As they kissed, she slipped his hard length deftly inside her. Though their breathing changed, they did not break apart. They stayed that way for some time, rocking together, kissing without end, her hands on either side of his face, his hands around her waist. Then Tyka sat up and stopped them, sitting astride, him inside her. She grasped his jaw in her hand and looked him straight in the eyes. “Don’t ever attempt to die on me again,” she said. “Or I’ll kill you.”
He laughed and took her palms in his, covering them with kisses. Then he placed her hands on his chest and began to rock his hips up and down. She was already so wet that she easily glided atop him. She began to ride him fervently, needing him, wanting him, unable to stop the titanic waves of joy and pleasure as she rocked back and forth. He thrust to meet every single motion of her hips. She stretched her arms up, trailing her hands over her breasts, then throwing her long blond hair back behind her. She was in a state of utter and complete ecstasy. Together they moved as one until they came simultaneously, both screaming in passion, release, relief, and joy. And then, collapsing into Mahmoud’s arms, Tyka looked at him and smiled, a real, deep smile that came from her very soul.
‡‡‡
Mahmoud’s heart swelled to see that smile, seeing her face become younger, freer, almost like a girl’s. He wondered for the first time if it wasn’t crazy to believe that he could have met someone he could spend his life with. He smiled back, wondering how a life that had seemed so dark could now feel so very light. They shared a long silence in which all he could hear was the sound of their breathing and the whirring of the ceiling fan. Tyka raised her head and looked at him, a smile still on her beautiful face. Her hair was tousled, her mascara smeared. And her eyes were half-lidded. “Shall we sleep on the plane?” she asked. “Then we can get going and find what we are looking for.”
“I think I may have found what I’ve been looking for,” he said smoothly. “But yes, I feel quite reenergized now, Ms. Tyka. Lead the way.”
12
The Bod Squad was refreshed and ready to go, and were scheduled to have dinner with the Kipiniaks at six. Jackson had told the Boss that Mahmoud and Tyka were on their way to New York to hunt down yet another lead in, of all places, Queens. The Boss had sent Jackson and Lisa Bee east, toward Jackson Heights, and Susannah west to Sunnyside to get as much info as they could about the lay of the land, the people, and their surroundings.
He found himself wandering the streets of Woodside. The truth was that he wasn’t quite certain what he was looking for, or even if they’d find anything worthwhile. It was like they were chasing an ever changing lead. He’d learned over the years to trust his instincts; his life had been saved countless times because he followed his gut. He felt it as clear as day: He was on the right track. Here, in the States, on the East Coast, was the footprint of the invisible terror that lurked at the forefront of his consciousness.
The Boss liked Woodside; it felt like a suburb in some places, a provincial Irish town in others. He had stopped in at McCreer’s Pub to chat with the bartender and some barflies, then continued on his way, walking down Roosevelt under the 7 train. He turned down a side street by a fire station, walking past brick apartment buildings with courtyards and big lobbies. They reminded him of another era, of the 1940s and ’50s, of those old movies he loved so much. Walking down the street he came upon a woman smoking a cigarette under a vine trellis entryway; she wore a brown leather coat and an old green fedora. She was pretty, with long dark hair and long legs. And she had a wistful look on her face. She smiled up at the Boss as he approached.
“Hello,” he said, tipping his hat to her, “from one fedora to another.”
She laughed, a low, husky sound that reminded him of Babs. “Well, you do wear it well, I’ll say that.”
“Mind if I take a seat?” he asked.
“It’s a free country,” she said. “Besides, I wouldn’t mind the company. Wanna smoke?”
“Never touch the things,” he replied. “But the lady I’m with is a fan.”
“Ah, fuck,” she said with a frown. “All the good ones are taken.”
“How do you know I’m one of the good ones?”
“It’s the angle of your fedora. Very becoming.”
He laughed freely. “What are you up to this fine afternoon?”
“Well,” she said, “I’m enjoying my one cigarette this month. I get one when something great happens or something terrible happens. Or I miss a month if neither happens. I’m an actress and I don’t like to fuck with my instrument too much.”
“So which one was it today?”
“Neither. I had to do two loads of laundry and it pissed me off.” He laughed again. “What’s your name?” she asked, cocking her head.
“I’m John. But my code name is Bossman. I’m new to the neighborhood. Wanna tell me about the ins and outs of living here?”
She took a deep drag of her cigarette. “What line of work are you in, Bossman?”
“I’m in finance.”
“Why not somewhere in Manhattan?”
“I’m more of a small-town kind of guy.”
“I get it. Want to share my whiskey?”
“Don’t mind if I do. What do I call you?”
“Call me Isabelle,” she said. “And if you need a code name for me, Bossman, you can call me Habeas Moon Grotto.”
He chuckled, then took a long swig. “Well, that seems a bit clunky. I’ll stick to Isabelle. Tell me about the neighborhood.”
They sat together for some time, until the Boss looked at his watch and realized he’d better head back for dinner. “Well, thank you, Isabelle,” he said with a smile. “I really appreciate all the help. Is there anything I can do for you in exchange?”
“Do you happen to know any men like you, Bossman, who might be single and looking for a challenge?”
He smiled. “Oh, now, I’m sure that’s not tough for a lovely lady like you.”
She guffawed and polished off her drink. “New York is a pain in my ass. I moved to this neighborhood because I love firefighters and Irish boys in equal measure and thought it’d up my chances. So far? No takers. It’s no fun being single in your forties . . . I constantly feel like I’m a grocery item with a close expiration date. And since I’m choosy, well . . . it’s like I’m playing high-stakes poker but I’ve only got one chip left.”
“But what a chip it is,” said the Boss with a wink. “Listen, the story ain’t over yet. I bet the fella you’re looking for is closer than you think. You know the way these things go: He’s probably right around the corner.”
“Just like everything, right? But that’s how you can help me, Bossman. Just make sure he’s a grown-up, and that he’s not married and looking for a piece on the side. Or that he’s not one of those creepy guys who lives in his parents’ basement. Yuck.”
And suddenly it hit the Boss like a lightning strike. What if BS was the Kipiniaks’son? What was his name? He’d bet it was Bobby. Right under their noses. Just like the Boss had thought.
He took Isabelle’s card. As he walked away, fired up with possibility, he took a second to go through his mental Rolodex. He knew a bunch of guys in D.C. who’d be perfect for this chick: retired military men, agents, staff in the field who’d come home filled with adventures and had no one to share them with. There was a whole culture of smart, strong men who’d been lone rangers for a while and were looking to settle down in their forties and fifties. But that was for the future. Right around the corner, eh? Filled with excitement, he went to close in on his destiny.
‡‡‡
Tyka and Mahmoud landed at JFK and made their way straight to Flushing Meadows Corona Park to look at the old World’s Fair Unisphere. It was surrounded by a spraying fountain and people walking around the grounds. Tyka studied the globe as she walked close, but it didn’t make sense . . . how would one hide notes under t
he Unisphere? She went closer to the fountain and put a hand in the water; she was instantly yelled at by a security guard. Well, that wouldn’t work. Under the Unisphere? Perhaps there was another Unisphere somewhere else that she hadn’t accounted for. Maybe it wasn’t even in the States. Maybe this whole trip was for naught.
She glanced up at Mahmoud, who looked dashing and well put together, even with the cuts and bruises. “You look fairly badass, Mahmoud,” she said with a smile, running a hand along his face.
“Fairly?” he inquired. “Disappointing. After all that, I’d hope to look very badass.”
She sighed. “I really don’t know where on earth to look, or if this is even the right thing.”
“But it must be,” he said surely. “All signs point to Queens, no? And the Unisphere. Perhaps we should wander around, see what we find?”
“Sure,” she said, though she wondered if it was a fool’s errand. “Let’s case the park.”
“Shall we go together, Ms. Tyka? Or split up?”
“Well,” she said with a wry grin, “I’m afraid if we split up you may get abducted by the Mafia. It seems I need to keep my eyes on you.”
“Oh, I very much like your eyes all over me,” he said huskily. “But I assure you I can take care of myself.”
“All right,” she conceded. “It will take less time if we go separate ways. We’ll meet back by the Unisphere in thirty, yes?”
“As you wish, Ms. Tyka,” he said with a flourish, and then he was off.
She was left alone, wondering how it was that she couldn’t bear to be apart from him. She was concerned about him; he was still in rough shape, and she wanted him by her side. And that was the truth of it, she realized at once. For the first time in her life, she wanted a man next to her. A partner, in all senses of the word. And that partner was Mahmoud.
Smiling to herself, she went in the opposite direction to see what, if any, leads she could find.
‡‡‡
Rafael had come to Fritz with some disturbing information. He’d been wandering around Quantico trying to clear his head, down in the bowels of the place where they had storage and some rarely used classrooms. He was frustrated and was trying to go over all they knew and where they’d gone wrong. His Mossad days had left him with the habit of reviewing every piece of information in sequence to see if it made sense. He’d stopped dead in his tracks when he’d heard the sound of screaming, of torture . . . It’d made the hairs on his neck stand on end. When he realized it was a male voice, he wondered if it could be Buzz, since he was still at large. Running to Fritz’s office, he stood in front of her, panting, filling her in on his suspicions.
Fritz took a sip of her Red Bull and scratched her head in confusion. How could Buzz Carter be held and tortured in Quantico? That was a far-fetched thought. “Surely you must have been hearing a training exercise.”
“Down there? By the old classrooms? Underneath all the DEA academy warehouse storage? There’s nothing that happens down there, right? I thought you told me it was a completely obsolete part of the base.”
Now she leaned forward. Rafael was right: Nothing should be active there. In light of Buzz Carter’s absence, and the suspicion of his innocence in all this, they’d need to check it out.
“Good work, Rafael. We need to find out what’s going on. Let’s you and I go down there and see what we find.”
“Let’s do it.”
“And Raf? Let’s take extra ammo. I don’t know what’s down there, but I don’t feel good about it.”
“Got it, Fritz. I’ll be behind you every step of the way.” She stood up and he grabbed her by the arm. “You comfortable with this?”
She looked him square in the eyes and smiled at him, then reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a Glock 19. “Haven’t gotten to use this since special ops training. It’ll be a pleasure.”
He looked back at her with a smile tickling the side of his mouth. He’d never before seen his boss armed and ready to go. “Lead the way.”
13
The Boss, Jackson, Lisa Bee, and Susannah were having dinner with the Kipiniaks. They had started a bit late because Jackson had insisted on taking the 7 train and he and Lisa Bee wound up stranded due to a signal problem. Lisa Bee was still pissed about it, and in addition she’d had to hear Jackson spend the day raving about how a part of Queens was named for him. The Boss found the whole thing entertaining, but realized that was probably because he had been on time and had already had a strong glass of homemade slivovitz.
They’d all just been served a wonderful meal of sausage, potatoes, and pierogi, and had engaged the Kipiniaks in casual conversation about the neighborhood, the history of Woodside, and their neighbors. The Boss had asked every question imaginable about their son, whose name turned out to be Chris, but none of the pieces seemed to fit. And there was no response whatsoever to the name Bobby. It was only after dinner, as they were helping to clear the table, that they finally struck gold.
“It was that one boy,” Myra was saying, “who threatened to turn this neighborhood into a crime zone.”
“Ah, come on, Myra,” Ronald said, carrying some plates to the kitchen, “leave it alone.”
“He was a mess. And terrifying! And stayed in that house for years after.”
“I think it’s sad,” Ronald said. “You don’t know that he did it. Maybe it was just a tragedy.”
“Tragedy, my behind! It was just awful.”
“I don’t mean to pry,” said the Boss, lifting a casserole dish and handing it over the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining room, “but I’d be fascinated to know what you’re talking about.”
Ronald let out a sigh, but Myra smiled. “He hates talking about it. There’s a house diagonally across the street—here, you can see part of it from the window in the TV room—that one, the one that’s a house but says that it’s now a chemical company or whatnot on the outside. The one with the truck. Anyways, there was a family that lived there thirty-some-odd years ago, parents, two kids, but one of the kids was way off . . . strange kid, always thought he was strange—”
“Oh, Myra,” Ronald interrupted, “you did not. You only say that because there’s no other explanation for what happened.”
“Exactly!” she said with a slap on the table for emphasis. “There’s no other explanation!”
“For what?” the Boss asked gently.
“Well,” Myra said, taking a seat and patting the chair next to her. The others were still sitting at the table drinking coffee, and all leaned in with interest. “Nice Irish family. The O’Briens. Her name was Karen, his name was Sam. They had two little boys; Patrick was the older one and Liam was the younger. Lovely people! All except the older boy . . . odd one, he was. A loner. Peculiar. We knew him because he was our Chris’s age, and they went to the same middle school. Chris always said the kid gave him the creeps. Anyways, one day we hear sirens, early in the morning, woke us up, and came to find out that the parents and the younger brother had all been killed—poisoned! How awful, can you imagine? But not the older boy. Patrick. I don’t know why they never accused him of it; we all thought it was him, clear as day. Maybe they didn’t have any proof? Always struck me as strange. He went off to live with someone for a few years, then he came back and stayed in the house for some time. Alone. I think that house had been in the family for generations! But what a strange boy . . . with that awful stare. He sort of seemed invisible—then he’d just pop up out of nowhere. I always thought we’d both wind up dead just like his family.”
“But who the hell’d want to hurt us?” Ronald asked, seeming offended.
“I dunno,” Myra said. “Someone who wants access to the best whitefish salad in Queens?”
“This is a reason?”
The Boss cut them off before they started bickering again. “Well, it’s been a long day,” he said, “and we
’ve got to hit the road early tomorrow. We’ll get some sleep and be off in the morning. Thank you for such a wonderful evening.”
“Oh, of course,” Myra said with a smile. “Just leave the keys there—the door locks by itself. And don’t forget to come get some egg sandwiches for the road!”
“Will do,” the Boss replied, and ushered the others downstairs with all due speed.
‡‡‡
“Fascinating,” Jackson said as soon as the door shut and they were safely in the basement apartment. “You’re thinking we just got the map that leads to the cave of buried gold, right?”
“Right,” the Boss said. “What say we do some old-school recon and check the place out? It’s dark enough now, and I imagine there’s a way we can sneak in.”
“Let’s do this, Bossman,” Susannah said. “We’re all in.”
“Okay,” the Boss said. “Game on. But let’s not hedge our bets. It’s time for us to play at the highest level. And you know what that means,” he said, shooting a look at Jackson.
“Time to put it all on the table,” Jackson said smartly.
“That’s right,” the Boss agreed. “Double down.”
‡‡‡
Thirty minutes had come and gone, and Tyka had found nothing, so she returned to the rendezvous point. It was dark now, and it was beautiful by the Unisphere, lit up, the fountain spraying. The globe itself was steel, a replica of the Earth, and was raised above a fountain which had individual sprays of water surrounding the Unisphere that arched and fell upon it in timed intervals. Surrounding it all was a walkway with plaques and dedications scattered along the brick promenade. People nearby took pictures of their kids or tried to get as close to the globe as possible. Tyka felt she must be missing something. . . . Where on earth would someone hide notes? They must have taken a wrong turn; that was all there was to it. They’d followed a false lead and completely fucked themselves doing it.
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