A second and third crash as the door is kicked in.
Knox hangs by his fingertips from the window ledge, the knife stuck between the bricks above him. He doesn’t look down; it’s two broken legs or shattered ankles if he lets go. In his mind’s eye, he sees two men searching methodically, surprised to find the apartment empty. Has every confidence they will not open the refrigerator. The living room glass is fixed.
He violates his own rule, glancing down to see if the men have reappeared at street level. That’s when the window slides open and a man sticks his head out. Seeing Knox so close, the intruder jerks away instinctively, catching his neck on the open window frame. He’s dazed.
One-handed, Knox liberates the knife and cuts open his opponent’s neck. Stabs the knife back into the grout, grabs hold of the man’s collar and pulls. The body stops halfway out, caught at the waist. Blood runs down the brick like bunting.
A second face appears in the window. A gun is raised. Knox swings one-handed as a gunshot rings out. Knox bounces off the brick and returns like a pendulum to where he was. The second man’s face smacks against the glass and he slides down, dead before he reaches the floor.
Knox drops the knife and claws his way up with two arms.
Across the room, Grace is coiled in the open refrigerator, the semi-automatic in hand. She’s dazed and in shock. Climbing back through the window, Knox draws his victim fully out and the body falls to the sidewalk below.
He eases Grace from the refrigerator. “We’re out of here,” he says, taking her into his arms.
She nods.
“Your first kill?” he asks.
She looks up at him, then rolls nearly out of his arms and gags. “My laptop,” she chokes out.
Knox places her on the bed, returns to the kitchen and searches the second man, lucky to find the car keys on him. He takes the man’s weapon. At ground level, he places Grace in the backseat. Retrieves the knife and wipes it down. Leaves the gun Grace used under the fallen man. The scene won’t add up for forensics, but this way it will take them longer to make sense of things.
Knox drives the car he’s borrowed from his attackers four blocks before pulling over and taking a breath.
“John,” Grace says. He turns to see she’s pointing at the dash.
His eyes light on a GPS device suction-cupped to the windshield. A GPS used to find a waypoint established by Knox’s monitored phone; a GPS that would most likely have come from wherever Fahiz is hiding.
Knox works through the menu, instructing the device to direct them to the origin of the last trip.
“Is it the knot shop?” Grace asks expectantly.
“No.”
“Then it’s him. Fahiz.”
“Could be.” Knox stares at the guidance system, wondering if Sonia’s hatred has led him to Fahiz.
“How could they possibly have found us?” she asks.
“Don’t know,” he lies. All he can think is that Sonia sold him out for Berna’s return. A woman scorned . . . Or Berna along with Fahiz’s full story.
Knox can picture her with her knees up, laughing at him in the warm light of the houseboat’s cabin. He underestimated the damage done by running the classifieds using her niece’s initials.
Twenty minutes later, the stolen car rendezvouses with Dulwich in a church parking lot less than a mile from the knot shop. Knox beams as he bumps the car into the lot.
To his surprise, Dulwich has done as he requested: he’s behind the wheel of a rented white van.
—
GRACE IS POSITIONED across the sedan’s backseat with a view of the park containing the fountain, the street market and the building with the knot shop beyond. Her mobile phone is connected by a Bluetooth earpiece; she hears Knox’s breathing and the low rumble of the van’s engine. They left her here in the car, with the keys in the ignition, but Dulwich took her laptop “for safe keeping.” A reminder that, with her leg wound, she is the most vulnerable.
“Three small girls in the market,” she reports.
“Copy,” Knox says.
The choice of location seems so obvious—so perfect—now that she sees it in person. A natural barrier of a canal to the east; a market where the girls can mingle and blend in before disappearing into the abandoned buildings beyond.
She wonders if this market is where the vendor, Marta, first spotted the girls. First wormed her way into a role of scout and recruiter. Eventually moved her stall to a different market to increase Fahiz’s reach across the community. Is reminded that to many who live in the area she and Knox and Dulwich are the enemy, not Fahiz.
The white van arrives, turns into the dirt lot and disappears.
“Nothing unusual,” she reports, keeping watch for police or a Fahiz guard.
“Stand by,” Knox says.
—
DULWICH HAS THE DRIVER’S SEAT pushed back to where he can’t be seen in profile. Knox is crouched facing the van’s rear doors, but the space is not meant for a man his size. His legs are cramping.
Dulwich throws it into park and waits. Knox has the dormitory girls to thank for knowing how the drop-off works. The white van he and Dulwich occupy stops outside, just as a different white van always does. A moment later, the van’s rear doors will be opened. The girls would normally climb out and be escorted inside—sometimes two at a time, sometimes all at once. In this rental there is a curtained divider in place that separates the driver from the girls, just as in the regular white van. Its back windows are covered by newsprint. A man from the knot shop escorts them; a guard in the back of the van will help to escort them inside. At least two other men remain inside the shop.
Knox doesn’t appreciate the wait. The van they’re in is a newer model than the one confiscated by the police. How will the men inside react? The girls claimed the van changed occasionally, but the lack of response to their arrival is troubling.
“What’s going on?” Knox asks.
Dulwich has the building’s rear door in his outside rearview mirror. “Nada.”
Knox’s thighs are killing him.
“Back it up,” he says. “Make like we’re bailing.”
Dulwich pulls the visor down to help screen his face as he eases the van into reverse and lets it roll backward.
The door to the shop opens immediately. A man waves for the van to stop. He has a short black beard and hair to match. He wears blue jeans and a New York Giants sweatshirt. He’s short, but strong.
Dulwich is more visible from having backed up, putting him and Knox at a disadvantage. He forces himself back into the seat, and leans his head back, hoping not to be seen.
After a moment’s hesitation, the man in the doorway reaches around to his back.
“Gun!” Dulwich shouts, popping open the driver’s door. He rolls out of the driver’s seat as the first shot penetrates the windshield. He has failed to put the van into park. It rolls back, still in reverse. Knox throws open the rear doors and jumps out. His cramped legs won’t hold him. As he attempts to stand, he collapses. The van backs up and Knox flattens, crawling out of the way of the rear axle’s differential, forcing himself into the space between it and the wheel. The front tires are turned slightly. Knox has to belly-crawl to the center of the undercarriage to avoid being paved by the right front tire. The van passes over him. Knox gets a clear shot at the shins of the man who’s put three more rounds into the door panel. His second shot shatters bone and the man drops like a broken bar stool.
Knox pistol-whips the fallen man and slides his handgun to Dulwich.