THIRTY
NEW YORK, JUNE 29
NAIF SLUMPED LOW IN THE van’s seat and watched through the passenger side mirror. The rain had stopped. A thick mist still hung in the air, but it didn’t matter because there was no mistaking the guy on the bench. He hadn’t gone to Faisal’s immediately the way Biddle had predicted. Instead, he’d started out of the city, where they’d only managed follow him up the crowded highway thanks to the tracking bug in his cell phone.
For a time it had looked like everything was going wrong, but then Lucas turned off the highway and went to Faisal’s, then to the supposed FBI offices on the West Side. The Christian had wanted to take him then, but Naif refused. Nothing must jeopardize the main mission. Allah would create the right opportunity.
For some time, Lucas had been sitting and staring like a cat about to pounce. Now, Naif saw him stand and trot across the avenue toward where they were parked on the cross street. A moment later Lucas approached a man who had exited the corner building. When the man saw Lucas he seemed about to run, but Lucas grabbed his arm. They were almost near enough for Naif to crack his window and overhear their conversation.
After several minutes the second man turned and went back toward his office, while Lucas crossed to his parked car. He pulled out and drove down the street, past their van.
The minister followed, turning left at the light, heading uptown on Madison. He punched his cell phone buttons as he drove, his voice tense when he told the person on the other end about Lucas’s meeting, and how the man on the sidewalk had gone back toward the office.
Naif kept his eyes on the tracking device, and when Lucas turned and started down a side street in the Nineties, he hit the minister’s shoulder and pointed.
They turned east, staying sixty or seventy yards back. After three blocks, the tracking device showed another change in direction, and then Naif caught sight of Lucas’s BMW disappearing down the ramp of a parking garage. This was a safer choice than the street, and when the minister gave him a questioning glance, Naif nodded. With luck the garage would be almost empty, and the kill would be silent. They would put his body in the van and dump him someplace where he’d never be found.
They turned into the garage and crept down the ramp. Around the turn at the bottom they spotted Lucas standing beside his car, talking to the parking attendant.
“Stop,” Naif said, wanting the van where it would prevent other cars from coming in or out.
He opened his door, climbed down, and walked nonchalantly toward the two men, noting that Lucas kept his back turned as if he feared being recognized. Naif’s hand went to his knife in the pocket of his long coat. He stopped a few steps behind Lucas and cast one more look around. No one else in sight.
He slipped the knife from his pocket, ready for the attendant to take Lucas’s car and disappear down the next ramp. Only, the man turned, glanced at Naif, and then seemed to notice the van. “Can’t park that here!” he said.
Naif glanced back. The minister shifted the van into reverse but Naif shook his head. The attendant caught the signal and stepped between Naif and Lucas.
“No vans, man. Too high. Gotta back it out.”
Lucas still had his back turned. Naif stepped sideways, trying to keep open space between them, but the attendant stepped with him.
“Move it right now,” the attendant said, raising his voice. “I’m gonna have people wanting to get in.”
The attendant seemed to have forgotten about Lucas’s car. Naif could wait no longer. He turned slightly, masking his right hand. When he struck, the speed and force drove the blade deep into the man’s abdomen, and he ripped upward. It happened so fast there was barely a sound, only a wheeze before the man’s knees buckled and he started to fall.
Naif jerked the blade free and stepped over the body, angling for a clear shot at Lucas’s kidney. Lucas seemed to sense something because he started to turn, forcing Naif to go for his midsection instead. Lucas jumped back as the knife slashed toward him, his movement blindingly fast for such a big man. Naif felt his blade strike and tried to move in closer, expecting Lucas to freeze for a split second and look down, stunned that he’d been cut by a stranger.
Lucas did neither. Instead, he stepped forward, pushed Naif’s knife arm wide, and then lashed out with his foot and caught Naif in the hip.
The blow had staggering power. Naif reeled sideways and tripped over the dying attendant, going down hard on his elbow. An arc of pain shot through his arm, and his knife skittered away. Naif plunged his hand into his other pocket and grabbed his pistol. There was already blood on Lucas’s shirt from the gash in his abdomen, and Naif knew the sight of a gun would make him run. It would be an easy shot.
He started to jerk the pistol free, but the silencer snagged on the lining. Contrary to reason, the sight of the gun didn’t seem to frighten Lucas. Instead of running he stepped around the fallen attendant and kicked again, this time catching Naif beneath the armpit. With another shot of blinding pain, the kick turned him all the way over. He sprawled hard on his stomach and lost his grip on the gun.
At the same moment, Lucas’s knees landed on his back. Hands seized his dreadlocks, and he felt his nose break as his face was slammed repeatedly into the concrete floor. He was beginning to black out when he heard the shot, and the hands released him.
He looked up, half blinded by blood that ran from his forehead and saw the minister now out of the van, holding the pistol he’d just fired. Lucas was running, having put the van between himself and the minister, and he was quickly disappearing up the ramp. “Shoot him!” Naif shouted, but it was already too late.
THIRTY-ONE
NEW YORK, JUNE 29
BRENT MADE IT ONLY TO the top of the ramp before he slowed to a walk. He could go no faster. Blood soaked his shirt and pants, and his wound was a bar of hot iron against his abdomen. Even if his would-be killers didn’t catch him, some bystander was liable to call the cops. No taxi would stop for a bleeding man, and he couldn’t go back for his car. He’d been planning to ditch it because the police would be looking for the license plate.
He turned left toward Second Avenue, heading past a line of dilapidated brownstones. He picked one that appeared deserted then descended the steps to the basement entrance beneath the stoop. The space was unlit, littered with blown trash and garbage bags. It smelled of rot and urine, but at least he was hidden. He lifted his blood-soaked shirt and looked at the ugly diagonal tear that gaped from the bottom of his ribcage to his opposite hipbone. He put his hand into the cut and probed, wincing at the pain but grateful nothing bulged through the muscle wall.
He pulled his shirt closed and buttoned his suit coat. His mind rattled with questions for which he had no answers. Who were those guys? Where had they come from? Why were they trying to kill him? He remembered the garage attendant. The poor bastard might still be alive. He took out his cell phone, dialed 911, and reported the knifing.
He ended the call then started up the steps. His eyes drew level with the sidewalk, and he paused to search for any sign of the van. The street looked clear, so he went up the rest of the way and started walking west this time, as fast as he could, against the traffic. If the van came back around, he’d see it up ahead.
The first siren approached as he reached Third Avenue, and he quickened his pace in spite of the pain. He pulled out his cell phone and hit the auto-dialer to call Simmons. He needed her to get him to a doctor.
The phone continued to ring. By the time he reached Park there was still no answer. It was riskier walking here because there were more people and the light was better, but he had no choice. He stepped off the sidewalk and stayed just outside the line of parked cars, the way he would if he were trying to flag a taxi. He hit the auto-dialer a second time. Nothing. Desperation surged. He walked as fast as he could. With traffic approaching from behind, he prayed no one would notice the blood. Up ahead a doorman stepped out and whistled for a cab. Brent stopped and backed between two parked cars until a taxi stopped, a passenger got in, and the doorman went back into his building.