I watched the bike swerve back past the barricade, but there was no way I was going to let it escape. As we struggled, I flipped the catch on the guard’s holster and snatched his pistol. Afraid I was going to shoot him, he recoiled instantly, leaving me clear to target the speeding motorcycle. Lying on my side in the snow, I snapped off a shot and hit the motorcyclist in the shoulder.
The motorcyclist grabbed the wound with his other hand, and the bike fishtailed and skidded across the street, before colliding with a lamppost. The assassin was flung clear, but the motorcyclist was tossed into the air like a doll and hit the metal pole with a resounding crack. As the motorcyclist fell to the ground motionless, the assassin staggered to his feet, drew his pistol and opened fire on the two guards by the barricade.
The crack of gunshots scattered nearby onlookers and a number of people screamed when the two guards went down wounded. The shooter set off down Exchange Place on foot.
Realizing I wasn’t a threat to him, the guard who’d tackled me grabbed his weapon and tried to restrain me.
“Get off me!” I yelled. “Help them.” I indicated his fallen colleagues. “I’m going after the shooter.”
CHAPTER 5
THE GUARD DIDN’T resist when I pushed him away.
“Help them!” I repeated, getting to my feet.
“Come on, Taylor,” a voice said.
It was the older guard who’d first tackled me. He and his younger colleague were coming up Broad Street. The third guard, Taylor, started toward the two others who’d been shot. Passers-by had already clustered around the men and were trying to help them.
Sprinting, I soon made it to the corner of Exchange Place, a narrow cut that linked Broad Street and William Street. High buildings loomed either side, shrouding the street in almost constant shadow. Snow was heaped against the buildings and steam rose from a long vent. The assassin was about a hundred yards ahead and moving quickly. I pushed harder and my lungs burned with the effort as my legs rose and fell like pistons.
Adrenalin and training were replaced by grim determination. This man had murdered my friend.
Parking was restricted on the narrow street, and the only vehicle in sight was a solitary US Postal Service truck that idled beside giant stone columns that marked the entrance of a huge skyscraper. The assassin jumped off the sidewalk and made straight for the driver’s door. As he approached the vehicle, he glanced back, saw me and opened fire. I ducked into a doorway as bullets whipped the air in front of me and buried themselves in the stonework to my rear. When I peered out, the assassin was pulling a female postal worker from the truck. He tossed her onto the street, jumped into the vehicle and drove away.
“Help!” the woman yelled as she got to her feet. “Someone help me!”
She shook her head with resignation as the stolen truck took a right onto William Street.
“Call the cops,” I said breathlessly as I sprinted past her.
When I reached the corner of William Street, I saw the postal truck no more than a hundred yards away, fighting head-on traffic as it tried to drive the wrong direction down a one-way street. It was just after nine thirty, but New York is a city where it’s always rush hour, and the traffic had been made worse than usual by the heavy January snowfall.
He gave up trying to clear a path through the traffic and the truck suddenly lurched up onto the curb and started tearing along the sidewalk, forcing pedestrians to jump clear.
I cast around and settled on a yellow cab waiting for a fare. The driver was watching two guys exchange farewells outside a coffee shop on the corner, and his impatient fingers tapped on the steering wheel. He didn’t notice me until I pulled his door open.
“What the—” he said, but my hands were already on the collar of his sheepskin jacket, and I yanked him out.
“I need your vehicle,” I told him as I pushed him away and jumped in.
His fare was finally done with his goodbyes and tried to open the rear door as I pulled a U-turn. I saw his perplexed expression in the wing mirror as he watched his ride race away with the cab driver sprinting alongside, banging on the window and cursing with every step. I swung right, mounted the sidewalk and lost the driver as I picked up speed.
Up ahead, snow sprayed everywhere as the truck smashed through the piled drifts. Pedestrians dived out of the assassin’s way, which gave me a clear run. I stepped on the gas, and the cab surged forward, closing the gap between the two vehicles. The postal truck turned a bend and caught a patch of black ice, which sent it fishtailing out of control. The back end swung wildly and fell off the sidewalk, clipping a car that was waiting in traffic. The collision cost the truck its back bumper and the assassin lost valuable momentum. It gave me the chance to get within yards of him before he got going again. The driver of the car he’d hit got out of his vehicle and turned the air blue with angry shouts, but the postal truck lurched back onto the sidewalk and raced on.
When it reached the intersection with Beaver Street, the truck hopped off the curb and almost collided with an oncoming cab. The truck veered across the intersection and mounted the sidewalk on the east side of William Street. I followed, and crossed Beaver Street in front of the startled cab driver before steering my vehicle onto the west sidewalk. I stepped on the gas and drew level with the assassin, the two of us racing each other on opposite sides of the street. I kept my hand on the horn in an attempt to warn oncoming pedestrians, and they leaped into doorways or onto the street.
The assassin took more risks than me and didn’t care about hitting anyone, but the truck was slower than the cab, so we were pretty evenly matched. Up ahead I saw a delivery truck double parked, blocking the northbound traffic on William Street, and realized it presented me with an opportunity. Angry drivers were honking at the delivery driver who was waving at them to be patient, but his vehicle had created a gap in the traffic. I stepped on the accelerator, swung left between two parked cars, crossed the street, and drove the cab into the assassin’s stolen truck. The crash sent our vehicles smashing into a store window and we came to a shuddering halt when the postal truck collided with a structural support.
My airbag deployed, blocking my view, and the cab filled with a thick cloud of smoke and silicate powder.
CHAPTER 6
I WAS WINDED but otherwise uninjured. I gasped in a lungful of air, pushed the airbag away and jumped out of the cab. The man I was chasing staggered out of the postal truck, dazed and disorientated, but as I started toward him, his flight instinct kicked in and he started running. I followed, and within moments he’d shaken off the worst of the collision and we were both sprinting at full pelt. My chest was sore as I ran along William Street and came to Hanover Square, but adrenalin kept the worst of the pain at bay. The shooter darted between slow-moving cars, vaulted a line of low railings and raced across the tiny square, which was covered in thick snow. I followed, crunching through ice-crusted powder, matching him stride for stride. Up ahead, the building line opened out a little and I saw gray clouds hanging low in the gaps between the skyscrapers. We were near the river.
The assassin jumped the railings on the south side of the square and ran across the street, earning a horn blast from a startled driver. I followed and chased him down Old Slip, a narrow road that ran down to South Street and the river. I collided with a man and woman coming out of the New York City Police Museum, housed in the old First Precinct. I skirted past the fearful couple and sprinted on. The shooter ran across South Street, forcing an eighteen-wheeler to a halt, and sprinted beneath FDR Drive, the four-lane overpass that followed the riverfront. I raced under the busy highway. The sound of the traffic rumbling overhead was almost deafening and it masked my pounding steps, so the assassin wasn’t aware how close I was until I was on him. I’d got within striking distance when the man suddenly turned and swung his pistol at me. I parried the weapon as the gun went off, and the bullet sliced the air a few inches from my ear, and the loud gunshot set my head ringing.
The as
sassin stood his ground, and up close I could see the seams and folds of the prosthetics that masked his true identity. He tried to bring the gun round for another shot, but I swung a punch and caught him on the chin. His gun arm flailed and I knocked it down, sending the weapon flying. It clattered across the sidewalk and skidded beneath the eighteen-wheeler. The driver was ignoring the horn blasts of the angry motorists backed up to his rear, and had his phone out filming us.
The shooter came at me with a combination of punches that made me realize I was dealing with a skilled combatant. I stepped back, ducking and blocking each blow, but one slipped my guard: a right cross that caught me on the cheek. Then came the flash of white familiar to every fighter who’s ever taken a powerful head blow, and for an instant I was blind. I covered up, tucking my head into my forearms, and absorbing his assault.
My eyesight returned and I stepped back as he swung a roundhouse. His foot swiped the air in front of me, and when it landed he was turned slightly, offering me a shot at his kidneys. I went in with a left and right that made him buck with pain, and as he crouched to cover the spot, I swung a fist into his face. The prosthetic rubber flattened, and so did the man’s real nose. He had no nasal bone, so there was nothing to break.
A gunshot rang out from the other side of the road and echoed beneath the overpass. I glanced in the direction of the sound and saw a man in jeans and a thick leather jacket trying to target me with a pistol. He shot again, and this time wasn’t too far off hitting me. I put the assassin between us, and ran for cover behind the eighteen-wheeler. The driver ignored me and kept his phone pointed at the shooter who was trying to pick me off.
I heard the bullets hit the trailer as I took cover behind it. The driver must have thought things were getting too hot, because the truck shifted into first and an instant later it lurched forward. As I watched my cover drive away, I desperately searched for an alternative, but when the trailer cleared my line of sight, there was no sign of the assassin or his accomplice. I ran beneath the highway and reached a cycle path on the bank of the East River. I looked right and saw the two men slow to a walk as they approached a chopper at the Manhattan Heliport.
The red Bell 407 was on one of the pads on the jetty that protruded into the river, and its blades were turning. The moment the assassin and the guy in the leather jacket climbed aboard, it took to the sky.
I stopped running and caught my breath as the chopper followed the river in front of me. I saw the assassin watching me from inside the aircraft, and made myself a silent promise.
We would meet again.
CHAPTER 7
I WAS SHIVERING by the time I reached Broad Street. My coat was in the Exchange cloakroom and my Balani custom fitted suit didn’t offer much protection against the bitter chill of a New York winter. My chest was sore from the car crash and, after all the exertion, each breath was like inhaling jagged shards of ice.
Two ambulances were at the intersection with Exchange Place, and teams of paramedics were administering first aid to the guards who’d been shot. The calm, measured air of the medics suggested serious, but not critical, injury. I hurried behind the gathered crowd and headed south along Broad Street before the trio of security guards who’d tackled me noticed my return. They were standing with a group of thirty or so onlookers, many of whom had their phones out and were filming the ongoing medical treatment.
I walked toward a police cordon that been established fifty yards from the Exchange’s Broad Street entrance, and flashed my credentials at one of the uniformed cops.
“Jack Morgan, Private,” I said. “The victim, Karl Parker, was a friend.”
The cop nodded me through and I walked toward chaos. A couple of hundred traders and support staff who’d been in the Exchange at the time of the shooting had been corralled in a space by the entrance. People were growing disgruntled, and uniformed cops were shouting instructions, telling everyone they had to wait to be interviewed by one of the detectives working the crowd. The mood was turning ugly as many of those evacuated from the building weren’t dressed for the freezing cold. Coats were being brought out, and blankets provided, but not quickly enough for the most vocal members of the crowd.
A fleet of emergency vehicles was parked on Wall Street, and their flashing lights colored the surrounding buildings. News trucks were arriving and a couple of camera crews were already setting up. A growing crowd was gathering beyond the cordon on Wall Street. Passers-by who suddenly found their route through the city blocked mixed with gawkers eager to satisfy their hunger for sensation. I’d worked too many cases to kid myself about the lure of the macabre, but this incident was personal and I wanted all the phones and cameras to disappear, and the people who’d suffered such great loss to be left in peace.
I caught sight of the two people suffering most. Victoria and Kevin Parker were led through the Broad Street exit and ushered past the tent toward the line of waiting emergency vehicles.
“Victoria,” I called out, jogging over.
She turned, but it was an automatic action, like a rabbit in the path of an oncoming truck. She gave no hint of recognition and seemed stunned by trauma. Kevin wore the same blank expression, and their eyes were raw with tears. They were being shep-herded by a couple of uniforms and a plain-clothes detective.
“Victoria,” I repeated as I reached them. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s OK,” she said, but her voice suggested otherwise. It was pained and cracking. I still wasn’t sure she’d recognized me.
“Where are you taking them?” I asked the detective, an earnest man of Latin American extraction who looked as though he’d been prematurely aged by the job. It was a quality I’d noticed in the eyes of cops, doctors and soldiers, a depth and weariness that accompanied a life on the edge.
Before he had the chance to answer, I heard a voice behind me.
“That’s him. That’s the guy who assaulted us.”
I turned to see the older security guard who’d tackled me, talking to a female detective with hawkish eyes and a stern, suspicious face.
“Rick,” she said, “this man fled the scene right after the shooting.” The uniformed cops helped Victoria and Kevin into an unmarked car.
“What’s your name?” the earnest detective, Rick, asked.
“Jack Morgan.”
“I’m going to need you to come with me, Mr. Morgan,” he said, looking me up and down. I could only imagine how disheveled I appeared after the chase and fight.
“Am I under arrest?”
“Not if you come willingly,” he replied.
The old voluntary custody hustle. Favored by cops the world over when they were faced with a borderline collar and didn’t want a paper trail that might screw their figures. I didn’t object. I had a ton of eyewitness evidence to share and at least I’d be warmer in the precinct than the people being interviewed on the street.
“OK,” I said.
“Wise man,” Rick replied, before he walked me to a nearby patrol car.
CHAPTER 8
WITHOUT EFFORT, YOU cannot pull a fish from the pond, Yana Petrova thought as she trudged along the frozen pavement. Deep snow lay all around her, and the slabs were covered with ice crystals that sparkled in the streetlights. This was Moscow at its most beautiful, the city’s sins concealed beneath cleansing powder.
The thermal leggings Yana wore beneath her jeans did little to ward off the chill, and her goose-down coat wasn’t much better. She imagined how warm she’d be if she’d refused Mickey’s offer of a date and had instead gone straight home after her shift. She could have caught a cab from the office to their rendezvous but travel by vehicle was fraught with danger. Cars could be booby-trapped and trains packed with knife-wielding assassins. Yana preferred to walk. At least she could see danger coming.
Her antisocial hours meant she often trudged deserted streets, which made potential threats easier to spot. If she ever saw a man coming toward her, she tightened her grip on the PSM pistol concealed in he
r pocket. Her uncle had given it to her many years ago, for protection, but he could have had no idea who or what she’d need protecting from.
Yana’s colleagues thought her a strange loner, but she could never tell them why she preferred the late shift or why she was so paranoid about her personal safety. So she lived a lonely existence as the office weirdo and had to resort to online dating in an attempt to meet someone who might accept and love her.
Yana’s breath vaporized as it traveled through her scarf and met air that was so cold she thought the tiny cloud might solidify, but as it cleared, she saw the lights of her destination, the Boston Seafood Grill, an upmarket restaurant that was one of the few late-night eateries still open in the Begovoy District. Yana hurried across Lesnaya Street and went inside.
“Good evening,” the hostess said. “Bitter night.”
Yana nodded. “I’m meeting someone.” She scanned the faces at the bar.
“Can I take your coat?”
Yana handed it over. “There he is,” she said, recognizing Mickey from his profile picture.
His dark blue suit and white shirt were evidence he’d made an effort. He had pale skin and jet-black hair, and was leaner than his photo suggested, but his brown eyes were just as warm and welcoming as the picture had led Yana to believe. He caught sight of her as she approached the bar and she saw a flash of appreciation. She’d made the effort too. Her tight jeans clung to her toned legs and her sheer black top revealed a figure-hugging bodice that didn’t leave much to the imagination. She felt a number of male eyes on her as she crossed the room, and she brushed them away with a casual toss of her auburn hair. She smiled as she took the stool next to Mickey.
Private Moscow Page 2
