I wait for my father’s reaction, but he’s far too busy staring at the security monitors—and the familiar brown-haired woman who’s just appeared on-screen. Naomi’s here. Right outside the building.
66
Watching from the far corner of the parking garage, even Ellis had to admit he was impressed. From the moment Naomi spotted Cal’s rental car, she didn’t waste a second—popping its locks, sliding inside, and picking through the interior with the speed of a veteran thief.
From what she was saying to Scotty, it was the small, foldout rental car map that gave them away. There was a tiny black dot—from the point of a pen—on the library across the street. The Historical Society. No question, Cal’s destination.
Naomi went racing down the nearby stairwell, not once checking behind her, so it was easy for Ellis to follow. That was the problem with being desperate. It always made you sloppy.
And now, as Ellis reached the bottom steps and the cold spun like a tornado up the stairwell, Naomi was halfway across the street. Approaching the Historical Society building, she paused and looked up. Cameras, Ellis realized.
Naomi didn’t care. With a tug of the glass doors, she disappeared inside. Ellis waited a moment, then stepped out casually across the snow-lined street. No reason to run, he reasoned as he pulled out the jet injector. Everyone was finally in the same place. Both Cal and Naomi . . . he still owed them for what they did to Benoni.
Climbing the few front steps, Ellis kept his head down as he passed the camera, then gave his own sharp tug to the front glass door, which swung open and revealed a burst of heated air, dozens of antique cars, and—
The punch hit Ellis in the throat, nearly taking his head off. He stumbled back, falling to one knee. The next shot came from a kick, cracking him in the knuckles and sending his jet injector crashing to the marble floor, the vial of hemlock spilling everywhere.
“You think I’m a schmuck!?” Naomi exploded, her arm cocked back as she rushed forward and again swung down in full fury.
Ellis could taste the sour-sweet blood bubble at the back of his throat. He was still down on one knee. But this time he was ready.
And so was Naomi.
They each hit hard. With a thunderclap, a single shot rang out, booming and vibrating through the marble hallways.
Then it was over.
67
Was that a gunshot?” Pointy Goatee asked.
“Call the police,” his wife snapped.
“It was a gunshot, wasn’t it?”
“Just call them! Now!”
There was a loud scream in the distance, echoing down the long hallway.
“Now!” she insisted as her husband darted to the phone at the reference desk.
“Was that an explosion?” asked one of the library visitors, sticking his head out of the microfiche room.
“We’re calling the police right—”
“—all okay! It’s under control!” a voice yelled from the hallway. “Everything’s okay!”
In mid-dial, Pointy Goatee stared past the turnstiles as a set of footsteps grew increasingly louder. But it wasn’t until he saw the badge that he finally took a breath.
“Police! Relax! You’re all safe!” Ellis announced authoritatively, striding through the turnstile and making sure they got a good look at his uniform. “Sir, you can put down the phone, please. I’m here. There’s nothing to worry about.”
The librarian slid the phone back to its cradle, staring at the blood that ran down from Ellis’s nose.
“Thank you,” Ellis said, wiping it away with the back of his thumb as he scanned the library. “Now perhaps you can help with one last thing: I’m wondering if you’ve seen my friends.”
68
There was no pain. No burning. She didn’t feel anything. Not at first.
Indeed, as Naomi lay flat on her back, the blood puddle swelling below her, she simply stared up at the bottom of the World War II biplane that was hanging from the ceiling. She was seeing double now. Two. Two biplanes. Lucas . . . her son . . . Lucas would like those.
On her far right, down the hallway, there was screaming and panicking. Then another gunshot.
Naomi didn’t hear it. The world was muffled—her vision narrowed—like sitting in the bottom of a well and looking up, up, up. Wow. Two biplanes. Lucas would like those.
And then . . .
Ow.
On the back of her shoulder. A mosquito bite.
No, not a mosquito bite. It was burning.
“—omi! Nomi, you okay!?” a frantic voice screamed in her ear.
“S-Scotty? Where—? Why’re you yelling at me?”
“I heard a gunshot! You okay!?”
“I’m fine,” she stuttered, trying to raise her head and finally seeing the puddle below her. “I got— Is that my blood?”
“I think you were shot. Don’t move, Nomi! I think Ellis shot you.”
“I broke his nose,” she said as the pain in her shoulder sent an electrical fire down her arm. “He pulled— He had another gun. A real one.”
“Don’t move! Ambulance is on the way.”
“No, that’s not . . . aaahh . . . he shot me!” she said, gripping her shoulder as tears of pain flooded her eyes. The wound was wet and mushy, pulsing with its own beat. “That’s two hospital visits in twelve hours. How cliché,” she added, her voice wilting. “I—I broke his nose.”
“Nomi, don’t pass out on me.”
She shook her head wildly, refusing to fade. “He’s still . . . Ellis is up the hallway . . . and Cal . . . if he heard the gunshot . . . Cal’s going for his car. The LoJack. Check his car.”
“Already did,” Scotty promised. “He’s still there.”
“Look again,” Naomi grunted, lying on her back and using her heel to shove herself across the floor. A wide streak of blood trailed along from the puddle. But at the wall, she fought hard to sit up straight. Straight. Better to get her head up. And to get a look through the glass doors.
Outside, across the street, Cal’s white rental car flew from the mouth of the parking garage, its tires screaming as it fishtailed to the right and disappeared up the block.
“Knew he’d go for his car,” Naomi whispered, gritting her teeth and fighting to keep her head up.
“Nomi, Cal’s moving! They’re definitely moving!”
“G-Good,” she muttered. “Call in state, federal . . . tell ’em you want helicopters, fighter jets . . . bring damn tanks if they have them. Then call my son. Tell him I’ll be okay.”
69
Cal’s white rental car was moving quickly—not too quickly, no reason to stand out—as it dashed down the final empty stretches of Martin Luther King Jr. Drive and headed toward the entrance ramp for I-90 that was up ahead.
Thankfully, there still weren’t any nearby sirens or much traffic. In fact, as the car blew past the empty bus stops in the Siegels’ old neighborhood, it became abundantly clear that it was one of the only cars on the street.
It wasn’t hard to figure out why.
“This is not good.”
Already racing up the on-ramp, the white Pontiac followed the corkscrew and climbed toward the interstate . . .
. . . where a barricade of half a dozen police cars, motorcycles, and unmarked federal vehicles were blocking the way and at least a dozen state troopers and other agents were ducked down with their guns drawn.
“Freeze or we will shoot you!” one of them barked through a megaphone.
The rental car screeched to a stop just as a silver-and-blue police helicopter rose straight up, appearing from nowhere.
“Out of the vehicle! You’re under arrest!” a speaker in the helicopter blasted from the sky as the ground agents swarmed the rental car, guns still drawn. Within seconds, they tore open all four doors, searching for Cal and his father.