Bad Turn

by Zoe Sharp

  Still, at least now I had work. The pay wasn’t good—not compared to what I had been earning with Parker—and the hours were terrible, but it was a job, with a paycheque, and that would have to do. Besides, this wasn’t the first time I’d worked club doors. As I recall, I hadn’t liked it any better then, either.

  It was a Saturday night and the place was heaving with bodies writhing to the amped-up beat of music so loud it practically qualified as an offensive weapon. At least I didn’t have to get any closer to it than the main entrance, complete with waiting line and velvet rope stretched between chrome posts.

  The smell of sweat laced with alcohol and pheromones was enough to fell a bull elephant. It billowed up the narrow stairwell and out into the street around us.

  My job was to pat down the girls if we were suspicious they might be trying to bring anything into the place besides drinking-age ID and a credit card with a lot of headroom on it. This being the kind of club it was, though, most of the clientele were likely to complain only if you weren’t rough enough doing the body search. I swear, if one more half-cut, giggling twenty-something begged me to hurt her, I was probably going to do exactly that—in far more inventive and permanently disabling ways than she had in mind.

  The club shut down at four in the morning. Without anything notable to report to the security chief, I was soon shrugging into my jacket and saying my farewells to the other door staff. At least the guys treated me as an equal without making me prove it by breaking any of them.

  It had started to rain about midnight. Now it settled in as a steady downpour, the bumps and hollows in the sidewalk filling rapidly into ankle-deep traps for the unwary. A lot of the Meatpacking District still boasted the old cobblestone streets. Where asphalt had been laid over the top, the blocks were intermittently visible as the surface cracked away. I reckoned the local authority claimed leaving them on show constituted some kind of Historic Monument and were glad of the excuse to cut back on road repairs.

  There are times when I like walking in the rain, but 4 a.m., after an eleven-hour shift—most of it on my feet—was not one of those times. Still, it was only two blocks to the nearest subway station where I could pick up an Uptown A-train. New York, as the song claimed, really was the city that never slept—at least so far as the Metro Transit Authority was concerned.

  Unfortunately, this meant they had to carry out maintenance work on the system 24/7 as well. They’d been digging up part of the track north of 168th for weeks. I was just calculating if the walk at the far end would be longer or shorter if I hopped across onto the 1-line at Columbus Circle, when my spidey-sense tapped me on the shoulder.

  You are not alone.

  Not the first time I’ve got this message from some primitive, swamp-dwelling part of my psyche but I found it impossible to ignore, even if I wanted to.

  I kept walking without a moment’s hesitation in my stride, aware that the air around me was suddenly sharper, the darkness more vivid. From falling in solid curtains of water, the rain separated into individuate droplets, through which the city was all the more clear.

  I didn’t carry a bag, so had nothing to tangle me up or slow me down, and no strap to be grabbed by. I always wore gloves to avoid the temptation to stuff my hands into my pockets. The warmest ones I owned were my motorcycle gloves, with the moulded carbon fibre section across the back of the knuckles. I was wearing them now—protection for my hands, and not just from the cold.

  I headed north on 9th Avenue, which was one-way. Behind me on the far side of the street, keeping pace, was a dark Chevy Suburban. The way the overhead light was hitting the glass, I couldn’t tell how many were inside and I had no real desire to find out.

  The most straightforward route to the subway would have been straight up to 14th and then one block east. Instead, I turned right onto W 13th. That was one-way, also, but the traffic flow was east to west and the Suburban couldn’t legally follow.

  I lengthened my stride a little, keeping the cadence the same so it was harder to tell that I’d begun to cover more ground. As the Suburban drew level with the cross-street, I turned slightly and stepped off the kerb, checking both ways as my mother had taught me.

  That brief glance was enough to tell me the Suburban had stopped. Doors opened.

  I abandoned all pretence and ran.

  Behind me, I heard the screech of tyres spinning up on wet asphalt as the Suburban took off, then feet pounding through the rain in pursuit. It was hard to hear much else beyond the hammer of blood in my ears.

  I hoped for shouts identifying my pursuers as law enforcement—hell, identifying them as anything. Men only want to remain anonymous when they’re doing something they don’t want to come back and bite them in the arse later. Something they might have to one day stand up in court and defend or deny.

  I dived left on the next cross-street, purely because corners allowed for more uncertainty in a pursuer. Unless they want to risk running into an ambush, they have to slow down. Besides, I didn’t want to give them a straight shot at my unprotected back. It wasn’t until I’d made the decision that I realised my mistake.

  I was now on Hudson—another one-way street, but this time with the traffic-flow heading south only, towards me. Sure enough, a moment or so later I saw the Suburban come barrelling in from the W 14th end, rolling hard in the turn and almost drifting sideways through standing water.

  I stopped. No point in running into trouble that could flatten me without even putting a dent in the paintwork.

  I turned. Two men were bearing down on me. Big men in dark clothing, fists pumping as they thundered on. The one on point faltered slightly when he saw I was no longer running away.

  Because now I was running full-pelt towards them instead.

  I hit the first guy hard in the throat, allowing his weight and forward momentum to do most of the damage and the carbon fibre reinforcement in my gloves to do the rest. His legs were still carrying him forwards even as his upper body snapped to the rear.

  He landed flat on his back with enough force to blast the air from his lungs—even if I hadn’t half-paralysed his larynx first. He stayed down, clutching his throat and gasping.

  The second guy was just far enough back to take in what happened. He braked hard, feet slithering on the slick sidewalk, and spun into a roundhouse kick that would have taken my head off at the shoulders if it had connected.

  It didn’t.

  I learned a long time ago that fancy high kicks may look very impressive, but trying to use them in a street fight is a foolish manoeuvre. Anticipating the arc of movement, I stepped in, grabbed the guy’s leg and clamped it tight against the side of my body.

  Then I punched him in the fleshy vee under his ribcage, putting my weight behind the blow and rotating my fist as it landed. I felt the power of it jar all the way up my arm into my shoulder.

  I shoved him backwards and let go. He dropped faster than the first guy. Neither of them was getting up in a hurry.

  I began to turn, but by this time the Suburban had skidded to a halt alongside us. The passenger window was down and I saw the clear outline of a semiautomatic pistol in the driver’s right hand, pointing firmly in my direction.

  You have to know when to fight and when to yield. I dropped out of flight mode and half-heartedly raised my hands. I was suddenly aware of the rainwater sliding down my face and dripping from my chin. My hair was flattened to my scalp and my lungs were burning.

  The Suburban’s limo-black rear window buzzed down. The interior courtesy light was on, illuminating the face of the man who sat inside. I recognised him immediately. After our last encounter, I had hoped we’d never meet again. But I always knew that one day we would.

  “Ah, Ms Fox,” Conrad Epps said, as though he’d just bumped into me at the park rather than running me to ground with his human attack dogs. “Please, get in. I believe we may be of mutual benefit to each other…”

  7

  It had been a while since I last set eye
s on Conrad Epps. I never quite pinned down exactly which shady part of the government he worked for, except that it was most likely one of the alphabet agencies—CIA, NSA, DIA—something connected to Homeland Security. In any event, it was an organisation with a long arm and deep pockets.

  He still looked exactly the same as he had at our last meeting, in California, what seemed like a lifetime ago. Straight-backed in the ex-military mould, with steel-grey hair cropped so close to his head it looked like he’d been flocked. I’d never noticed the colour of his eyes, only the coldness in them.

  It was impossible to see the colour of them now, as I climbed into the back of the Suburban. The overhead cabin light threw his deep-set eye sockets into shadow.

  “You may shut the door behind you,” Epps said mildly, his voice a resonant rumble. I glanced back at the two men still squirming on the wet sidewalk behind me. He added, “They won’t be joining us.”

  I did as I was ordered and sank back in the leather upholstery, pushing sodden hair out of my eyes with hands that were remarkably steady, all things considered. The driver took off far more sedately than he’d arrived, leaving his fallen comrades behind without a murmur. If he’d worked for Epps long, I guessed he’d be used to such behaviour.

  “The price of failure?” I asked. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”

  Epps shrugged. “Think of it as a consequences-based training method.”

  We sat in silence while the driver took the next two right turns. I assumed he was in a one-block holding pattern until he turned left on W 14th and began cruising slowly in the direction of the High Line. I leaned forwards and tapped the man on his shoulder. To his credit, he barely flinched.

  “Washington Heights, please,” I said cheerfully. “Since Mr Epps knows where I work, no doubt he also knows where I live, so you’ll have the address.”

  “Does this look like a cab to you?” Epps demanded.

  “You have something you want to discuss with me—something that’s so important it couldn’t wait until a more sociable hour. If you want me to hear you out, I think a ride home is the very least you can offer in return, don’t you?”

  Epps considered for a moment, caught the driver’s eye in the rear-view mirror and gave him a curt nod. I spared a brief thought for his two heavies, abandoned in the rain. Tough. Especially the one who’d launched the abortive roundhouse kick right at my head. A long—I hoped—as well as soggy and uncomfortable train ride home was no more than they deserved.

  Epps seemed in no hurry to start the ball rolling, and I didn’t try to push him. The longer he took, the further up Manhattan Island we were likely to get before I told him what he could do with his proposition. It would probably involve a procedure he hadn’t contemplated since his last prostate examination.

  “I know you have no intention of giving due consideration to what I have to say,” Epps said at last. So, the man had added mindreading to his list of accomplishments. “But I trust you’ll do me the courtesy of evaluating all the implications before you make a decision you might regret.”

  “I have not forgotten our…history,” I said, maintaining as much neutrality as I could manage. Epps had played a significant part in my personal and professional life on two previous occasions. Neither had ended well. Whatever debt to him I might have racked up in our first encounter had been well and truly cancelled out by events of the second. I didn’t feel I owed him anything, but having the positions reversed—particularly the way things stood at the moment—might not be all bad.

  I should have known that a man like Epps was not going to be manoeuvred into owing anybody favours.

  “I never thought I’d see you employed as a bouncer in a sex club,” he said then.

  I frowned at the apparent change of tack.

  “It’s a BDSM club—you must be familiar with those. And I think you’ll find I suggest and persuade. I don’t bounce. I leave that to the heavy mob.” Much as you do yourself.

  “Nevertheless, it is not the professional occupation under which you applied for your permanent residency here in the United States.” He let that one sink in for a moment. “Is it?”

  Oh shit. So that’s how it’s going to be…

  I sighed. “OK, let me save you a little time here and cut to the chase, shall I?” We were heading north on 12th Ave now, six lanes of sparse traffic with industrial buildings on one side and, on the other, not much between us and the river. We passed under the overhead sign for the Lincoln Tunnel exit.

  “By all means.”

  “The US Customs and Immigration Service and border patrol and God knows what other agencies, now fall under the purview of the Department of Homeland Security, which I’m assuming is where this part of the conversation is going, yes?”

  “You’re very astute,” he agreed.

  “So, just as a wild guess, if I don’t agree to do whatever it is you want me to do, you’ll have me deported.”

  “Succinctly put.”

  “And?” I prompted.

  “And correct in almost every detail.”

  “So, what is this job that’s so nasty you’d prefer to blackmail a freelancer into doing it, rather than simply assign one of your own people?”

  “There are dangers inherent in all kinds of security work, as you are well aware. In this case, the problem we have is more one of…information integrity, one might say.”

  “Meaning?”

  “We have a deep-cover agent in place inside an arms dealing operation that has ties to organised crime on an international scale.”

  “Aren’t your people more concerned with domestic terrorism?”

  “When they are capable of arming factions or even governments who may harbour hostile intent toward the United States, then it becomes my concern.”

  I’d rarely heard him sound so focused, so intense. There had always been a latent violence to Epps. I’d once thought of him as a more soulless version of Parker. After recent events, however, I was struggling to differentiate between the two of them.

  “O–K,” I said slowly. “What is it about this undercover agent that you think I might be able to help you with?”

  The driver took the left sweep for the 9A. As we climbed onto Henry Hudson Parkway, north towards the Bronx, six lanes became eight. There wasn’t much opportunity for him to pull over and tell me to walk. I doubted even Epps was prepared to toss me from a moving car, although I wouldn’t have put money on it.

  Epps let out a long breath, the most unsettled I’d seen him. “This agent has been in so deep, for so long, that we feel we can no longer entirely trust their…judgement.”

  “So pull them out and can the operation.”

  “Things have reached a delicate stage. There’s a complex transaction in the offing that may have serious ongoing repercussions for national security. Our agent—if he or she can be trusted—is in a position to ensure the outcome is…favourable.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t speak spook. Could I have that again in English?”

  Epps glared. “There is a limit to how much I am permitted to tell you.”

  “Just as there’s a limit to how much consideration I can give your…offer.” I paused, watching the mask of his face as it cooled and hardened. A peace offering seemed sensible at this point. I sighed, forced a placatory note into my voice. “Even the basics would do.”

  He glanced at me, something cynical in his eyes. Oh yeah, he knew exactly what I was doing.

  “This organisation—” he began.

  “Who are?”

  The scowl was back. “You’re going to have to give me a lot more assurance before I can read you in further than that.”

  I said nothing and waved him on. We’d picked up signs for the Boat Basin at 79th Street, moving through Riverside Park. Probably about halfway home.

  “This organisation,” he repeated, pausing pointedly for a beat in case I was foolish enough to interrupt him again, “has, in the past, supplied weapons to the Syrian gover
nment, who are using them, with the support of the Russians, against sections of their own population opposed to the existing regime.”

  “I’ll stick my neck out and suppose that you disapprove?”

  “Of the use of arms against the people, or of the regime itself?”

  “Either,” I said, “Or both.”

  “Both.” Something about the way he snapped out the single terse word was illuminating. I’d never suspected Conrad Epps might feel strongly about anything that didn’t apply to the safety and security of his home country. Look up ‘patriot’ in the dictionary and I’d bet the entry had his picture underneath, that he pledged allegiance to the flag every morning and slept in his medals every night.

  But this…?

  “What is your undercover agent supposed to do—if they’re still following the game plan, that is?” I asked, genuinely curious now. “Halt supply to the regime? Or start supplying the rebels?”

  “We are not about to reignite the Cold War by proxy by weaponising the opponents of an internationally recognised government,” Epps bit out. And while his tone was starchy, I’d learned that when he sounded like he’d swallowed the official manual, that was when he was burying things deepest.

  “So you’re trying to halt the supply.”

  He inclined his head in agreement. “That objective has already been attained.”

  I shrugged. “Then…where’s your problem?”

  He sat without fidgeting in the rear seat, eyes on mine never wavering. “We’ve heard whispers that another shipment is being prepared, and that this time it involves chemical weapons.”

  “What kind of chemical weapons?”

  Epps shook his head and for once I didn’t get the feeling he was giving me the brush off. His frustration was too genuine for that.