Bunting almost smiled. “Believe me, that one I know. But let me tell you something else. Even if we prove Edgar is innocent, this may not end.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s just not how the game is played.”
“It’s not a damn game,” retorted Sean.
Bunting gave a weary smile. “You’re right, it’s not. But some people still think it is. And they play it for all it’s worth.”
CHAPTER 57
SEAN QUICKENED HIS PACE. There were only a few people on the street as the weather had deteriorated; rain was now falling and the wind was gusting.
A voice came into his right ear through the bud he’d placed there.
Michelle’s voice was tense. “Sean, there’s a black Escalade, tinted windows, out-of-state plates coming on your six.”
“Doesn’t have to be connected to me.”
“It’s moving fast and cutting through traffic for no apparent reason.”
“Did Bunting call anyone?”
“Not that I saw, no. He’s still walking back to his place, hands in pockets. But they might have followed him and waited till you two split up to go after you.”
“Okay, what’s the best move?”
“Go into the park at the next entrance. Pick up your pace. Now.”
Sean started to walk as fast as possible without actually breaking into a sprint and drawing unnecessary attention. His hand moved to his coat pocket and curled around the pistol Kelly Paul had given him earlier. He chanced a glance behind. He saw the vehicle. Black Escalade, tinted windows, probably phony plates. It had a sinister look.
He cut to his right and entered the park.
Michelle’s voice came on again. “Keep to your left, down the path. There are a few people there.”
“Witnesses won’t stop these guys, Michelle. They’ll flash their real or real-enough-looking badges and haul my ass away.”
“Then turn right at the next path and run. It’ll give me time to figure something out.”
“Where are you?”
“Right now, up a tree where I can see everything. Go.”
Sean did exactly as she said. He knew she was good, one of the best at stuff like this, but he also knew the other side was bringing its best. And there certainly would be more of them.
He picked up his pace, turning right as instructed. There was a couple up ahead strolling along with their children. He passed by as quickly as possible. The last thing he wanted was a shoot-out in the middle of a bunch of kids.
“Turn left now,” Michelle said into his ear.
He hung a left and found himself next to a large boulder with some dying flowers planted around it.
“Around the rock and up the path,” Michelle said. “Go. Go!”
Sean King went.
There were five men after Sean. They were all armed, all had quasi-federal credentials and all had one mission.
Get the man.
Their leader split them up and they branched out across the park, about forty yards behind where they had last seen their quarry. Two other men were patrolling the exits to the park where Sean might come out onto Central Park South.
One man rounded a curve in the path. He had his hand in his pocket, curled around his gun. That meant he only had one hand free to defend himself.
It wasn’t nearly enough.
The boot hit him squarely in the jaw, breaking it. He went into a crouch and his gun came out of his pocket. The second kick shattered his forearm and the gun nosed muzzle first into the ground. The third blow creased the back of his neck an inch below his medulla, and he would awake in a few hours with an enormous headache in addition to his broken bones.
Like a wisp of wind Michelle moved on to the next target.
Two of the other men had hooked back up, studied the topography, and then divided up once more. The first man headed north and west and the other in the opposite direction. In the growing darkness the second man didn’t realize the person just passing by him – wearing a long black coat and a baseball cap tugged low – looked familiar until it was too late. The fist dug into his kidney. He bent over in tremendous pain and was felled by a thunderous kick to his jaw. He dropped to the ground unconscious, his shattered face already swelling.
Michelle kept moving.
“Sean,” she said into her wrist mic, “where are you?”
“Coming up on Central Park South by the horse carriages.”
“Nix that. They’ll have it covered. Head on toward Columbus Circle, but stay in the park.”
“What’s your status?”
“Two down, a few more to go.”
Michelle moved, but not quite fast enough. The blow glanced across her forehead and dug into her ear. She twisted sideways, found purchase on the asphalt path, pivoted, setting her weight on her right foot, and launched a kick to her attacker’s left knee.
Michelle Maxwell loved attacking knees. It was the largest joint in the body where four bones – the patella, the femur, the fibula, and the tibia – all came together like a highway interchange and were held together by an array of ligaments, muscles, and tendons. It is one of the most intricate parts of the body and critical for mobility.
Michelle destroyed it.
She pushed through the grouping of bones, ripping muscle and tendons and ligaments, which unraveled like sprung springs, cracked the patella, and torqued the femur and fibula backward to angles they were never intended to go. The man screamed and crumpled to the ground, holding his ruined leg.
When you took out the knee, you took out the fight. Men, even trained ones Michelle knew, often aimed for the head, believing their superior strength would make it a knockout blow. But the head was problematic. The skull was thick, and even if you broke someone’s jaw or nose they would not necessarily be incapacitated. Not so with the knee. No one could fight effectively on one leg, and no one could fight at all when in that much pain.
Michelle used her elbow, cocked at a forty-five-degree angle where it was at its strongest position, to deliver the putdown blow to the man’s head. She dug out the man’s cred pack and earbud and jerked the power pack running to the bud from his belt. Last, she ripped open his shirt. All she saw was white skin. No body armor. That was good to know.
She put the bud in her free ear and listened to the stream of chatter as she kept moving forward. It was clear they were on to her presence. Reinforcements had been called in. She heard some names go back and forth, none of which she recognized. And no one identified what agency, if any, they were with. She looked at the ID card and the badge she’d taken from the man. They seemed official but it was an organization she’d never heard of. There were so many now, and when you introduced the staggering number of private contractors into the equation, things got very confusing very fast.
She turned off the power box and spoke into her own mic. “Sean, three down, but they’ve called in reinforcements. What’s your status?”
“Coming up on Columbus Circle. Where are you?”
“Somewhere behind you. Once you get to the circle, get in a cab and go.”
“And you?”
“I’ll meet you at the train station like we planned.”
“Michelle, I’m not leaving you out here–”
“Sean, don’t play the gentleman. We don’t have time. See you in twenty.”
Then she heard the click of the hammer on the gun being pulled back. And then another. One at four o’clock, the other at seven. One foot away, max. They had screwed up with their tactical positioning. Too close to her. Way too close.
Michelle closed her eyes, framed it out in her head.
Four o’clock target was to her right, her natural path of movement. Pivot on left foot, bend her torso downward in the same direction, as her right leg delivered a side kick to the man’s right knee, effectively crushing it. Then reverse her pivot, duck, roll, while the man is going down, flailing, screaming over his ruined limb and unwittingly providing cover for her against the other shooter. Gun out, one-handed shot, pistol held sideways, aiming between the gap of her human shield at the other man, who would have instinctively moved to his left as his partner crumpled in the same direction from Michelle’s strike. No body armor, so torso shot to incapacitate, then one to the head for the kill. Elbow to the neck of four o’clock, who would get to live, and she’d sprint on to Columbus Circle.