Crouching, Jackman ran the last ten feet to the helicopter with his rifle held down, business end facing the ground. He spun around, sat on the metal floor of the craft and grabbed the handhold of the open door. “Take us up,” he commanded.
As the helicopter ascended, Jackman gazed down at the retreating view of the Keane mansion. Then he looked to the clear plastic sleeve on his forearm. Underneath the sleeve was a picture of their intended target. Jackman always caught his prey, but this one had been hidden for so long, he’d be more difficult to catch than most. If he was even still alive. After checking out the bedroom, it seemed doubtful.
Jackman couldn’t help but wonder what was going on. First there was the signal they’d tracked down yesterday, and now this one. Where are you, Mr. Keane? Jackman’s eyes pierced the photo, as though staring at it long enough would yield the answer. His mouth tightened into a thin smile in anticipation of the chase, and he gazed out at the morning sun burning down upon glorious New York City.
Moments after the choppers left, police sirens echoed through the luxurious neighborhood streets signaling the approach of a cavalry that has arrived too late.
10
A Walk in the Crowds
This was not the sort of day Ethan had expected when he woke up with a hangover that morning. He had no idea what was afoot, but he needed to grab his 9mm from the apartment. His instincts were in overdrive, and he felt hyper-sensitive — absorbing details at an alarming pace, and yet tuning them out at the same time. Everything that had happened earlier that morning was still forefront in his mind: the attack choppers, the tactical team that descended upon Tobias’s estate, and the swiftness with which the poor officer was taken down.
Reawakened after many years, Ethan’s military training sprang to life with renewed vigor, his lessons on tactical evasion kicking into gear. He parked a few blocks down in an underground deck and moved up the street to take a different route home. As he walked, he put on the sunglasses and Steelers cap he’d taken from the car, setting it backward on his head like many of the young kids seemed to be doing today. The shades and cap, combined with the casual dark brown leather coat he wore, should allow him to blend in. He hoped. This wasn’t exactly the same environment as guerilla warfare or one of his military covert missions.
He needed to sit down and study the items in his possession again. If they were the reason for what had happened at his uncle’s house, he first had to ensure he wasn’t being followed. He stopped to look at a storefront display and casually glanced in the direction he’d come from. No one in particular stood out; instead, people shuffled around him in annoyance like he was an obstinate rock in the midst of a rushing river.
His building was nearby, and as Ethan approached, the only vehicles that stood out were a maintenance truck, a van that had magnetic stickers advertising a local painting business, and a dark blue sedan sitting curbside. The driver at the wheel of the sedan appeared to be waiting on other passengers to arrive.
Ethan slid his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to get a better view of the car’s driver. The man shifted continuously in his seat, scanning the crowd of people hustling by.
Son of a bitch! He knew surveillance when he saw it. These people were scoping out his pad. Now he’d have to come up with another means of acquiring a weapon or …
Ethan doubled back, allowing the crowd to swallow him again.
11
Tearfest
The van’s sliding door flew open and shut in quick succession. Ethan had jumped inside before the driver realized what happened. Ethan hoped the watchers in the vehicles ahead hadn’t noticed; because the van was parked behind the others, they probably hadn’t. Still, time was limited.
“Hey, hey, hey! What do you think you’re doing?” the driver wailed, his voice high-pitched in surprise.
“Shut up!” A backhanded fist thunked against the driver’s head along with the order.
After recovering from the blow, the man tried to turn in his seat.
“Face forward. Hands on the wheel or things get messy.”
Not overly foolish, the man did as he was told. Whether it was the veiled threat or the cold bite of metal that touched the base of his skull, Ethan wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter because at this point he had the man’s full attention now.
“Who are you?” The man asked through tight lips, beads of sweat forming at his temples.
“I’ll be asking the questions,” Ethan snarled. Nevertheless, it was the best question to ask — so Ethan copied. “Who are you?”
No answer.
Ethan grabbed the driver by the hair and slammed his face into the steering wheel. Blood exploded from the man’s nostrils as the bridge bone cracked. Tears formed in pools at the corners of his eyes. It had nothing to do with crying — getting your nose smashed just tended to have that effect. Ethan knew this from experience.
“You broke my nose!” the man screeched.
It was an unnecessary declaration because Ethan already knew it had to be. What a wuss. He glanced at his building’s entrance to make sure no one was returning to the van. Only one person in the area seemed out of place for reasons Ethan couldn’t explain. He could only glimpse the man from behind but was able to tell he had a buzz cut hairstyle and wore a black leather coat. And he was heading for The Elysium Terrace.
Ethan turned back to the front seat of the van he was in. “Who the hell are you? And what are your men doing in my house?” he asked in a low voice that promised further pain if the question wasn’t answered.
In the rearview mirror Ethan saw the man’s eyes widen in comprehension of the unspoken threat but he remained silent. Ethan clamped down on the man’s hair and jerked him closer. His mouth was now inches from the man’s ear and he pressed the metal harder against his head. “Did your ears get damaged? Answer me, dammit, or they’re going to need windshield wipers on the inside of this van to clean your brain off.”
Slowly, the man held his hands up in calm surrender and Ethan eased his grip. The driver moved to wipe off the blood oozing down his mouth, but his hand was in an odd position. Ethan saw his lips move before he registered the words.
“He’s down here — I’m —”
It took four slams of the driver’s head against the window before the man slumped over the steering wheel. Ethan pulled him back so the pressure on the wheel wouldn’t sound the horn. Seconds were precious; the others would be here any moment. He reached over the seat and took the firearm holstered under Mr. Broken Nose’s jacket.
Then he pivoted, opened the van door again, and emerged from the vehicle, walking swiftly away without closing the door. He deposited his newly acquired weapon into one of the side pockets of his coat and the Zippo lighter he’d used as a decoy gun on the now unconscious man in the other.
Suddenly, a loud —POP, POP, POP— sounded from across the street. Ethan spun around to see the man with the buzz cut and black coat walking backward out of The Elysium Terrace. Even from this distance, he could see that the man held a gun, pointing it in the direction of the closing doors.
An explosion of glass shattered outward from the entrance and several more shots burst through the air. Buzz Cut fell to one knee, wounded. Yet he was still trying to raise his arm to fire off another shot when more gun blasts found their mark in his torso, sprawling him to his back on the sidewalk.