He resumed walking, pain causing him to stumble several times. He was light headed from shock and blood loss. After another couple blocks he saw his chance: a woman arriving back at her apartment, unloading a Volvo station wagon with help from her doorman. Brent slowed and waited. The doorman came out, grabbed several pieces of luggage, and hurried inside, as the woman—late fifties, overweight, and slow-moving, with several shopping bags in one hand and her dog leash in the other—led a golden retriever from the car toward the building entrance.
The car’s tailpipe was coughing exhaust. Brent pushed the tailgate closed, rushed to the driver’s door, jumped inside, slammed the shifter into gear, and accelerated. He was out in traffic before anyone noticed. He shot north on Park then turned west. New York City had a famously rapid response to human tragedies such as muggings, knifings, or rapes, but a notoriously slack response to basic property losses like car thefts. Every New Yorker had stories about reporting stolen cars, how the Manhattan police literally yawned. If the stories were wrong, he was a dead man.
He crossed Central Park and made it onto the West Side Highway. Traffic was light, and he headed north to the George Washington Bridge, knowing it was the longer route to where he was going but needing to avoid the cops at the Lincoln Tunnel.
He jerked out his wallet as he drove and counted sixty-two dollars. That was all he had because his credit or ATM cards would be like drawing arrows for the police.
On the other side of the Hudson, he followed signs for the New Jersey Turnpike. He saw a police car parked on one side of the turnpike ticket booths, but fortunately the cop never spared him a glance.
He was thinking only about his Uncle Fred now, remembering what he’d said—how he’d help out when no one else would. He had to get to Morristown, but he was so sleepy. Twice he felt the tires thump on the warning strip before his eyes snapped open. Come on! he told himself. Just a little further! He focused his thoughts on the two guys who’d just tried to kill him. They’d knifed an innocent garage attendant and maybe shot Dr. Faisal. Slowly, his rage began to boil again. He used it to keep going.
He looked over at the passenger seat where Harry sat, his face smeared with soot, his clothes smoking from recent flames. Hang in there, bro. Don’t let those bastards get away with this.
Brent grunted and set the cruise control. His vision was blurring, but he was on fire now and held the wheel in a death grip.
Forty minutes later, he was on the quiet back streets of Morristown, nearing his uncle’s neighborhood. His movements had become sluggish. It was hard as hell just to stay on the road, but he’d almost reached safety.
With two blocks to go he suddenly slammed on the brakes. The FBI and police would have figured out that he was running, and they’d have his uncle’s house staked out for sure! Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He let his forehead bang the steering wheel, finally overcome with hopelessness. It occurred to him that maybe he ought to just go there and surrender.
Then what? Harry’s voice came to him. How you gonna get proof from jail? You want to end up a scapegoat for whoever killed your client and stole his money?
“I’ve got sixty-two dollars,” Brent said. He glanced down at his bloody stomach. “I need a doctor.”
Only one other place to go, Little Bro.
Brent scowled, but he turned around in the next driveway.
Maggie’s lights were off, but the sight of her house brought a strange combination of hope and futility. She was a cop, sworn to uphold the law, but maybe she still cared about him enough to listen to his story. Maybe she didn’t—but he was too near blacking out to make another choice. He drove into her driveway, turned off the engine, staggered to her back door, and rang the bell. After another minute he rang again, but nothing stirred inside.
The garage door squeaked on its hinges as he raised it and saw that Maggie’s car was gone. He backed the Volvo into her garage, lowered the door, and sat behind the wheel, unable to fight his exhaustion. His eyes closed, he felt himself drift. Numb with pain and worry, with no more strength to resist or run, he knew he’d tried his best, but tomorrow he’d be in custody.
Strangely, the only thing he could still focus on was a lingering sadness about Maggie, about how he’d let the two of them grow so distant when he still loved her. As he fell into oblivion he thought about Harry charging up the fire stairs, loving his job and his mission, probably smiling even at the end. Harry wouldn’t have backed away from Maggie. Harry always embraced everything in his life to the best of his ability. His last thought was that he felt oddly jealous of his dead brother. It was strange how his own life had been so full of promise and opportunity, yet he’d wasted it, never seeing the things that mattered until it was too late.
THIRTY-TWO
NEW YORK, JUNE 29
NAIF KEPT ONE HAND PRESSED to his forehead to staunch the bleeding as he turned to glare at this soft American who was the reason he had failed. He felt a hot rage rip at his stomach.
“I should kill you,” he hissed.
“It wasn’t my fault,” the fat Christian said, even as the sour smell of fear oozed from his pores.
Naif shifted position to try and ease the pain that wracked his body. He had bruised ribs, a bleeding elbow, and broken nose, but worst was the knowledge that he’d so badly underestimated his prey.
Now a new problem loomed. They had driven up and down streets, scanning unlit doorways and the spaces between parked cars. Lucas was wounded. Naif knew a man with a wounded gut couldn’t go far. Still, they hadn’t found him.
They were parked at the curb a block from the garage, where they could keep watch in both directions. When Lucas appeared, they would go after him. Naif took his bloody knife from his pocket and placed it on the minister’s knee. “When we find him, you finish it.”
The minister’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. “No!” he exclaimed.
Naif reached into the pocket of his coat and brought out his pistol. He put the silenced muzzle against the minister’s chest. “Kill him,” he said, speaking very slowly. “Or die.”
The minister made whimpering sound and seemed about to refuse, but before he could speak, Naif’s cell phone rang. It was Abu Sayeed.
“Status?” he demanded.
“There have been complications,” Naif said.
“He is alive?”
Naif sighed, “Yes.”
There was a heavy silence. “We have a change of plans. Go to the following address.”
Naif took a pen and notebook from a rubber band on the visor and wrote it down. Afterward, he programmed the address into his portable GPS. He read the directions then turned to the minister. “Go to the Triborough Bridge.”
THIRTY-THREE
MORRISTOWN, NJ, JUNE 30
A SLIVER OF LIGHT SHOWED on the eastern horizon as Maggie pulled her Toyota Corolla into her driveway. She climbed out, stretched, and shivered at the cool dampness of the night air. High in an oak tree an unseen bird began to sing. The sound reminded her of how little time she’d have to sleep and brought a twinge of sadness as she thought about promises she’d made to herself—that someday she’d learn the songs of all the local birds and have a vegetable garden and a great big backyard and some kids to tear it up. So many things seemed to be sliding further and further away.