He heard scrabbling to his right. Three travelers scurried out the farthest set of doors, their faces bright with terror. Closer in lay the woman cop he’d shot a few moments before. A teenaged blond girl lay crying on the floor no more than a couple meters behind Sohrab, rolled in a knot, her shoulders shuddering.
Where was Gabir? Where was Ziyad? Who were these people with the woman in the tan coat? He tried to tune out the crying and moaning so he could hear something useful, but the station was full of frightened people and bounced sound like a men’s toilet.
Come out. Let’s finish this.
Jake prairie-dogged over the back of the bench lining the Stairway 4 rail, then hunched down next to Miriam, his back to the Christmas tree looming just a couple dozen feet away. He tried but failed to catch his breath. “I think he’s at the statue. We can circle around. Two more benches. Then the wall around the last stairwell. Have shelter almost all the way. To the doors.”
“No!” She breathed hard, her eyes burning bright. “I’m going to get that bastard!”
Oh, God, she’s Rambo. He clamped a hand on her shoulder. “Miriam. We’re not SWAT. SWAT’s coming. Let them take care of him. Our job is to survive.”
She yanked her shoulder away. “If we leave, he’ll get away! He’ll come back after us. Look what they’re doing! These people are not going to stop!”
Another crack, more splinters, way too close. Jake levered up from his crouch, fired a round at the pedestal, dropped down again. “I have a little girl. I’m not dying today.”
“You’re scared? Is that it?”
“Of course I’m fucking scared, you idiot! People are trying to kill us! What, you’re not?” Miriam jerked her face away. “We die, they win. I’m not going to watch you get yourself killed. Understand?” She clamped her teeth so hard, her jaw shivered. Jake grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. “Understand?”
She gave him the death-ray stare. “Yes.”
“Good. Now follow me. And if you even look like you’re going after him, so help me I’ll put a round through your leg. Got it?” Holy shit, where did that come from?
Miriam snorted, “Yes, sir.”
Bent double, they scrambled behind the stairwell’s back wall, stopped at the end. Jake dashed the few feet to the next bench as a bullet smashed through the Faber convenience store window beside him. He took cover behind the bench’s wooden end cap, aimed, then beckoned Miriam as he fired at a flash of movement by the pedestal. She rolled behind him, shouldered him from his position, aimed double-handed at the statue. Jake was in motion even before he heard the sharp snap of her Walther, pulling off a baseball slide to steal the last bench. In a moment, she was next to him.
Another very long ten feet to the low marble wall surrounding Stairway 2. Maybe twenty feet beyond that to the doors. From where they were, they didn’t have a good angle on the guy by the statue. Jake noticed the bawling blond girl balled up on the floor near the pedestal. Get out of here, kid! Go, now!
“I’ll go first,” Jake said. Miriam nodded. “Watch out for that girl.”
Sasha had picked up the little Arab down by the Amtrak booth and played cat-and-mouse with him most of the way down the huge station concourse. From behind the big Christmas tree he could see the little shit by the towering pedestal fifteen meters or so away, his black bomber jacket blending with the granite. Sasha didn’t have a solution on him from behind the tree and there was nothing but open floor on either side.
Eldar and Schaffer hopscotched the benches to Sasha’s right like a couple of pros, heading for the doors. Who were these people, anyway? They’d had some kind of training.
“Sasha,” Kelila’s voice buzzed in his ear. “Where are you?”
“Behind the tree. Where are you?”
“Just outside, chasing the big one. Do you see Eldar and Schaffer?”
“Right here.” Great, no backup. Eldar sprinted across the gap between the bench and the stair surround while the woman laid down measured covering fire. Not bad for civilians. “They’re trying to escape. The little one’s got the doors covered.”
“Get out as soon as you can.”
Sorry, honey. He’d keep this joker busy so the covers could get out.
Sohrab crouched facing the doors, his back squeezed against the pedestal’s cold stone. The blond girl glanced at him, wrapped her arms over her head and cried louder.
The plan had turned to shit. The Jews were much harder to kill than any of them had expected. Even now they were spread out in a way that made it impossible for him to keep track of them both at the same time. He was alone. His shoulder wound had reopened, an aching souvenir from the day before. Sirens sounded outside—lots of sirens. He glanced at his watch; four and a half minutes since the first shot. It seemed like an hour.
He swung around the side of the granite block away from the two Jews. A shadow of movement caught his eye. A man lay prone next to the decorated tree, aiming a pistol. An!
Sohrab ducked back behind the pedestal just as the man fired. A sharp tug on his pants leg; a ragged tear appeared on the cuff of his jeans. Sohrab slammed his back against the stone.
Time to go. But how?
The stairway led to a train platform. He could go down there, disappear into the darkness, follow the tracks out. The police would be busy with the terminal and all the people in it.
But the Jews would kill him before he made it to the stairs.
He stared at the sniveling teenager, so close. Black tights, a denim skirt, striped top, pigtails. Almost a child.
Perfect.
Jake set himself up to cover Miriam. He was about to wave her to him when a figure leaped onto the blond girl. A moment later, she was on her knees screaming, a black-clad arm across her throat, a gun in her ear, a thin Persian face half obscured behind her head.
Goddamnit!
The Persian wrestled her to her feet, pivoting her so she faced Jake, then Miriam, then Jake again. He shoved her forward one step, then two, heading for the stairs.
Jake heard a clatter of hard-soled shoes, then Miriam flung herself onto the bench against the half-wall. He wiped the nervous sweat from his eyes on his sleeve, aimed, watched the man shuffle closer. The only chance was a head shot, and that was a slim chance—too small a target, too much movement.
A male figure slid into the edge of Jake’s peripheral vision. Nondescript sturdy clothes, ash blond. Wrong hair color for Hezbollah. He stepped past the Christmas tree, angled toward the Persian and the girl, gun raised and ready.
The Persian noticed the blond man too, swung hard to present the girl’s orange-and-white striped shirt to him. For a moment, the Persian’s head was clear.
Take the shot.
I’ll hit her. I can’t take that chance.
Take the shot!
He adjusted his grip on the policeman’s gun, sighted, squeezed just enough to feel the trigger-mounted safety move. Do it do it do it no no no what if I kill her I can’t I can’t…
The Persian swung back, showing Jake the girl’s mascara-streaked face, not yet done with its baby fat. He edged down the first step, pressed his butt against the brass handrail. Jake twisted to keep a line on the two of them.
Gunman and hostage reached the first landing, started down the second flight. They faded into the murk under the overhang.
Jake grunted “shit!” and slapped his hand against the top of the wall. That poor girl. It had been years since he’d seen that kind of terror in a human face. And he’d let the asshole get away. He had the shot. He could’ve done it.
He slowly stood, took his first deep breath for what seemed like hours, and looked toward Miriam. She also stood, face grim, shoulders sagging. Was she thinking the same thing?
The blond man approached the top of the stairs. He gestured abruptly toward the door. “You. Get out. Go.” He had a Russian accent. Russian? What the hell?
“Who are you?” Miriam demanded.
The man said “Go!” again. “Safe
for now. Go to police.” He then wrapped both hands around the butt of his pistol and carefully descended the stairs without a look back.
Jake popped the magazine from his gun, dropped it into the stairwell followed by the chambered round, then set the now-harmless weapon on the marble wall. He turned toward Miriam. “Put that thing away. We’re outta here.”
FORTY-EIGHT: Philadelphia, 6 December
Every inch of Miriam trembled. While gallons of adrenaline saturated her system, she was Superwoman, bulletproof, invincible. But her adrenaline had run down a storm drain, leaving her full of watery Jell-O, borderline sick to her stomach. Train-station floor crud covered her black suit. Her bad knee throbbed. She couldn’t stop shivering.
A herd of other crying, hugging, shell-shocked escapees from the station milled around the PECO Tower patio across the Schuylkill from the station. What appeared to be the Philadelphia Police Department’s entire vehicle fleet was strewn haphazardly everywhere she looked, blocking Market Street, surrounding the station, light bars blazing. A police helicopter and three news choppers darted back and forth a few hundred feet overhead.
Jake stood at the Salvation Army mobile kitchen’s counter across the street. Thank God he’d kept his head in the station. He’d saved her from herself. She’d have gone toe-to-toe with those Arab bastards, run straight at their guns. And would’ve died.
Don’t let him know you’re scared.
He shuffled in her direction, juggling two steaming Styrofoam cups and a bottle of water. He handed her a cup—coffee, black—sat beside her on the granite half-wall, cracked open the water, wet a paper napkin, then dabbed at her cheek.
She knocked his hand away. “What are you doing?”
“There’s blood.” Blood? He leaned in, gently wiped with the napkin, then said, “Hold still.” She felt his fingers warm on her skin, then a tiny pull. “Splinter. All gone.”
She pulled away from him, wrapped both hands around her coffee, let its steam rise into her face. “I’m not helpless, you know. I can take care of myself.”
Jake leaned his elbows on his knees, blew on his coffee, took a sip. His hands shook. “I know you’re not helpless. Neither was Rinnah. Damned if I’m gonna let you get killed, too.” He watched her for a moment. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” She wondered if she sounded as fake as she felt. “We need to get out of here.”
“The cops are—”
“We need to get out of here!” She stopped to rein herself in. “We need to go someplace safe. There could be more of those people, right here.”
“We’re surrounded by half the cops in Pennsylvania.”
“Yes, and a lot of good that did us in there. We need to find someplace safe.”
Jake let out a boulder of a sigh and stared into the crowd of refugees. “Okay, I have an idea. How do we get back to your car?”
“Not on the train.” She held the cup against her right cheek, then her left, as she fished transit schedules from the swirling mess in her head. The coffee didn’t warm her either inside or out. “There’s a bus, the 406, that leaves from 10th and Market.”
Jake nodded, stood and held out his hand. “Let’s go.”
Miriam ignored his hand and stood. Her knee collapsed under her, jolting her coffee out onto Jake’s coat. Jake caught her under her arms on her way down and held her upright. Miriam was very aware of him, the warmth of his body, the strength in his hands holding her. How long since a man had been this close to her? Stop it. She figured out how to put a little weight on her bad leg and stood straight. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” A flush of pink stole into his cheeks. “Sure you’re okay?”
Miriam nodded. “I hurt my knee. It’ll be okay if I can get some ice on it.” She pulled away from him to test her theory. She could stand, but walking would be a chore. “I can’t make it all the way to 10th, but I can get to the trolley station down there on 22nd.”
“Long as the cops don’t stop us.” He crooked his arm for her.
She considered his offer. She hated being dependent; she didn’t want him to think she was weak. But her knee really, really hurt. Miriam drew in a deep breath and took his arm.
“No one’s following us,” Miriam said.
A small blessing. Jake looked down from the Honda’s rear window to the back seat. A pair of huge, golden eyes glared out at him through the blue plastic pet carrier’s wire-mesh door. As they’d prepared to abandon Miriam’s apartment, Miriam dispatched him to put the cat in her cage. Bastet apparently held a grudge. Her triangular head, oversized ears and grim expression reminded Jake of Egyptian tomb carvings. He wondered if she was sizing him up for Anubis.
He turned to face forward again, stole a glance at Miriam. She’d changed clothes—into another suit, this one the color of fresh asphalt. Did she ever wear anything casual? That flash of softness or vulnerability he’d seen outside the station was gone, too; her eyes were back to something resembling mahogany. Only the ice pack strapped to her left knee spoiled the Wonder Woman image.
“Do you want to try calling your uncle again?” she asked.
“Yeah.” He’d gone straight to voicemail when he’d called from the apartment. He pulled the phone from the Honda’s center console, thumbed in the number. Gene’s voice interrupted the fourth ring. “Yeah?”
This wasn’t a call Jake had been looking forward to. He felt like a little kid calling Daddy for help. “Hey, it’s me.”
Silence. Then, “Where the fuck are you? And what the hell’s going on down there? We got Grand Central and Penn Station on lockdown.”
“It was them. They tried again. We got out, but…”
“Jesus, kid, you okay? You sound like shit, you know?”
“Thanks, Gene. I feel like it, too. We’re both okay, a little banged up, but we’re alive.”
Bastet yowled. Miriam stage-whispered, “Hush, you.”
“What was that?”
“A cat.”
“Still with that Schaffer broad?”
“Yeah.” Jake hesitated, then decided to lay it all out. “There was somebody else in the station, too. Looks like the Mossad team from Qatar is here.”
“What? Are you nuts? They wouldn’t send hitters over here. They’re not that stupid.”
“Well, I guess this time they are. I recognized them from the INTERPOL pictures. Look, we need to come in. These guys started a firefight in a crowded train station at rush hour to get to us. I don’t think they’re going to give up.”
Bastet yowled again. Miriam reached behind her, pushed her fingers through the mesh door and wiggled them. “I know, sweetie. Be good.” The cat rubbed her face on Miriam’s fingers, purring like a diesel engine. Jake watched, fascinated; this was the first tenderness he’d seen Miriam show another creature. Maybe there was still a heart in there somewhere.
“Twice in twelve hours?” Gene fell uncharacteristically silent for a moment. “You’re right. We talking safe house here? That what you’re looking for?”
“Yeah. We’ll talk to whoever, tell them what we know, but we need to disappear until this gets sorted out.” He watched some trees smear past. “We had our own little gunfight with one of the Hezbollah guys. Philly PD’s going to be looking for us once they see the security tapes.” Maybe now they’ll believe us.
Gene snorted. “Screw Intel, kid, I’m putting you in for ESU. Okay, I’ll go talk to JTTF right now, see if they’ll buy off on it. I’ll call you in an hour. This number good?”
“Yeah, it’s Miriam’s phone. How’s Eve?”
“Scared sick and missing her daddy. How do you think?”
Shit. “We’ll be there as fast as we can. Tell her I’m coming. Thanks, Gene.”
“Don’t shoot anyone for the next hour.”
Miriam asked, “What did he say?”
“Don’t worry. He’ll come up with something.”
A couple miles went by before she replied. “Can he really keep us safe? Keep them away from us?”<
br />
Can he? “Sure. It’s NYPD, they do this all the time.” He hoped he was right. He’d bet both their lives on it.
FORTY-NINE: Cherry Hill, 6 December
The motel bathroom smelled of blood, sweat and soap. Alayan took one look at the scene, pivoted, and slammed the heel of his hand into the opposite wall so hard it left a dent.
An hour ago, Alayan had helped bury Kassim. He and Rafiq had found a sympathetic imam at a storefront mosque in a ragged fringe of Philadelphia. Having died a martyr, Kassim should have met the angels wearing the clothes in which he’d died, but there was only so much Alayan was willing to explain to the locals. Instead, the three of them—the imam, Rafiq and Alayan—finished a ritual bathing of Kassim’s body, then wrapped him in a plain white cotton kafan that reduced him to a vaguely human-shaped bundle reminiscent of a mummy. The rite had been strangely comforting; it allowed Alayan to say goodbye.
They lowered Kassim onto his right side in a hastily-dug grave at Mount Moriah cemetery beneath the gray shroud of a damp morning sky. The neglected and vandalized grounds mirrored the bleak emptiness inside Alayan. Kassim had deserved so much better than to spend eternity under this glorified pasture in a hostile and alien land.
Now Alayan had returned to the motel to find Gabir splayed on the blue-and-gray tile bathroom floor, shirt off, a dressing and bandage covering the hollow of his muscular right shoulder. Ziyad balanced on his left side in the bathtub, his trousers off, while Sohrab finished taping a dressing high on Ziyad’s right outer thigh.
“Sohrab,” Alayan choked, “get out here when you’re done.”
When Sohrab’s report reached the gun battle, Alayan’s frustration and anger came to full boil. He bolted from his chair. “What part of this plan sounded like a good idea to you?” He leaned his face into Sohrab’s. “Didn’t you listen to anything I told you this morning? This isn’t Damascus or Baghdad! People here notice when you have gunfights in train stations!”
Sohrab swallowed. “Yes, sidi.”
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