“Let’s just talk about this a minute,” David said.
“There’s nothing to talk about. You can go up those stairs on your own two feet, or I can shoot your kneecaps and have you carried up.”
… three … two … one …
David braced himself.
Nothing happened.
“Go.” The Chechen shook the pistol at him for emphasis.
David turned slowly, still waiting. Obviously the estimation could have been off by a few seconds. He just needed to stall. He put his foot on the first step, froze. Come on!
“Whatever you’re thinking of doing, forget it,” the Chechen warned. “You think you’re fast. Or good enough. Put that out of your mind. You lost.”
David began to climb the stairs slowly, feet leaden, mind racing for a plan. Someone could have found and freed the captain, altered the Avenger’s course. Or the garbage barge could have seen the yacht coming up fast and—
The impact was so sharp and sudden, David felt it from his feet up through his spine. The scream of metal and fiberglass. The ship tilted sharply, and David had to grab the banister to keep from being thrown off the stairs.
The Chechen lost his footing, fell back against the bulkhead, arms flailing for something to latch on to.
David leaped at him.
He crashed into him hard, smashing him against the bulkhead. Air wheezed out of the Chechen, and David grabbed his wrist, smashing his gun hand against the bulkhead until the Chechen gave up the pistol.
David turned to reach for it, but the man recovered faster than predicted and brought a knee up into David’s gut.
David grunted and pushed away from the Chechen who was already pressing forward with a martial arts chop at David’s throat. David blocked it, punched with his other hand, but the Chechen dodged his head and caught David’s arm, trying to trap it in a quick arm lock.
Instead of trying to pull out of it, David heaved himself forward going in for a head butt. Smashing a man across the bridge of his nose with one’s forehead usually took the fight out of him quickly. He hadn’t had a lot of recent luck with head butts. Maybe this time.
The Chechen saw it coming and lowered his head to protect his face, and David drove his forehead into the top of the man’s skull with a loud crack.
David stumbled back, lights flashing in his eyes, half blinded by pain. Probably the Chechen’s bell had been rung just as badly, but David couldn’t assume anything, didn’t know which of them had the upper hand. He swung a wild backhand.
And got lucky.
His fist hit the Chechen’s jaw, hard. A grunt through clenched teeth.
David kicked, hoping to find the man’s balls. He missed his target but struck hard with his heel into the man’s thigh muscle. The Chechen went down to one knee, and that put him level with David’s own balls, but David knew what was coming and turned away, taking the punch on the hip. He kicked out again and connected with the Chechen’s teeth. The man went down face-first into the water, which was now ankle deep.
David blinked his eyes clear, vision finally snapping back into focus.
Get out of here. Move!
He turned and rushed for the stairs, fighting against the tilt of the listing vessel, pulling himself up by the banister. He made it up to the next level and heard the sharp report of a pistol shot behind him.
The Chechen was at the bottom of the stairs, raising his pistol to fire again.
But David was already moving when the next shot came, racing up the stairway to the next deck. He sprinted along the gangway to the first hatch he saw and exploded through it to the starboard side rail, stepped on the lowest rung, and launched himself over it just as three more shots sounded behind him. Flying lead missed his ear by half an inch.
The world blurred as he plummeted toward the dark water below, but in his peripheral vision he glimpsed the Avenger smashed up against the stern of the garbage barge. On the deck of the barge, men ran around like ants who’d had their hill kicked over. Spotlights shone on the point of impact and—
The surface world vanished as David plunged into wet darkness, sound and vision cut off abruptly. He kicked for the blur of light above him, surfaced just long enough to gulp air and hear another gunshot.
David dove back under the water, swimming hard. His lungs strained and burned.
But he didn’t come up for air again soon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“I had him,” Reagan said. “If the ship hadn’t wrecked—”
“Be silent.” Yousef’s voice was calm in that way which was somehow worse than if he’d shouted. “You let him get away. Details at this point do not matter.”
Reagan’s jaw muscles worked in frustration. Yousef could sense the anger ready to boil over. The young man had skills, but his attitude made him a liability. Payne had picked him. Yousef would not have.
“Maybe he drowned,” Reagan said.
Yousef shot him a look that said, Yes and maybe he rode away on a unicorn.
Reagan at least had the good grace to look away, embarrassed.
Yousef and the others had returned just in time to take Reagan off the sinking vessel. They’d found a dock and had tied up the dinghies and Jet Skis and were attempting to assess the situation and regroup.
The acute sensation of an opportunity lost nagged at Yousef. The ploy had worked to draw Sparrow into the open, but the government man had still managed to outwit them. It had been a close thing, and Yousef now regretted the order to take their prey alive. Reagan could have put a bullet in the man’s head and it would have been finished.
One of Payne’s goons returned from the end of the dock with a Windbreaker in his fist. “This was all there was.” He handed it to Yousef.
Yousef turned it over in his hand, examining and frowning. He searched the pockets and came out with a wet, folded piece of paper. He unfolded the sheet of paper, slowly, careful not to rip it. He read it:
Cops in the hotel. They found the Escalade in the parking garage.
L
Yousef’s eyes shifted to the top of the letterhead. Royal Empire Hotel.
That was information Yousef filed away for later. He asked, “Who’s the man we left back at the marina?”
“Ramirez.”
Yousef took out his cell phone. “Give me his number.”
* * *
David was sopping wet.
He staggered up the bank, gasping for air and taking stock. Guns lost on the yacht. Phone and Bluetooth at the bottom of the East River. Without a doubt, his endeavors aboard the Avenger had resulted in an all-around net loss.
He wasn’t even sure if he’d swum ashore at the right spot. But he stumbled between the pilings until he found himself in the light, looked up, and saw he was back at the marina.
So at least I’m not lost.
He patted his pocket quickly and was relieved to feel the car keys still there.
He slunk into the shadows again and circled back to the Dodge Aspen. Thirty feet from the automobile, he squatted behind some trash cans and watched. A man leaned against the Dodge, just waiting. He lit a cigarette, puffed, glanced at his wristwatch.
I could just leave, David thought. But the logbook he’d taken from Jerry’s was in the vehicle. Too valuable to leave behind. He stayed there a moment, thinking about rushing the guy but wishing he had some kind of advantage. He reached into his pocket and found he still had the leather blackjack. That was something at least. He needed to pick his moment, catch the guy unaware and put him down fast.
He scanned the rest of the marina, but didn’t see anyone else. He wondered if Amy had tried to text him again and felt a pang of anxiety. It was probably at least some comfort to her when he texted back proving he was still alive, but with the phone lost in the river—
A sharp bleeping sound drew his attention back to the man next to the Dodge.
He took a phone out of his pocket and answered it.
This is probably the best diversion I’m going to
get.
David came in low, beelining directly for the man on the phone. In this situation, David elected for speed over stealth and the crunch of gravel under his shoes gave him away. Just as he raised the blackjack to strike the man at the base of the skull, the guy turned, confusion in his eyes at seeing David suddenly upon him.
David brought the blackjack down hard across his face, bone and teeth cracking. The guy spun around and slammed against the side of the Dodge, the phone flying out of his hand.
The guy didn’t quite go down, braced himself against the car, trying to push himself up, head flopping around and spitting blood. David took more care this time, placed the next slap of the blackjack at the base of the man’s skull like he’d tried to do the first time. This time the guy went down and stayed there.
David scanned the ground until he saw the man’s cell phone. He picked it up and put it to his ear.
“—you there or not?” An accented voice. “Ramirez, I said to get back to the penthouse if he doesn’t show up within the hour. Do you hear me?”
David ended the call and put the cell phone in his pocket.
“Hey!”
David’s head jerked around to a man coming toward him down one of the docks. Flashlight beam swinging in front of him. He caught sight of a khaki shirt, the glint of metal over one pocket. Security guard.
David didn’t have time to get tangled up with a rent-a-cop. He already knew his next destination. He turned back to the Dodge, taking the keys out of his pocket, moving deliberately but not rushing as he climbed in behind the wheel.
“Hold up, buddy! What are you doing over there?”
David ignored him, started the car, and drove away.
The voice on the phone had mentioned a penthouse, and a penthouse was exactly where David had been heading when he’d changed course to investigate the Avenger. In David’s world, it was an annoying truth that two plus two did not always equal four, but in this case, he figured it was a safe bet.
He ran the next two red lights getting there.
* * *
Yousef frowned at his cell phone.
“What’s the matter?” Reagan said behind him. “Didn’t he—”
“Quiet,” Yousef said. “I’m thinking.”
He thought for two more seconds before rapidly dialing another number.
Dante Payne answered. “Did you get him?”
“Get out of the penthouse,” Yousef said. “Now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Charlie Finn had heard the whole thing through the Bluetooth, the conversation with the Chechen, the fight, gunshots, and then the sudden burst of white noise filling the speakers in the back of his Con Ed van.
The entire time, Charlie had tried to think fast and figure some way to help David, but the last thing he wanted to do was fill David’s ear with distraction in the middle of a hairy situation.
The instant he’d lost communication with the Bluetooth, Charlie’s hands flew over the keyboard, calling up the marine channels including the secure Coat Guard frequency. It wasn’t difficult to put together a picture of the situation, the collision of the two vessels and the ensuing chaos.
He was positive David had gone into the water, but if accidently or on purpose, Charlie couldn’t be sure. He monitored the radio channels, alert to reports of survivors either being picked up in the river or on shore. But nothing led him to believe any of them were David.
He tried texting and calling David’s smartphone.
Nothing.
This shit just got FUBAR real fast.
He sat back, reaching for the carton of leftover chow mein. The noodles had gone cold, but he didn’t care, shoveled them into his mouth with a pair of chopsticks, racking his brain for what to do next. Chew. Swallow. Think. Repeat.
In this situation, doing nothing was preferable to doing the wrong thing, but sitting and waiting didn’t make him feel very helpful.
Maybe the major had simply been in over his head this time. If the Army had sidelined him then there had to be reasons.
Yeah, because the Army never makes a mistake, right?
Still, it didn’t take long to get rusty in this business, especially for the guys out in the field. High stress. The Army could expect to get a few good years out of men like David before an operative started to unravel. It showed in the eyes first, a sort of haunted stare. When a man was constantly surrounded by enemies it hardened him and kept hardening him until he cracked. There had been operatives who’d gone back to the real world not quite able to function, not the same men they’d been when they’d started out. The Army did their best to pull an operative from duty before it got that far.
When Charlie Finn looked at David Sparrow, he did not see a man who’d cracked.
But he did see … something.
He could imagine the toll it would take for a man to lose his wife and his children, what he’d risk to protect them. A family had to be the biggest investment a man could make. All that love and responsibility for a lifetime.
Not that it always lasted a lifetime.
When Charlie had been very young, just out of high school, he’d met a girl. The girl, so he’d thought. She was the hottest thing he’d ever seen and so damn funny and they both liked heavy metal and that was enough for them. They’d gotten married after knowing each other for six weeks.
It lasted just over a year. Nothing dramatic. They’d simply grown bored with each other.
Charlie ate cold noodles and wondered what his life had been like if he’d done it right, waited for the right woman, had kids, the whole American dream thing.
He couldn’t quite picture it.
But David Sparrow fit into that picture perfectly, or at least, that’s how it seemed to Charlie. And the idea that it might all be taken away could be what finally cracked the man.
Charlie hoped not. He hoped David wasn’t at the bottom of the river.
He finished the noodles.
Charlie tried calling again but knew it was useless. David would have called by now if he’d been able. At some point the only choice would be to shut everything down, start up the Con Ed van, and drive back to the Bronx.
But not yet.
He reached for a cold egg roll.
One of the other computers chimed for his attention, and Charlie swiveled in his chair, instantly alert.
The code breaker program Charlie had turned loose on the flash drive David had given him had finally done its work. Charlie excitedly scrolled through the files. This is what they’d been waiting for.
It wasn’t clear at first exactly what he was looking at, and Charlie forced himself to read more slowly. It took him a few seconds to realize what he was reading.
Another few seconds to realize what it meant.
“Well.” Charlie sighed. “Shit.”
* * *
David parked around the corner from the apartment building’s main entrance.
If he made a long list of weapons he’d be willing to take into action, the Airweight revolver and the little silver automatic he’d taken from Gina would rank almost at the end of the list, maybe edging out boomerang and slingshot. The Airweight still had a full five rounds. He checked the little automatic’s clip. Two bullets left.
He got out of the car, slipping the automatic into his pants pocket on the left side. He kept the Airweight cupped in his hand down low next to his leg on the right. He was still wet, clothes clinging uncomfortably to his body, but he’d gone into battle in worse conditions.
He circled the building to the main entrance.
The uniformed doorman saw him coming up the steps and gave him the fish-eye, raised a hand to fend him off. “No panhandlers here, buddy. Move it along.”
David climbed the last two steps and stuck the Airweight into his ribs.
The doorman looked down at it. “Fuck.”
“You know who lives at the top?” David asked.
A pause, then the doorman said, “I know.”
They s
tood like that a moment, revolver firm in the man’s ribs, David dripping on the doorman’s shoes.
“You need a coffee break,” David told him.
The doorman didn’t hesitate, walked down the steps, turned the corner, and kept going. He didn’t look back even once.
David went into the lobby.
Four of them draped over plush chairs and sofas, flipping through magazines or heads down staring at smartphones. This had to be fast. If any of them got off a call upstairs then the trip would be for nothing. The range on the Airweight was crap, and with only five rounds he couldn’t waste them. He’d have to cross the lobby fast and get close. With the Airweight’s snub nose, his best bet was to shove the gun right up against whomever it was he wanted dead before pulling the trigger.
David was almost to the first one when the guy looked up from his magazine. “Hey, what are—oh, shit!”
David stuck the revolver against his forehead and squeezed the trigger.
A thunderclap shook the lobby. Brains and blood and pieces of skull exploded out the back of the guy’s head.
David was already swinging the revolver toward another one who sat in a plush leather chair three feet away. At that range, he thought it was still too far but he pulled the trigger anyway.
A red, wet hole bloomed in the guy’s chest. He fell back in the chair, legs going straight and arms flopping out to the sides.
But David hadn’t been as fast as he’d hoped. The other two had drawn pistols and had drawn a bead on him.
David leaped on the corpse in the chair, the momentum sending him, the chair and the corpse tumbling over as gunfire erupted, lead whizzing past overhead. He dropped the Airweight and reached into the dead man’s jacket, pulled out a Beretta M9.
He thumbed off the safety and rose to one knee and fired from behind the chair four times, a tight grouping across the goon’s chest. The man shivered and folded on top of himself into a dead heap.
David stood, watched as the final man turned and ran. David lifted the Beretta, held his breath and let it out slowly as he sighted and popped off a single round.
The fleeing gunman took the shot between the shoulder blades. It knocked him forward, and he skidded along the glossy tile and came to rest against a big potted plant.
Stay Page 16
