He had gone about fifty yards when he heard an alarmed shout and looked back to see two men in hooded sweatshirts standing beside Smythe, who was bent over as if he’d just been slugged.
Brent started toward them, breaking quickly into a sprint, running on his toes to cut the noise. The nearest mugger sensed motion and looked around, his eyes registering surprise and shock, but too late. Brent’s shoulder slammed the guy’s chest just below the armpit, lifting him off his feet and into the crosswalk light. The guy bounced off the post and collapsed, while Brent kept moving, spinning leftward around Smythe, letting his heavy briefcase swing wide and catching the second mugger in the hip. The man grunted and splayed on the sidewalk. He came back up in a low crouch, holding his side, and Brent saw the glint of bare steel.
He dropped his briefcase, deciding it was too unwieldy against the knife. The first mugger was still on his hands and knees, stunned but trying to stand. Before he could, Brent grabbed him by his pants and the neck of his sweatshirt, jerked him off the ground, and hurled him into his partner. Both muggers went down in a tangle. Brent rushed over, pinned the second man’s wrist with one foot, and stomped on his hand with the other until he heard bones crack.
He kicked the loose knife into the gutter as sirens sounded in the distance. When he looked around he spotted Smythe with his cell phone to his ear.
“I already called 911,” Smythe said breathlessly.
Brent glanced back at the two men, both getting to their feet, one cradling his wrist. Heedless of horns and screeching brakes, they scuttled across Fifth Avenue and disappeared over the park wall.
“Come on,” Brent said as he bent over and picked up his briefcase. “Let’s get out of here.”
“We have to wait for the police,” Smythe said.
“You’ll be looking at mug shots all night. Your wife will be pissed.”
Smythe gave him an amazed look. “You’re a damn Kamikaze!” Still, he started walking. Halfway down the block he turned. “You do stuff like that all the time?”
Brent winked. “Every chance I get.”
“I owe you,” Smythe said. He shook his head as he continued to look at Brent. “Thanks.”
On the second floor of the Genesis Advisors building, Fred Wofford stood in the window of his darkened office. He had witnessed the entire confrontation—in fact he had arranged it. Even though he hadn’t intended for Smythe to be involved, it had worked even better. He nodded to himself. The kid with the injured arm would have a fat wad of cash to compensate him for his discomfort, but more important Wofford had seen what he needed about how Brent Lucas would respond.
SIX
NEW YORK, JUNE 14
A HALF HOUR LATER, BRENT perched atop an unpacked moving box as he sipped a cold beer and gazed out his apartment window at the shrouding yellow mist. One hand was bruised and his shoulder ached, yet he felt pleased. He’d reacted purely on instinct, just like a Lucas, like his father or Harry or his Uncle Fred, having no thought for self-preservation.
The building across the street had large picture windows, and there was a dinner party underway. In other apartments couples watched television; a man read to his daughter on a couch. He watched them, thinking that these were normal people, not those who would risk everything on a random confrontation. He sipped his beer, thought about how unlike them he was, and his mood darkened.
He’d been brought up to think he was different from the others in his family. He was smart—in school they’d called him “gifted.” At Yale, as an All-Ivy football star, he’d been swept into a different world. Courted by wealthy alums, he’d gone on to become an analyst with a prestigious investment bank. Two years later he’d entered business school then joined a fund manager in Boston. His rise had been meteoric and had shown no signs of slowing until the ugly truth of an ugly business began to chip away at the fairytale facade.
The greed of his co-workers had been a slap in the face and brought the values of his family rushing back. He’d blown the whistle without a thought of what it would do to his career. Now here he was at GA, still making great money but an outsider and a short-termer. Where was he headed from here, he wondered?
He took a sip of beer and shook his head because his career was only part of the problem. The bigger piece was Maggie. He closed his eyes and pictured her. Lush black hair, worn short but always sexy. Serious face that could thaw in a heartbeat into a teasing smile. Dark eyes full of cool intelligence one minute and fiery passion the next. Maggie defied labels, a wild combination of lush and sparse, serious and funny, sensual and tough. Her contrasts worked perfectly for him.
He’d never opened up to people easily, but with her—especially after Harry’s death—it had been different. Even though they hadn’t spoken in months, he imagined her walking through the door right now. Lithe and athletic, her movements quick and sure. Even in her absence she remained a part of him, like the enduring sensation of an amputated limb.
He took out his cell phone, dialed her number, but then hesitated. What would he say—confess to being lonely and confused? They’d broken up because she had wanted a bigger commitment, one that he still wasn’t ready to make.
For him, two other things had always come before marriage, namely his debts to Fred and Harry. His older brother had dragged him from the fire that destroyed their house and killed their mother, then protected and guided him for years afterward. Fred had taken in the two orphans and become the family they had lost.
For Christmas 1999, Brent had given Harry a brand new twenty-eight foot Mako because his brother loved saltwater fishing. Borrowing a hundred thousand dollars on top of tens of thousands of dollars in education debt was something most people would never understand, but Brent knew Harry could never afford that boat on a fireman’s salary. In hindsight, it was the best decision he’d ever made. He and Harry had spent irreplaceable weekends fishing during the summer of 2000.
In Fred’s case, Brent planned to buy him a small house in Florida. It was something Fred might have afforded on his own, only not after the expense of raising his two nephews. Brent’s salary from GA would soon make the house a reality. Then, if the job even lasted that long, a few more months of scrimping and he’d finally be free of tuition debt and able to start thinking about other things.
In the building opposite, couples were still laughing, talking, and sitting together in contented silence. The sight added to his hunger for the sound of Maggie’s voice; however, instead of pushing the send button, he closed his phone.
His regret was a cold stone in his chest. He’d never fully explained his reasons to her but held them inside the way he did so many things. Now he was paying the price.
SEVEN
PARIS, JUNE 14
AS HIS LIMO PULLED UP in front of the Hôtel de Crillon, Abu Sayeed glanced out the rain-spattered windows and thought yet again how much he detested Europe. He hated the gray skies, the springtime of constant spitting rain, and the wet cold that went straight into his bones. He took his briefcase and dashed up the steps, and as he came through the front doors, his hatred bloomed to embrace all things European, from the lobby’s rococo gold leaf décor to the cigarette smoke, the ever-present wine and alcohol, even the self-satisfied smirk and chatter of the people.