He took a sharp turn down another flight of stairs…
And found himself on a platform. To his right was a wall; to his left, the tracks. Beyond them, another platform.
Ahead of him was another flight of stairs.
He made up his mind, ran toward the stairs—and then saw a third agent descending them.
He was trapped.
The subway platform began to shake as the train arrived.
“General,” shouted one of the agents, “just come with us. You know we have our orders.”
Brett breathed heavily, bent down and put his hands on his knees. He held one finger to them—All right, just catching my breath, guys—and then looked up at them as the noise of the approaching subway train grew.
He counted down in his head. He could see the lights approaching down the tunnel now, the men closing in from both sides.
Just as the train began to pull into the station, Brett took a deep breath, crouched, took three running steps—and leapt into the space between the platforms. For a moment he hung suspended in the air, the train speeding toward him, the agents behind him stopping short at the edge of the platform…and then he landed, his toes gripping and projecting him forward. He fell to his hands and knees as the train whooshed behind him.
Relief began to wash over him.
Then the train stopped and the doors opened, and the agents began to charge through them.
He pushed himself to his feet and ran.
Ahead of him was an overhang over another tunnel. Exits stood to the right and left. The platform was filling with people now as the train unloaded, obstructing him in every direction. He shoved his way through the commuters, knocking them aside. He felt a hand grab his shoulder—he wheeled around and pushed the agent off, wrestled his own way forward again.
And found himself at the railing. Below him were tracks. There was no way he could get to the exits now—he was boxed in, and as he looked back, he could see the three agents shoving people aside, shouting.
Again he felt the rumble, this time beneath his feet.
No time to think.
Aw hell.
He put his hands on the railing and threw himself over it.
The drop was at least five feet to the top of the moving subway, and it knocked his feet out from under him. He fell directly onto his back, and watched the subway tunnel rush above him. It had to be moving at least thirty miles an hour, and there was little room to move atop the speeding train. He began pushing himself back with his feet and fingertips, moving toward the back of the car. He didn’t want to get caught on top of the damn thing and get decapitated by a train light or sewage pipe.
His fingers ached as he gripped them on the dirty steel of the car; he yelped in pain as he stretched his knee just a bit too high and it scraped against the cement of the tunnel. Soon, though, he felt his head reach the edge of the car, and he swiveled his body so that he could drop his legs over the end of the train.
Then he hung on for dear life as the subway station faded into the darkness.
Brett emerged at the Prospect Park station. He turned up the collar of his coat as he walked—the weather had chilled. His breath misted as he walked, rubbing his bloodied knuckles. It had been a long night.
He made a right at Parkside Avenue, then a left onto Flatbush Avenue, then a right onto Winthrop. Then he looked down at the address. He was here. Mohammed’s apartment was located in an old-fashioned brick building, water-stained, its stoop guarded by an iron fence. He tested the gate—it opened with a creak. The door to the building, however, was locked. He buzzed two apartment occupants before the third let him into the building just to get the buzzing to stop so late at night. He slipped inside the dim corridor.
Apartment 3A.
He had almost no chance of avoiding detection if Mohammed was listening, he knew—the complex just wasn’t big enough, heavily trafficked enough. Sure enough, a woman from 2B opened her door a crack to get a look at him. He glared at her, and he heard her shut the door and lock it. His hand felt in his pocket for a weapon he didn’t have. Instead, he clenched his fists and made his way up the stairs. He tried to quiet his steps, but the stairs were too old, too noisy for that. Mohammed would almost certainly hear him coming.
But the hallway remained totally silent, except for his footsteps. Click. Click. Click.
He felt sick to his stomach when he saw the door to 3A: it was already open a crack. The light shone from beneath it. He edged toward the door, placing his back against the wall. When he reached it, he nudged it open with his foot. It swung fully open without resistance.
There, on the couch, lay Mohammed. His throat had been cut. Blood pooled under his body, dripping onto the hardwood floor. His open mouth gasped for air that would never reach his lungs. Brett rushed to the body.
It was still warm.
Brett knew: the apartment wasn’t empty. The door would have been closed had the killer had time to leave. They wouldn’t want the body discovered too quickly—that would give away too much information. Brett quickly turned toward the bedroom—as he did, he saw a large, black-masked figure out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t see the blade of the knife. It cut into his arm deeply as he moved to block it, slicing it nearly to the bone. He gasped in pain, then kicked out with his boot, directing his strike at the knee of the intruder. The big man screamed as the knee cracked, fell to his other knee, pushed forward toward Brett, knife poised in the air, ready to come down.
Brett only spotted the second man now—but he wasn’t moving to help the burly assailant. He held a bag in his hand, and he was struggling to sprint for the doorway. Brett leapt to his feet, tried to tackle the man from behind… but all he got was the ski mask. He pulled it loose, had enough time to get a snapshot of the man’s face—in particular, an ugly burn scar near his ear.
Then the burly man’s knife was falling toward him again. Brett rolled out of the way; then, lying on his side, he kicked him full in the face. The man grunted as his head snapped back; he dropped the knife. He reached out and grabbed Brett by the throat, beginning to squeeze.
Brett rotated his body, stretching his neck out of the hold. Then he grabbed the left wrist with his left hand, holding it steady, then snapped his left elbow into the man’s face. He could feel facial bones smash against his arm. The burly man collapsed, breathing bloody bubbles through his mouth and nose. Brett pushed himself to his feet, stepped on the man’s wrist. Then he took off the man’s ski mask.
“Mahmoud,” Brett said. “Fancy meeting you here. Now”—he placed the knife against Mahmoud’s throat—“let’s chat, just you and me.”
A few minutes later, after subduing Mahmoud, Brett dialed Ellen. “Honey,” he said, “don’t come to New York… I can’t say for certain yet. Just don’t come to New York. Something bad is going down.”
Ellen
BRETT HAD BEEN MISSING FOR more than twenty-four hours.
Nobody knew where he was. Meanwhile, she waited in her hotel for an audience with the president of the United States, who was said to be busy planning a major public address to announce his major new initiative. And so she stewed.
The call from Brett had sent her into a panic. If she headed to New York, she knew, she’d be headed into danger—Brett wouldn’t have called otherwise. But if she refused, she endangered any possible détente between Governor Davis and Prescott. Prescott didn’t take being blown off lightly, and he certainly wouldn’t take it lightly in the middle of the largest border crisis in decades. In the end, she decided that the summons of the president trumped the wishes of her husband. After all, she thought, a bit maliciously, if Brett can go halfway around the world for the bastard, I can go to New York.