point. Focus on the process, not the outside noise.
****
Christine looked in the side view mirror and saw Callahan coming at them, sprinting.
She swore under her breath and turned to John.
“I’m getting out now. Drive to the ship. Pull into the parking lot and put the damned truck in park.”
“I’m supposed to sit in the car,” he said, his voice shaking.
“Slide over and drive,” Christine said. “Twelve minutes and this’ll all be over.”
John nodded, and she got out of the car.
She hoped this was the end.
She’d be rich.
If only.
****
Callahan looked up to find he was only feet from the SUV.
The traffic light turned green, but the SUV did not immediately drive away. Instead the door opened and Christine stepped out, a blade in her hand.
Round two.
In the middle of the West Side Highway.
The SUV pulled away and other cars slammed on their horns, drivers swore and pulled around them. Callahan ignored them, stepped forward and hit Christine flush in the nose with a left jab. She took a few steps backward, but didn’t fall. Instead she stepped forward swiping the knife toward his chest with a backhand motion. Callahan twisted his body, avoiding the slash.
Cars sped by them, braking briefly then leaning on their horns. New Yorkers didn’t even stop for a street fight. Callahan swung a right this time and Christine blocked it, returning a kick to the side of his aching ribs. Callahan went down to one knee.
When he looked up, he saw the SUV making a slow left toward the Intrepid. One more right and the SUV would be in the lot.
“That bomb goes off, it’s not going to kill just John. It’s going to kill all of us,” he said.
She punched him hard in the jaw. Callahan went down to one knee, but forced himself back up before she could swing again. Christine came at him with a hard right, but he blocked it and countered with a shot to the stomach. His fist connected with a hard padding.
Was she wearing a vest as well? An
other bomb?
He took another swing at her stomach, but Chrstine knocked it away. She hit him in the face with a roundhouse right kick. Callahan staggered a few steps back. A horn beeped, and he felt the car’s breeze as it whipped by.
While he tried to regain his balance, he looked at the SUV, pausing at the corner, waiting for a clear turn. He could run to it, if he could slow Christine. He could still stop this.
Christine took a step backward, looking over her shoulder.
“Are you wearing a bomb too?” Callahan screamed.
Christine didn’t say anything. Facing him, again, she went on the offensive. Two rabbit punches to the nose, before Callahan twisted out of the way and thrust his left foot into her right shin. She hopped on one foot for a moment as if he’d hurt her.
Callahan took a step forward and hit her with a left jab, followed by a right uppercut. She let out a moan and fell on to her back.
More horns.
Taking a step forward, Callahan started to crouch. He thought she was out.
Christine’s eyes snapped over and she shook her head.
A police car, lights flashing swung around the corner toward them. Christine turned back toward him and clenched her fists.
As soon as he got out of the tunnel, Tony Verderese parked the car on 12th Avenue illegally and shook his head. He’d been through too much since the FBI got tough. Watched friends go down. Watched his men get arrested for small things like running numbers, income tax evasion. Watched them get arrested for big things, drug running and gun sales. All the while Donte Maiore hung out in Little Italy like a walking stereotype, raking in money like it was leaves in autumn.
“Stay here,” he said to Michelle.
She tried to mumble through the duct tape. Tony reached over and peeled it off her face.
“I hope this is good,” he said.
“Shoot me,” she said.
Tony shook his head. “That is a good one.”
“Kill me. Please. Just get it over with.”
Tony leaned in close to her face. “No. I want you to see it. Afterward, we’ll talk.”
“Please! Let John go. If you kill me, you can let him go.”
Tony smiled. “Day late, dollar short, kiddo.”
He got out of the car and walked around the front. Donte always sat in the little coffee shop on the corner in the morning, smoking a cigar and reading the paper. He’d have the radio on, listening to NPR, trying to get smart. Little good it did him.
Tony preferred phone scams on Z100. At least they didn’t talk down to you.
Plus, they were hilarious.
For a minute, he wondered how Donte ever found the place. Most of the remaining cafes like this were down on Mulberry Street in Little Italy or way uptown. Not midtown. If it wasn’t a Starbucks in midtown, it was a bodega. Yet, somehow Maiore had found this place and held on to it. Maybe he paid the rent to keep it alive.
He pushed the door open, and the little bell rang. Donte Maiore, put the cigar in the ashtray and looked up. He pushed a hand through his slick black hair and smiled. Smiled like he was the king of the world and Tony was here to check his food for poison.
“Hey, what you doing here?” Donte asked, grinning.
“Just came in to visit,” he said, carefully adjusting his gloves.
“You hear this shit?” Donte asked, nodding toward the radio.
“No. What?” Did the West Side blow up? Are all the cops swarming over there looking for survivors, making the rest of the city a damned criminal picnic?
He pushed back his glove and looked at his watch. Still twelve minutes to go. Too early.
“Some bitch with a knife, and some other asshole are having an all out brawl on the West Side Highway. Two blocks from here, can you believe it? The cops are on their way over there. The news DJ heard it on the police ban. They’re sending a reporter down there. I sent my boys to go get some video. I love this stuff.”
“Oh, really?”
The smell of coffee and cigar smoke was strong, and Tony crinkled his nose as he reached into his jacket pocket. He’d rather the place smelled sweet, like cookies.
“I want the business,” Tony said. “New York should be mine.”
Donte Mairoe didn’t even flinch. They’d been having this conversation for years. It was nothing new.
“Your father gave it to me,” Donte said. “Until I die. You’ll get your chance. Until then, enjoy New Jersey. And by the way, I just saw my doctor. I’m as healthy as a ball player.”
Tony ignored him. No one would even know Donte was dead. No one would care about one more body.
“You know what?” Tony asked. “When I take over, we’re going to be huge. And legit. You see, in ten minutes there’s going to be a terrorist attack. Lots of dirt, lots of rubble. You remember 9/11? The clean-up? You missed out on that one. But not me. When the dust clears and the city needs garbage men to clean up, that’s gonna be my racket.”
“What the hell are you talking about? A terrorist attack? This is why your father didn’t want you in charge. You’re nuts.”
Tony smiled. He pulled the gun out of his pocket, aimed and fired. A small, red hole appeared in Donte Maiore’s head. His body slipped sideways and the chair fell over spilling his body onto the floor.
Tony dropped the gun, turned and walked back to the SUV.
Ten minutes left. Plenty of time to get down there and watch the fireworks.
The two cops got out of their cruiser and started to make their way through oncoming traffic. Christine kept her hands in fists. Her nose was bleeding, and out of the corner of his eye Callahan could see the drops pooling on the recently plowed pavement. A small red puddle, jiggling against the black asphalt. He looked down at them.
The cops were yelling at them to stop, put their hands in the air, and don’t move. All at the same time. But they were still too far away to do anything about it.
“How fucking long until the bomb goes off?” Callahan screamed.
Maybe if the cops heard bomb, they’d hurry the hell up.
Christine shook her head. Callahan didn’t have time to say anything else. Christine got into a crouch and swept Callahan’s legs out from under him with a kick. He want down on his back. His ribs screamed. Christine straddled him.
Chrstine started to pummel him. A right, then a left, then a right, each connecting with his face. He tried to get his hands up, but couldn’t. The cops were still yelling. Why didn’t they just shoot her?
“Stop it!” one of the cops yelled. “Stop fighting or I’ll blow your brains out.”
Do it, Callahan thought.
She continued hitting him. Callahan felt the world starting to cave in around him. The edges of his vision went black. His temples pounded. Finally getting his hands up, he was able to knock away two of her punches and then it stopped.
Behind them, police car lights flashed, a signal for everyone else to rubber neck. People honked. A few pedestrians on the sidewalk stopped to watch and record the movement on cell phones. If the bomb went off now, no one would be able to get out of the way. People in the parking lot standing around watching. Many of them were on their cell phones too.
Laughing.
Smiling.
Callahan forced his eyes to Christine and saw her reaching behind her back. In an instant, she pulled a knife from her waistband. It glinted against the sunlight as she raised it above her head, blade aimed directly at him. He saw her muscles tense and the knife arced downward.
There were two loud pops, and he felt Christine’s weight lifted off of him. She jerked backwards and landed on her back.
People started to scream and run. A few stood where they were, not putting the camera phones down. Callahan rolled to his stomach and looked at Christine. There were two holes in the center of her torso. She was wearing a Kevlar vest. She groaned, and tried to sit up, but went back down again.
Callahan got to his feet and looked for John.
Two blocks away, the SUV had
parked in a parking lot near the Intrepid. The hood faced the water and the aircraft carrier. The driver’s side door to the SUV opened and John got out. He did it slowly, peering around as if to see what the hell the hubbub was. Probably wondering if he was about to get caught.
One of the cops stepped forward, reaching to his belt for his handcuffs.
Callahan broke into a full on run. His legs were throbbing, his ribs creaked but it didn’t matter. Ahead of him, the crowd in the parking lot watched him come toward them, their faces turning from laughter to fear in an instant. They didn’t know who he was. And they didn’t know the real threat was behind them.