He slouched against a tan wall with his eyes glued on his phone. Nothing out of the ordinary. Was that camouflage, or was he using the phone to control the flying robots? That seemed like his MO — first the flying drone at the party, and then the bug that tried to sting her.
Take out the phone first.
Or at least that was the plan. A group of girls in silver and black cheerleading uniforms burst through the door and ran right in front of her. She was enveloped in a sea of perfume and ponytails and gray makeup. They weren’t just cheerleaders — they were zombie cheerleaders.
Fitzgerald was coming up on Phone Guy, and she wasn’t in a position to back him up. That was probably Fitzgerald’s plan all along.
Fitzgerald didn’t even reach the guy before he stumbled and hit the floor. Had he been stung?
The nearest exit was behind her, and Phone Guy sprinted toward it. He hadn’t noticed her with her hot teen camouflage. She elbowed through the zombie pack, stuck out her foot, and tripped Phone Guy as he sailed past. All those hours looking for this criminal mastermind, and she’d tripped him like a bully in the schoolyard. Sometimes better to be lucky than smart.
He went down hard, and she landed with her knee in his back. She smashed his hand against the marble. She couldn’t let him hold on to that phone. He twisted sideways and tried to keep ahold of it, which made her even more determined. She whacked his hand against the floor harder, and the phone slid across the polished marble. She hoped nobody stole it, but didn’t have time to think about that.
The guy bucked around, but she kept him pinned. She had to get him subdued before he remembered she had only one strong arm. She went for one arm and yanked it back. That was a start.
As soon as she pulled his arm across his back, he gasped in pain and went limp. A shoulder injury. She eased off a fraction, but not much. He was a dangerous guy, and she wasn’t taking any chances.
“Do you want to cuff him?” Fitzgerald dangled handcuffs in her face.
“Can’t,” she said. “I only have one arm.”
“Right.” Fitzgerald dropped down next to her and cuffed the guy’s hands behind his back. Then he started patting him down.
“What happened to you?” she asked.
“I thought I saw a bug.” Fitzgerald hadn’t come up with anything, even a wallet. “And when I slapped at it, I went ass over teakettle.”
“It’s a slippery floor,” she said.
“Excuse me,” said a voice behind her ear.
She turned. A zombie cheerleader with plastic brains stuck to the front of her sweater held out a gray hand.
“Everything’s OK.” Vivian hoped the girl wasn’t going to panic. She didn’t want to deal with a hysterical teenager.
“I know.” The cheerleader handed her a cell phone. “I think your suspect there dropped this.”
Not the panicking type, this zombie.
“Thank you.” Vivian took the phone gingerly, not wanting to add any more fingerprints to the surface.
The cheerleader shook a raggedy black pompon.
“Go, team!” she said before turning and rejoining her pack. They waved to Vivian and Fitzgerald and the guy on the ground before heading down toward the food court, presumably in search of brains.
Fitzgerald hauled the guy to his feet. Phone Guy had no expression on his face, like this kind of thing happened to him all the time. Maybe it did, although she suspected he didn’t often get caught.
“I want a lawyer,” he said in unaccented English. “I know my rights.”
Fitzgerald shrugged.
She looked at the phone. Its screen displayed a bug’s-eye view of the concourse. Four white arrows were on the bottom of the screen. It couldn’t be as easy as that. Could it?
Clumsily, she worked the arrows. The view changed and started moving closer, careening around like the drone was drunk. Her sister, Lucy, would have been horrified at her remote-control incompetence. Even so, within a few minutes she’d guided the little fly to a shaky landing on the floor next to her.
Fitzgerald plucked the fly up and dropped it into his Faraday bag next to its smashed-up companion.
She went over to thank Evaline.
Chapter 27
Avi’s shoulder ached. Tesla’s bodyguard, Vivian Torres, had wrenched it as if she knew he was injured. He rolled both shoulders as well as he could and sent a calming breath to his aching joint. He couldn’t afford to be paranoid or angry. He’d been in custody enough times to know staying calm and acting just submissive enough would keep him alive.
The beefy American policeman seemed almost kind as he shepherded Avi through the busy concourse. He stayed close, but he didn’t need to. Avi couldn’t outrun him, not with his hands cuffed behind his back. He’d trip, and without his hands to catch him, it would be an ugly fall. He might even lose teeth. Better to bide his time.
With extra care, he walked forward, weaving away from a crowd of men in suits. Their dark suits were identical, except for a rainbow pattern of ties — reds, blues, pinks, and yellows. He wouldn’t see such refined clothing for a while, and he saved up the memories of such fine things.
The men in suits didn’t spare him a second glance. The story of his life. No one noticed him, even when he was trussed up like a string of lizards meant for the table. The gift and curse of looking ordinary.
The policeman caught him when he stumbled, and pain knifed through his shoulder. He kept the pain from showing on his face or in his body. He wouldn’t display weakness in front of his enemies. His training in torture would prove a useful gift. Although he didn’t expect the Americans to torture him. His lawyer would negotiate his release or extradition back to his home country, and his compatriots there would set him free. Only a matter of waiting out the time and preserving his silence. The wheels of justice turned slowly, and the wheels of international justice more slowly still. He needed to marshal his strength to outlast the machine.
They reached the street. A police car waited in front of the grand doors like a valeted limousine. A man so tall he could have played basketball instead of working with criminals opened the back door, and Avi was pushed into the backseat.
It didn’t smell like a limousine. It smelled of vomit and piss and the sharp bite of ineffectual disinfectant. He sat as straight as he could. He would have to shut down his finely honed senses to survive the next months, and he felt too old to do that one more time.
“—guy give you any trouble?” the tall one asked.
“Miss Torres subdued him.” The redhead chuckled. “Kicked his ass one-handed.”
Not entirely accurate, but Avi wouldn’t allow himself to be baited into a response. The car lurched forward, then stopped in traffic. This action was repeated again and again. Every stop pained his shoulder.
As Avi headed to jail, Joe Tesla was being set free. The man could go back to work, wander around Grand Central and his beloved tunnels, wear fine suits, and date gorgeous women. He would do these things while Avi waited behind bars. But not for long.
He was angry at Tesla, but he was mostly angry at himself. After the dog caught the first fly, he should have left. But he’d been anxious to finish the contract and leave New York. He’d grown weary of the long wait, and he’d let himself become careless. Maybe he was too old.
As old as he was, he’d known to install fail-safes for this exact situation. If he didn’t check in soon, his employer would be notified he was unable to complete the contract at this time, and they would probably hire another man to mete out justice to Tesla.