Cole reached deep into himself for every molecule of strength and courage he had left.
Cole let go of the metal bar and began swimming toward the ladder.
He felt a tugging at his sneaker, a gnawing. He retaliated with a kick, and swam faster until he grabbed the rungs. His feet found the rungs under the water and felt lighter as he hefted himself from the water.
Rung, handgrip, footstep lift-his rhythm was swift, sure and steady.
Cole thought of nothing but his immediate goal.
When he lifted his head to check his progress, one side of the rung he’d grasped broke free from the wall. The other side remained precariously anchored with Cole dangling on it as it swung like a hinged door, carrying Cole out from the wall.
Cole’s breathing stopped.
In the strong light he saw the bottom of the pit and dozens of rats swirling in the water. Cole kicked against the wall and swung back toward the ladder just as his damaged rung gave way and fell into the water below, making a splash.
He managed to secure himself on the rungs, and after a minute to catch his breath he hurried to the surface.
Adrenaline pumping, Cole moved faster now. In the daylight he found the stairs to the main floor and threaded his way through pallets stacked with old machinery, motors and abandoned equipment. He could hear men throughout the factory as they searched. He found the wall, stayed close to it, looking for a door, a window, any way to escape.
As he neared a corner he found a sheet of aged plywood partially bolted to small section of the wall that had decayed. The plywood was loosened by time and Cole pulled it out to see how the wall had cracked, crumbled to the point of creating a jagged gap about a foot wide.
Cole glimpsed a grassless patch of earth, gravel, a chain-link fence.
He wedged himself behind the plywood, then twisted and angled himself through the gap and…
He was standing in the sun at the side of the building, a few feet from a ten-foot fence topped with coiled razor wire. Cole moved along the building, his heart racing, knowing he was seconds from finding a way to the street and help.
As he rounded the corner he ran directly into the arms of a man waiting by the loading bay of the rear shipping entrance.
“Please call police! My mom and me were-
Cole stopped when pain shot through him and he’d recognized that the man, Bulat Tatayev, had seized his wrist and moved quickly to take him back inside. Bulat yelled out to his men before lowering himself to Cole.
He stared into his eyes, saying nothing until the men arrived.
50
Jeff had slipped away from the FBI.
Outside, he hurried along Forty-fifth Street until he was a safe distance from his hotel and stepped into the lobby of the Roosevelt where he used his phone to open Cassidy’s list of restaurants, cafes and coffee shops.
His knees nearly buckled and he sat in a wingback chair.
There had to be more than a thousand, no, two, no, more. It went on and on as the listings of every restaurant and coffee shop blossomed on his phone’s tiny screen.
He could scroll for an eternity.
Then he realized he could manipulate the list to display only those that started with
As he started off his cell phone rang.
“Mr. Griffin, this is Agent Miller at the hotel. Sir, what is your location?”
“I’m outside at the moment. I needed some air.”
“Sir, we request that you return to your room, now.”
“I can’t do that, Agent Miller. I have some things to take care of.”
“Mr. Griffin, we respectfully request-”
Jeff ended the call and picked up his pace. The TV news report echoed in his mind. His fears were mounting; he sensed that he was running out of time as he arrived at the first candidate. The Cafe Lastanya was in the low twenties on East Forty-first Street. It had a small front with four tinted-glass panels. It was crowded. He made his way past the sandwich and pastry cases to the coffee area and studied the take-out cups. The logo bore no resemblance to the discarded cups he’d seen in the van.
He moved on.
Jeff went back to the street, checked his phone and started walking to the second possibility, the Lassoed Pony Diner, near Grand Central and Forty-second Street. It specialized in cheesecake and was a favorite of commuters catching trains at Grand Central. He examined the logo of the take-out bags and coffee cups-a distinctive horse’s head with the red-and-white stripe logo-and crossed the diner from his list.
Not even close.
Back in the street he flagged a cab for the next one but before he got one his cell phone rang again.
“Jeff, it’s Cordelli. We need you back in the hotel room.”
“Is there a break in the case? If there is, tell me over the phone.”
“Jeff, were you contacted again?”
“No. I’m just looking for my family.”
“Do you have information we should be aware of?”
“No.”
“Because you shouldn’t keep information from us. It leads to problems.”
“Am I under arrest, Cordelli?”
“No.”
“Am I a suspect?”
“No.”
“Am I in custody?”
“No, but for your safety we want you to-”
“
“Jeff, we’re on your side, you have to let us do our jobs.”
“I came within a heartbeat of rescuing Sarah and if you think I’m going to sit on my ass and do nothing, you are wrong. Dead wrong! I’m going to find the people who took my family and I’m going to kill them!”
“Jeff, I know this is difficult-”
Jeff hung up and waved until he succeeded in getting a cab.
As his taxi navigated through traffic he accepted that there was no logic to what he was doing. How could he possibly find the
