“On my new outfit!” Walter’s mother wailed.
“She got sick on her new outfit!”
I cut back toward the street. A phone booth came up fast at the edge of the curb.
A phone booth? Who uses phone booths anymore?
I veered hard to the left. Not fast enough. The cart hit the corner and bounced to one side. We careened off the sidewalk and into the street. Car tires squealed. I counter steered. The cart whipped around and sideswiped a tow truck. Drivers shouted through open windows. Something that sounded like weeping came from behind me, and the odor of Walter’s mother’s lunch mixed with the scents of exhaust and hot pavement.
Regaining control of the pedicab, I swung back in the direction of the sidewalk and again jumped back onto the curb. It seemed safer.
A whimper came from the back seat. “Please let us out!”
“I tried.” I barely avoided a line of newspaper boxes.
“I’ll pay you!”
“Walter, I’m going to wet myself!”
“My mother is going to wet herself!”
“Walter, I just wet myself!”
“My mother just wet herself!”
“Walter, I’m going to be sick again!”
“My mother is going to be sick again!”
Walter’s mother got sick again.
“You have to turn around! My mother got sick and lost her dentures!”
I considered pulling my Ruger and killing them both, but lucky for them my purse was out of reach.
I streaked past an electronics store and two outdoor cafes. I couldn’t pick out the Town Car yet, but I had to be gaining on it. Traffic crawled, traffic stopped, traffic crawled again.
There it was.
With all the identical cars clogging the street, I didn’t know why I was so certain this was the one. But my gut reaction had been right so far. It was time I listened.
I stood on the brakes, leaping off the bike and breaking into a sprint, listening to Walter yell behind me, “She stopped, Ma! I made her stop!”
I wove between cars. He probably wasn’t expecting me, and surprise was my best weapon. I ducked behind a produce delivery truck and, grabbing the back door handle, rode its bumper until it halted at the next light.
Then I made my move.
Circling the truck, I stayed in its lee as long as I could. I only had seconds once I emerged. The man I’d known as Morrissey was sharp. Even though I doubted he’d be looking for me, he would be alert, and since I had no weapon beyond surprise, I had to make this count. I needed to get inside that car, and the best way to do that was to make sure his attention was focused front.
The light changed. The truck started inching forward.
Now.
I swung around the truck and landed on pavement, knees flexed, legs already moving. It only took seconds for me to make it to the driver’s door, and I pulled out my phone as I ran.
My phone had been designed for a multitude of functions, and on one corner, the titanium casing tapered to a conical, seemingly harmless nub. Reaching the car, I rapped that nub against the driver’s window, the full force of my blow concentrated on that small point.
The glass shattered, showering tiny pebbles.
His eyes met mine, the first time I’d seen him anything but calm.
I thrust my arm inside to the shoulder, going for his gun.
He grabbed my arm and held. The cars started to move, and he hit the gas.
I scrambled to stay on my feet, trying to keep up, retain my balance, but it moved too fast. I stumbled and fell, my gym shoes dragging along the pavement, their rubber soles getting rapidly eaten away. The edge of the door pressed into my side, making it hard to breathe.
I caught a foothold for just a second and surged forward, smacking him in the nose with a head butt.
He grunted and his grip loosened slightly.
I reached, my fingers hitting Kirk’s left leg, his holster.
I acted quickly, making a grab for the gun, but his recovery was equally fast. His hand closed over mine, wrestling, hitting, prying at my fingers.
I sensed we would hit the car ahead a split second before impact.
The crunch of steel shuddered through my spine. The car jolted to a dead stop. I hit the hot pavement in a roll, breath exploding from my lungs, head smacking hard. My vision exploded in stars. Tires screeched. I heard the Glock skitter, but where it ended up, I couldn’t guess.
A heartbeat and the car door opened, and Kirk came down on top of me.
I struggled for breath.
Kirk’s hands found my neck, my throat. He had my arms pinned under his knees, so I couldn’t reach either of my weapons. Heat enveloped me. His grip was strong, squeezing, closing off my trachea, stopping the flow of blood to my brain, making my vision dim, go dark.
The crack of gunfire exploded in my ears.
Kirk bellowed. His hands released me, and his body lifted from mine.
I gasped, coughed, and gasped again.
A scream shattered the air around me. Not me. Not Kirk.
I forced the darkness back, forced my eyes to see, forced my body to function.
It was Julie. She held the Glock.
She had shot him.
Kirk staggered away from me. Julie raised the gun again but he batted it away, sending it through the air. Then he gripped Julie’s arm, steering her toward the car. He moved awkwardly, each stride jerking, and it was then I noticed the dark glisten drenching one leg of his black trousers.
I pushed up from the street. Pain seared my hands and knees, but I forced it to the background, forced myself to concentrate, adrenaline and training taking over.
Kirk was too focused on Julie and the bullet in his leg to notice me come up fast behind him.
Using the knife edge of my hand, I delivered a sharp blow to the side of his neck, below and slightly in front of his ear. I rotated at the waist, driving all the power I could muster into his carotid artery, jugular vein, and vagus nerve, following through.
His body seized, muscles going rigid, then he slumped forward.
I wasn’t sure if he was unconscious or merely stunned for a few seconds, but either would do. I looped my arm under his and across his back as he crumpled.
“Open the back door.”
Julie stared at me. “Is he … is he dead?”
“Just do it.”
I glanced down Broadway. Although I couldn’t see them, I was sure the Iranians would be here on foot at any moment. Cops too, after the gunshot.
“Unlock the back door. Now.”
She reached in and unlocked it from the inside.
I threw it open and shoved Kirk into the back seat. A quick search of the glove box scored me a handful of zip ties. I used one to secure his wrists in front of him.
He groaned and tried to lift his head, already coming around.
Traffic moved around us, horns blaring from behind, a few idiots even having the nerve to yell obscenities. I tugged my Ruger from the holster and set it on the dashboard. The driver from the car we’d back-ended stepped out onto the street, glimpsed the gun, and climbed back behind the wheel.
I shifted into drive and veered into the parking lane. Steam rose from under our hood, accompanied by the odor of scorched coolant. I doubted the Town Car would be running for long.
Ahead, traffic stopped again.
Iranians and cops would be on us any second. Disappearing was my first priority, getting Julie out of here as fast as we could. But if I hoped to find out what was really going on and why I had been lied to, I would have to take Kirk with us.
I assessed the surrounding cityscape. We weren’t far from Lincoln Center.
“Come on. We’re taking the subway.”
I shoved the car into park and climbed out, pulling Julie with me. Opening the back door, I yanked Kirk to his feet, keeping the gun on his head.
“You, too.”
We made it to the sidewalk, him dragging his feet the whole way.