This was a mob.
The mob had surrounded a police car, trying to block it from passing Eighty-first Street.
Rioters rocked it two times.
Three. Four. Five.
On the count of six, they toppled it—and the mob cheered wildly.
Helicopters were approaching overhead.
Officers were shouting instructions. They wanted to separate the balloon-watchers from the mob—but in the sleet and wind and the commotion, it was hard to tell everybody apart.
Allie retreated toward Spider-Man. His inflation team was long gone, and only rioters surrounded him now.
She heard a whump behind her—as someone stabbed a knife into his polyurethane flesh.
At the same moment, she saw a flash of red and heard a sharp pop.
One second her dad was standing, yelling into his radio.
The next she saw him crumple and fall.
There was slick blood streaming down his face. Too much blood. It seemed to be everywhere—even on the mayor, and on Dad’s adviser, even on the yellow-cloaked Macy’s rep who had been standing, smiling, at the base of the podium at Dad’s left.
She wanted to move, but her legs were frozen.
She wanted to scream, but no sound came out.
Most of all, she wanted to refuse to believe this was happening. She was dimly aware of another flash of yellow, then black-gloved hands approaching over her left shoulder, capturing her in a giant embrace. Those hands were sweet-smelling, scented with cinnamon and apples.
Allie was too shocked to resist. She couldn’t—so she didn’t bother.
She heard a hoarse whisper in her ear. “Don’t look!”
She felt a prick in her neck. The putrid olive-green umbrella she had held dropped to the sidewalk.
Her knees went weak and wobbly.
She was being lifted. Then carried.
In the chaos and confusion, no one noticed.
And as she drifted into a warm, fuzzy haze—and the whisper in her ear murmured, “Don’t worry, it will all be okay”—she no longer cared.
Chapter 3
South of Giant Balloon Inflation Area
Frank García hated some things in life with a vengeance. Hypocrites and ass-kissers. Confined spaces. Beer that wasn’t ice-cold.
But most of all? He hated dealing with his ex-wife Teresa.
Didn’t even have to see her. A text or email or phone call was more than enough to set him on edge. Any form of interaction was nothing but trouble. Messed him up bad.
Divorce had made Teresa’s negative qualities worse: She’d become more opinionated and unreasonable. Plus, the grudge that he bore against Teresa was long-standing and deep: Not only had she done her best to turn Frankie Junior against him, last year she’d even managed to put García in the nuthouse for thirty-nine interminable days. Her lies had convinced a judge to make García’s participation in a PTSD treatment program a condition of continued visitation.
Thank God that was over, but today she’d made a stink because he had brought Frankie Junior with him to work. He’d expected complaints that the driving sleet would make the boy sick. But for a change, Teresa had other gripes. “He’s too adventurous as it is. Wants to be just like you. He doesn’t need any encouragement to fuel his interest in bombs and guns.”
Teresa had no idea what it was like to be an eleven-year-old boy. But it was never worth arguing with her. Even though what she was planning to do with Frankie tomorrow involved a much bigger risk.
As part of Eve’s secret FBI unit, García had access to the Bureau’s Daily Brief. And for the past week, it had been chock-full of threats to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.
There were plenty of terrorists—from lone wolves inspired by ISIS to the ever-present threat of al-Qaeda.
There were celebrity stalkers—including one nutjob who maintained that if Idina Menzel wouldn’t marry him, he would set himself afire when she passed Columbus Circle.
There were radicalized political activists—who would focus on city officials and the various NYPD and FDNY officers who’d be marching in the parade, especially in light of recent tensions over shootings of unarmed men.
And vendetta-seekers—including thirteen former employees of different parade sponsors, each with a significant grudge against their respective corporation.
It was going to be a damn miracle if they made it through and nobody got hurt. Still, Teresa planned to take Frankie Junior to his first Thanksgiving Day Parade.
That was how divorce worked. Teresa had custody of Frankie on Thanksgiving Day—and there wasn’t a single damn thing García could do about it.
Not that he hadn’t tried. The judge had completely ignored García’s plea to intercede. Laughed him out of court, actually, having decided that García was just another conspiracy-theory nutcase.
García understood. Four tours in Iraq and Afghanistan had changed him. His wary nature had gone into overdrive; now he was nakedly suspicious. What Teresa called paranoid. Out of habit, he scanned city rooftops for snipers and crossed streets to avoid risking IEDs in garbage cans. He avoided tight, enclosed spaces—which meant he refused to take the subway. The psychologists fretted—and prescribed everything from medication to therapy to an assistance dog. To help you deal with the stresses of everyday life, they said.
None of it was his style.
What others saw as a liability, he saw as an advantage. His advantage. He wasn’t going to let anything dull his edge.
This was his last day with Frankie before the holiday. He’d finish up his check of the parade zone. Then they’d watch some of the balloons inflate, maybe drink hot chocolate to keep them warm in spite of the sleet and cold. Who knew? If he could manage to avoid a panic attack amid all the damn crowds, it might even be fun.
First, he just had to complete his twenty-two-block security screen. The space that stretched from Fifty-ninth to Eighty-first Street. He was focused along the east sidewalk of Central Park West—where aluminum stands formed a tall barrier between the street and Central Park itself. City workers had erected the grandstands about two weeks ago. They formed a temporary scaffolding that rose twenty-four feet high, offering fifteen rows of prime viewing space for the parade.
Tomorrow, invited guests would fill them. Macy’s employees. Their families. VIPs. Not to mention holders of special guest tickets awarded by charities.
They were great entertainment for a small boy who loved to explore unauthorized areas.
Frankie Junior was scampering just slightly behind him, clambering up and down the metal bleachers, unbothered by the rain. Playing a solitary version of hide-and-seek.
The skyscrapers on Central Park South’s Billionaires’ Row were silhouetted against the sky and the park itself was already deserted due to the rain. A half-dozen cops strolled by. A handful of local residents had come out to look at the police cars and news vans. All were enjoying the calm before the parade.
García breathed in exhaust from the cars. Inhaled the steam from a cart that sold pretzels and hot dogs. Savored the aroma from another that sold roasted and candied nuts. Cops were at every street corner. Why did they seem to be keeping an eye on the vendors more than the crowds? Maybe they were hungry.
Frankie Junior caught up to him. “Papa—can I get a pretzel?”
“Get me one, too.” García passed him a few bucks. “Extra mustard.”
“Nothing better than street food,” he said when Frankie returned.
“You eat anythin’ else?” Frankie flashed him a crooked grin.
García shrugged. It was pretty much that or the corner diner. Wasn’t like he was going to cook.
“I like this better than what Mom makes me eat. Stuff with vegetables.” Frankie made a face.
Just the mention of his ex-wife soured García’s mood, so he immediately changed the topic. “Your math test come back yet?”
“Nope.”
“What about that history project?”
Franki
e Junior’s brow furrowed; then apparently he drew a blank.
García was interrogating him again, even though it wasn’t his intent. But normal conversation was always hard. He wasn’t much of a talker, and neither was his son.
The sleet continued to drench the crowds.
A street vendor was piping Christmas carols into the air.
García found himself unreasonably annoyed. “Jingle Bell Rock” when it wasn’t even Thanksgiving yet? He liked holidays as much as the next guy—but he didn’t think they ought to mingle.
He readjusted his mindset. Time to get back to work.
With Frankie Junior in tow, García trolled up and down the bleachers. Checking for wires. Bundles. Packages. Anything that might get past even the dozens of New York’s Finest who were swarming around.
Another block and he saw the T-shirt and souvenir vendors. Everyone out to make a buck off the tourists.
So far, so good.
You just had to analyze the terrain. That’s what he’d learned from the insurgents. The best IED countermeasure was the human mind. Figure out where your enemy liked to hide—and you’d won half the battle.
It was when he reached West Seventy-fifth Street that he first realized something was wrong. That the crowds he was seeing weren’t normal. That a mass of people had swarmed into the area—and for reasons having nothing to do with the parade.
At first he thought it was a protest.
Then he noticed that bottles and bricks littered the ground. People ahead were shouting.
At West Seventy-sixth Street, García saw a uniformed cop, radioing for help, sounding desperate. Blood streamed from a split on his lip.
This was a riot.
He glanced at Frankie Junior—who was balancing on the top bleacher row, oblivious, still eating his pretzel.
“Come down here,” he ordered. “Walk beside me.” García positioned his own body as a barrier, protecting his boy.
At West Seventy-seventh Street, García witnessed a medical first responder snap back, narrowly avoiding a rock flung at his face.
Too dangerous.
“What’s going on?” Frankie Junior reached for García’s hand—for the first time in a very long time.
García elbowed through the protesting rioters. Pushed his way toward the museum, stopping at the B/C subway entrance south of Teddy Roosevelt’s horse.
“Listen to me,” he told his son. “Something bad’s happened, so I need you in a safe place. Go downstairs. Take the first uptown subway that comes, okay? The B or the C; it doesn’t matter. Get off at One-twenty-fifth Street. I’ll text your mom to meet you there.”
“I want to stay with you—”
“Not now. Don’t lose your backpack. It’s got your medicine.” García ignored Frankie’s look of disappointment.
He knew Frankie was scared, but not enough to trump his excitement. The boy didn’t understand that this wasn’t the kind of entertainment that anybody wanted. This was pointless. Tragic.
García had always had more than his share of dark thoughts—but he purposefully put them aside where his son was concerned. Frankie deserved a good life—and as long as García lived, he was going to do what fathers did.
Protect his own.
Nobody was going to hurt his son. Not on his watch.
VIDOCQ FILE #Z77519
Current status: ACTIVE
Frank García
Nickname: Frankie
Age: 41
Race/Ethnicity: Hispanic
Height: 5'10"
Weight: 185 lbs.
Eyes: Brown
Hair: Black
Prominent features: Triangle of three tattooed dots on knob of right wrist (the symbol of Mi Vida Loca, My Crazy Life, the motto of the Latin Kings); tattoo on left arm (I will never quit, warrior ethos).
Current Address: 3884 Broadway (Washington Heights).
Criminal Record (U.S. Army): General court-martial for involuntary manslaughter, resulting in dishonorable discharge plus forfeiture of all pay and allowances. Sentence: ten years.
Related: Military record makes clear that he loses respect for the chain of command when a superior fails to meet his exacting standards.
Expertise: Member of elite team of Army Rangers (75th Ranger Regiment). Specialized hand-to-hand combatives expert (including knife-fighting training by experts in Apache knife techniques). Weapons expert and trained sniper.
Education: Graduated South Bronx High School.
Personal
Family: One of seven siblings (four brothers, two sisters). Two brothers, Jesus and Alex, are current members of Latin Kings. A sister, Emelina, died of lung cancer in 2006.
Spouse/Significant Other: Divorce finalized from spouse, Teresa. One son, Frankie Junior.
Religion: Devout Catholic.
Interests: Devoted to Frankie Junior and his extended family. Passionate about weapons and vintage muscle cars.
Profile
Strengths: A warrior who will fight to uphold his personal code of honor.
Weaknesses:
• Belief in irrational superstitions is a frequent distraction and cause for concern.
• Significant risk of PTSD meltdown or alcohol addiction relapse.
• Isolated and suspicious of others.
Notes: A highly skilled individual with serious personal liabilities. García mistrusts alliances.
*Assessment prepared by SA Eve Rossi. For internal use only.
Chapter 4
West 81st Street, SW and NW corners
Julius Mason—nicknamed Mace, after his favorite ball player—bounded up the stairs of the C line exit for the natural history museum and came out aboveground on the corner of West Eighty-first and Central Park West. Right where the balloons were being inflated for tomorrow’s parade.
Weird. Cops were swirling and Spider-Man was a limp heap on the ground. Some wacko must’ve called in a threat.
Whatever. Mace was feeling good, the rhythm still in his steps from dominating three games of grit-and-grind streetball downtown at the Cage. Even in the teeming downpour, he’d had game.
Ain’t nothin’ else like it, he decided. The pulse. The excitement. The feel when the game went white-hot and his ball swished through nothing but net. He’d seen interviews with players describing their mental game, how they thought through this or that move before making it.
Liars. Every single one of them.
Streetball was about freestyling. Goin’ with the flow, being in the zone, following no real guidelines except those rules that mandated staying inside the faded white lines. Most days, Mace figured all he needed to be happy in life was a hoop and a ball.
His feet pounded the concrete at an easy dribbling pace, crossing the street before he registered that one of those cops was shouting at him.
“STOP!”
Mace halted. Turned. The rain was light now, but the air was heavy with fog. Still, there was no mistaking the nine-millimeter service pistol—a Sig P226—pointed right at him. One of three NYPD standard-issue service pistols.
Problem was: It was being held by a kid in his twenties with a sprinkling of freckles on his nose, a high-pitched voice, and a jittery grip on his gun.
Just my luck. A rookie cop.
Mace dropped the ball. It made a rat-tat-tat as it bounced into the street.
“S-Stop right there,” the rookie demanded. “Don’t move. You just breached a blockade.”
Mace knew that wasn’t right. Sure, Central Park West shut down when the floats started lining up for the parade. But that was hours from now. The blockades never went up before ten p.m.
Then again, he looked around. The rainswept street was almost deserted—except for the cops.
No cars—except the kind with flashing lights.
Stretching down Eighty-first Street, all the balloons sat half-deflated and unattended.
Only a smattering of people. Mainly white. Shuffling into the residential buildings facing the museum.
; Plenty of police. But all of them distracted. Gathering evidence behind yellow tape on Central Park West.
Leaving just him and the rookie.
“Easy, man.” Mace plastered what he hoped was a friendly smile on his face. “We’re good here. What’s the problem?”
He kept his hands at his sides. No sudden movements, he reminded himself. He was still wearing his layup pants, a shirt bearing his lucky number 17, and a bright orange-and-blue New York Knicks rain slicker. A mesh gym bag was slung over his right shoulder. He didn’t think he looked particularly threatening.
Then again, it was a sorry fact of life: Just being a 230-pound, six-foot-seven-inch-tall black man was threat enough to some people. Especially people who carried badges with their prejudices.
“Where have you been t-tonight?” the rookie said and gulped.
They were standing in front of a residential building. The Beresford. A white-glove co-op building that was home to several of the city’s movers and shakers—not to mention a half-dozen celebrities and Mace’s new girlfriend, Céline. So he knew: On a normal evening, residents would be rushing in and out, asking uniformed doormen to hail them cabs and unload their packages.
Tonight, the building’s multiple doors appeared to be locked. Mace caught sight of the doorman inside—watching nervously.
Mace nodded at him—even though he didn’t think the man would recognize him. He just wanted somebody watching.
The rain was dripping down his brow, clouding his vision. But he didn’t dare move his hands.
He turned his attention back to the cop.
“Look, I get it,” Mace said in a smooth, even voice. “You’re just doing your job. It’s late, something’s happened. But whatever’s gone down, it didn’t involve me.”
The rookie’s arm was still shaking.
Keep it cool and calm.
“I’ve been playing streetball, West Fourth Street downtown,” Mace continued. “At least eight guys can tell you.”
“Drop your bag! Hands up!”
An elderly white man with a tan overcoat and a cane shuffled by, making a wide U to avoid Mace and the cop. The cop gave the man only a passing glance.
Whistleblower Page 3
