“Which brings us to why I’m here, Mikey. You got in the way of my taking out Erica’s parents. You’re going to have to make that up to me. Fortunately, I’ve come up with an alternate plan, and you’re going to help. So drink up that beer of kings, pal. Last call. We’re going for a little ride.”
Chapter 86
THANK GOD, was my first thought. If we got out of here, my family would be safe. That was all I wanted.
At gunpoint, he walked me out of the kitchen, back into the living room. But then with his free arm he scooped up Chrissy, still in her Barbie pajamas, off the couch.
“No!” I yelled. I managed to restrain myself from lunging for him, afraid he’d start shooting.
But Eddie screamed, “Get off her!” and jumped from the couch, trying to tackle Meyer. He went flying backward even faster as Meyer kneed him in the chest.
“Get your rug rats under control, Bennett, or I will,” Meyer snarled at me.
“Guys, stay where you are,” I ordered the kids, then turned back to the killer. “Billy, relax. I already said I’d help you. We don’t need to bring her. Besides, she’s sick.”
“Her condition’s going to get a lot worse if you don’t do what I say. That goes for all of you. I see a cop car, this family is going to be short two place settings at breakfast tomorrow.” Holding my squirming little girl under his arm, Meyer gestured me back toward the kitchen with his pistol. “Come on now, Mikey. We’re going down the freight elevator.”
I hesitated for the briefest second as we passed the knives, but then kept walking.
“Wise decision, buddy,” Meyer said, jamming the gun barrel against my ear. “I knew we’d start to grow on each other, me and you.”
We went down the back elevator and came out the side entrance of my building on 95th Street. Not a soul was in sight as I led him to my unmarked Impala. He put me behind the wheel and took Chrissy into the backseat with him.
“She’s not wearing a seat belt, Mikey, so I’d drive carefully if I were you. Go to Broadway and head uptown, and do me a favor. Turn that police band up.”
We rolled uptown to Washington Heights.
“Make a left up here,” he said when we got to 168th.
Over the building tops, I saw the steel lattice tower of the George Washington Bridge.
“Find an on-ramp for the outbound side,” Meyer said in my ear. “We’re going across.”
Why were we heading to Jersey? Not to load up on cheap gas, that was for sure. Was this his escape plan? It was impossible to guess what was going on in that crazy mind.
I managed to make eye contact with Chrissy in the rearview mirror. She looked scared, but she’d settled down, and was holding up more incredibly than I could have imagined. I love you, Daddy, she mouthed. I love you, too, I mouthed back. Don’t worry.
I didn’t know much, but I was certain of one thing as I piloted us carefully onto the bridge. This sick bastard wasn’t going to harm my daughter. No matter what.
Chapter 87
WHEN MAEVE AND I had first brought home our oldest daughter, Juliana, I used to have this terrible recurring nightmare. In it, I’d be feeding Juliana in her high chair, and all of a sudden, she’d start to choke. I’d put my finger in her mouth, give her the Heimlich, but absolutely nothing would work. I’d wake up sweating and gasping, and I’d have to go to her room and hold a mirror to her tiny nose and see it fog with her breath before I could let myself go back to sleep.
Because that, without question, is a parent’s greatest fear. To be helpless, not able to do anything, when his child is facing harm.
I glanced in my rearview mirror at Meyer, sitting next to my daughter. At the heavy, oiled automatic pistol he held loosely in his lap.
My dry throat felt like it was caked with dust as I swallowed. My whole body was covered in a cold sweat. The steering wheel was slick with it, practically slipping out of my hands.
You live long enough, I thought as misery shook through me like a low-voltage shock, even your worst nightmares may come true.
I glanced in the mirror again, and this time I saw a pain-filled light in Chrissy’s eyes. It was the same look she’d gotten when I’d read her The Velveteen Rabbit for the first time. She was starting to really understand how wrong this ride was.
The last thing we needed was for her to start crying, and irritate the human time bomb sitting next to her. When I’d attended the FBI Academy in Quantico, I’d learned that when you’re kidnapped, you want to be as unobtrusive and cooperative as possible.
“Chrissy?” I said, struggling to keep the fear out of my voice. “Tell us a joke, honey. I didn’t hear today’s joke.”
The sad light in her eyes diminished, and she cleared her throat theatrically. As the baby of the family, she knew how to perform.
“What do you call a monkey after you take away his bananas?” she said.
“I don’t know, honey. What?” I said, playing straight man.
“Furious George!” she yelled, and started giggling.
I laughed along with her, watching Meyer’s eyes for his reaction.
But they had nothing in them. They were the glazed eyes of a man buying a newspaper, or riding an elevator, or waiting for a train.
I glanced back at the road just in time to see that the tractor trailer in front of me had come to a dead stop. My heart locked as the huge truck’s blood-red brake lights and sheer steel wall seemed to rush at us, filling the windshield. I mashed the brakes, with rubber squealing and smoking.
That the car came to a stop inches before decapitating me under the tailgate was a miracle. Add hysterical cops to the list of people God looks out for, I thought, wiping my sweating forehead.
“Get it together, Bennett,” Meyer warned me harshly. “You get us in trouble, I’ll have to shoot my way out of it. Starting right here.”
Yeah, sure, my bad, I wanted to snap back. It’s a tad hard to focus when your nerves are stretched past the snapping point.
“Take the next exit west off the interstate,” he ordered. “Time to get off this road, anyway, the way you drive.”
We pulled onto Route 46, a run-down industrial strip. I stared out at the old motels and warehouses, with patches of deserted desolate Jersey swampland in the spaces between them, trying to assess whether the slower speed and lack of traffic might work in my favor. If I jammed the car into a fishtailing spin, would that throw Meyer off balance long enough for me to grab Chrissy and run? It’s hard to hit a target, especially a moving one, with a handgun.
But this guy was incredible with a pistol, there was no doubt about that. Just my luck.
Run or fight—both bad choices, but the only ones I had. Oh, God, help me save my daughter, I prayed. What the hell do I do?
“Look, Daddy,” Chrissy said, and an instant later, a violent roar shook through the car. Stunned, I thought maybe I’d actually hit something this time. For an insane instant, the thought of a roadside bomb even flitted through my mind.
It took me a couple more seconds to realize that the noise was from a plane coming in low over our car. As it dropped into sight ahead, I saw that it was a small, sleek corporate jet, landing on a runway behind the high chain-link fence on my left.
What the hell was an airport doing here? Newark was miles farther south down 95. Then I realized that this was Teterboro, a small private airport that a lot of corporations and jet-setters used when coming into New York. It cost a fortune, but it was only twenty or so minutes into the city, and there were no strip searches or waiting in line.
“Slow down and turn in here,” Meyer said as we approached a stoplight.
I made the turn carefully, swiping again at the cold sweat now stinging my eyes. Whatever this son of a bitch had in mind, the addition of an airport somehow made it a thousand times worse.
Chapter 88
THE AIRPORT ENTRANCE ROAD called Industrial Avenue was lined with private jet management firms—small two-story buildings with hangars behind them and fenced, g
uarded parking lots in front. The guard booths were manned with uniformed Port Authority cops, I noticed.
Was this the time to make my move? Would they figure out what was happening before Chrissy, I, and maybe they, too, ended up dead?
I hung on once again, figuring I’d be better off if I knew what Meyer had in mind.
“Stop here,” he said when the road dead-ended. “Listen good, Bennett, because you’re going to get only one chance. Turn around, then pull into the first hangar on the way back. They’ve got only one guard, and that’s why I brought you. You’re going to use some of that on-the-job cop juice. Flash your badge and get us in.”
“What am I supposed to tell him?” I said, wheeling the Chevy around in a U-turn.
“Get creative, cop, and make it good. Your daughter’s life depends on it.”
The Port Authority cop in the guard booth was a young Asian guy, who leaned out his window when we drove up.
“NYPD,” I said, flashing my shield. “We’re in pursuit of a homicide suspect that we believe might have climbed the fence off Forty-six, and could be inside this area.”
“What?!” the young officer said, squinting in at me. “I haven’t heard anything about that. Homeland Security had us put sensors on the wire after 9/11. They should have picked the guy up.” His gaze moved toward Meyer and Chrissy in the backseat.
I tensed, silently praying that he would deny my bizarre request, or even drop all pretence and go for his gun. My Chevy looked like what it was, an unmarked cop car. A passenger riding in the backseat would have looked extremely suspicious even by himself, let alone with my four-year-old daughter beside him.
Meyer would be distracted, and I could fling myself over the backseat on top of Chrissy. At least shield her with my body, and maybe get her out of there. Run like hell, somewhere, anywhere. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was looking like the only shot we’d get.
Instead, the cop’s face turned even more perplexed.
“Who’s the little girl?” he said.
“Her daddy was the one who got killed,” Meyer piped in over my shoulder. “Give us a break already with the twenty questions, cuz. This is a homicide we’re talking about. Time’s a-wasting.”
“I can’t believe I wasn’t notified about this,” the Port Authority cop said almost to himself, with a shake of his head. “Okay, come on in. Park over by the hangar while I radio my sarge.”
“Nice work there, Mikey boy,” Meyer whispered as the stick gate rose. “I appreciate it so much, I’m going to give you and your brat five more minutes of life.”
As we drove the twenty yards to the hangar, Meyer sneezed violently, then wiped snot off his face with his wounded hand.
“Your goddamned kids got me sick,” he said.
As if on cue, something in my stomach heaved, and I doubled over and vomited all over the passenger footwell. So my dry throat and cold sweat weren’t only from my bone-numbing terror, I realized, wiping my chin on my sleeve. The flu had finally caught up with me, too.
“That makes two of us,” I said.
“Yeah, well, sick or not, the show must go on. C’mon now. Me, you, and the girl are going out. You listen to me, you two might just make it out of here.”
I sat up, found Meyer’s eyes in the rearview, and shook my head.
“Never happen,” I said. “You want me to go with you, fine. But she stays here.”
“Don’t leave me, Daddy,” Chrissy pleaded.
“What kind of mean father are you, Bennett?” Meyer said. “See, she wants to come.” That ugly mockery was back in his voice again. He must have been feeling confident, now that he’d gotten this far. “Or would you rather I finish you both right here and now?”
“You’re talking like that cop’s the only one at this airport,” I said. “Pull that trigger, and he’ll call in the cavalry before the sound fades. You know damn well they’ve got a SWAT team here. M16s, sniper rifles, flashbangs, lots of drill practice. You’re good, Billy, but you’ll never get past them.”
Meyer was quiet for several seconds. “I hate to admit it, Bennett, but you make a good point,” he finally said. “That’s another favor you’ve done me, so I’ll do you another one back. We’ll leave her here. It’s just you and me now.”
Chapter 89
OUTSIDE THE CAR, my sweat felt even colder, maybe because of the fresh air or maybe because I seemed to be running a fever now. On top of that, my stomach told me it wasn’t completely done heaving up its inventory.
The roar of another plane screaming skyward drowned out everything else for a few seconds. As its echo faded, my heart was cut by the sound of Chrissy, crying in the backseat.
The Port Authority cop stepped out of his booth and came walking toward us. His hand was on the butt of his pistol and his face looked wary.
“Just got off the phone with the sarge,” he said. “He’s on his way over here.”
I was opening my mouth, trying to come up with another quick lie, when Meyer shot him. No indication, no warning—just boom. The bullet hit the officer in the cheek, blood sprayed out the back of his head, and he dropped like a soup tureen that had been pushed off a table.
“No shit,” Meyer said, crouching to take handcuffs off the downed cop’s belt. “What did the sarge say?”
“You son of a bitch,” I yelled, and I leaped on Meyer, swinging. It was an incredibly stupid thing to do, but I didn’t think, I just reacted. I hit him as hard as I ever hit anyone in my entire life, a right hook to his ear that knocked him off his feet and sent him rolling over the cop’s body onto the asphalt.
But goddammit, he got up with his gun clenched in his hand. I was shaking as he placed the still warm barrel in the soft spot under my chin, but he seemed amused instead of angry. He was actually grinning.
“Not bad, copper, but that’s the only one you get,” he said. “You gonna behave now? Or do I have to go back and see how your little girl’s doing?”
“Sorry,” I muttered, lowering my eyes.
“No, you’re not,” he said, then gave me a vicious kick in the rear, aiming me toward the private airport’s main building. “But you will be.”
The reception area inside looked like the lobby of a four-star hotel. Walls paneled with gleaming wood, leather furniture, marble coffee tables fanned with Fortune, BusinessWeek, Vanity Fair. The tarmac was visible beyond the windows.
A pretty, obviously pregnant receptionist was talking into a phone, but when she saw us she froze in place, gaping. The phone dropped from her hand, clattering on her desktop.
“Sorry to barge in unannounced,” Meyer said airily, pointing the gun at her swollen belly. “We’re just going to head out to the tarmac, okay? Don’t bother us, and we won’t bother you.”
There was an empty executive waiting room through a door on the left. More leather chairs and a hundred-inch wide-screen TV blaring ESPN’s top ten.
I jumped about five feet in the air as Meyer suddenly swung his gun around and blew a hole through the screen.
“Why should Elvis have all the fun?” he yelled, shoving me into another corridor. “-Fifty-seven high-def channels now, and there’s still nothing on.”
He kicked open a door marked PILOTS’ LOUNGE. We passed workout equipment, showers, a small kitchen.
Then the cold hit us again as we went through another door into a brightly lit hangar. Wind whipped through the building, across a steel walkway and stairs. There were tool carts, a portable crane, a mobile scaffold, but no people, thank God. Was he looking for a plane? There were none of those, either. Thank God again.
“Move it, Bennett,” he said, yanking me out the huge double doors toward the string of blazing runway lights.
“We’re going out there?” I said. “Looks kind of dangerous.”
Meyer sneered. “Come on, cop, show some balls.”
Striding toward the runway, we saw a plane approaching slowly down the taxiway from one of the other private hangars—a small orange-and-white Cessna, w
ith a loudly buzzing propeller engine on each wing.
“Give me your badge, quick,” Meyer ordered me. “And stay here. You move one step, your daughter’s dead.”
He tore the badge out of my hand and jogged toward the runway, shoving his gun into his belt. Standing in front of the plane, he held up the badge and waved his other hand frantically, like an enraged traffic cop. I could see the pilot behind the windshield, a young man with shaggy blond hair. He looked baffled, but he stopped the plane, and Meyer came around the wing.
A few seconds later, the pilot opened the door and Meyer stepped up into the plane. I couldn’t hear what they said over the noise of the propellers, but I saw Meyer snake something out of his pocket and flick his wrist. A telescoping steel baton shot from his hand like a huge switchblade knife. He must have taken it off the dead Port Authority cop along with the handcuffs.
He blasted the kid across the side of his head twice, with a force I could almost feel. Then he reached in, unclipped the pilot’s seat belt, and dumped him, unconscious, out onto the tarmac, with blood streaking his blond head.
“He says we can borrow his plane, Bennett!” he yelled at me. “How’s that for luck? Get your ass over here.”
I stood in the icy wake of the roaring propeller blades, wondering if there was any chance I could run back to the car and make a getaway with Chrissy. But Meyer had his pistol in his hand again. I saw the muzzle flash and felt the snap of a round whip past my left ear. Before I could blink, another round ricocheted off the tarmac between my legs.
“Come on, Mikey, I want some company. Pretty please?”
I sucked in my breath and headed toward the plane.
Chapter 90
THE INSIDE OF THE CESSNA was as tight as a coffin. And less comfortable, I thought, trying to squeeze my long legs underneath the sharp console on the front passenger side. It didn’t help that Meyer cuffed my wrists before strapping me tightly into my seat with a lap belt and shoulder harness.
Run for Your Life Page 19
