lying on the kitchen floor, bleeding out from the wound in her neck, begging him for help with those frightened blue eyes. The thought of Naomi enduring the same was just too much, but there was no way to stop it. Vanderveen would kill her anyway, and besides, he couldn’t put her life ahead of the thousands of innocent people in the surrounding buildings. He had already risked too much time in the warehouse by trying to shield her from blame in Crane’s death. There was nothing more he could do for her; he’d just have to prove her wrong.
You’ve never let me down, Ryan, and I know you never will. I trust you completely.
Vanderveen was clearly waiting for his reply. Kealey took a deep breath, then made the hardest choice of his life.
He disconnected the call and dropped the phone.
Reaching under his shirt, he drew his Beretta and held it down by his side for as long as he could. Then he stepped into Seventh Avenue, narrowly avoiding being hit by a passing bus. As soon as it swept by in a blast of cool air, Kealey took a few more steps, crossing into the second lane. The Isuzu was close now, and judging by the sweaty, agitated look on the driver’s face, he had the right vehicle. He was aware of squealing tires, a cacophony of horns, and the shouts of pedestrians rising up from the sidewalk, but he shut it all out. Lifting the gun in two hands, Kealey set his feet, aimed at the man behind the wheel of the approaching truck, and squeezed the trigger.
In the passenger seat of the red Mercury Sable, Naomi Kharmai looked down at her balled fists, trying to ignore the stinging pain on the left side of her face. Her wrists were still cuffed; Vanderveen had thrown a sweater over her hands to hide the evidence as he’d hustled her into the car a few minutes earlier. She could taste blood in her mouth, and she felt dizzy from the three blows he had just delivered. After hitting her twice while on the phone with Kealey, he had administered a third, brutal punch to the side of her head, more out of frustration than anything else. At least, that was her guess. Fortunately, the angle had taken away most of his leverage, so the blow hadn’t done nearly as much damage as it should have. Still, she could feel something warm running down past her ear, and looking down, she could see a few spots of blood on her sweater, bright red against the white material.
After Ryan disconnected the call, Vanderveen had thrown the phone onto the floor by her feet. Then he had lapsed into a barrage of biting profanity. She didn’t dare to look at him, afraid of drawing his wrath. She was intensely aware of the Glock 19 in his left hand, which was resting in his lap and pointed toward her. She had briefly considered throwing open the door and diving out, but she knew she would never get clear in time. At that angle, the bullet would tear right through her abdomen, leaving her with a wound that would almost certainly prove fatal, but only after an hour or so of excruciating pain.
Far more terrifying than the gun, however, was the knife he’d dropped into his pocket before pushing her out of the warehouse and into the car. It was the same knife he’d threatened her with earlier, and judging by what he’d said to Ryan over the phone, he was anxious to use it. She couldn’t stop thinking about that shiny hooked blade, but the gun was right there, clearly visible, and she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to fire. By the time they crossed West Forty-second Street, she’d decided the best thing to do was to sit still and wait for an opportunity.
As her mind raced to find one, though, Vanderveen turned the wheel hard to the right. She looked up to see a sign that said WEST 48TH STREET, and she suddenly realized where they were going. The Renaissance Hotel at Forty-Eighth and Seventh.
They were heading right for ground zero.
CHAPTER 56
NEW YORK CITY
Joseph Ruggeri counted himself a fortunate man, despite being in desperate need of a shower and a month’s worth of sleep, and for one simple reason: he was one of the very few cops in the five boroughs with the rest of the day off. The twenty-six-year-old Ruggeri had just come off a twelve-hour desk shift at the precinct on the corner of West Fifty-fourth and Eighth, the home of the Patrol Borough Manhattan South, and was looking forward to a good meal and a warm bed, preferably his girlfriend’s. The bed would have to wait a little bit longer, but he knew where the meal was coming from, as his uncle co-owned the Stage Deli and Restaurant on Fifty-fourth and Seventh.
He had changed into street clothes before leaving the precinct: a white T-shirt under a brown canvas jacket, worn Levis, and running shoes. His service weapon, a Smith amp; Wesson Model 5946, was holstered on his right hip, but he hardly noticed it; he carried the gun almost everywhere and was used to its comforting weight.
Ruggeri had been on the force for just over four and a half years. Like many men in his age group, he’d felt the need to serve his country following the events of September 11th, 2001, and as with most of his like-minded peers, that meant one of two things: the military or law enforcement. Ruggeri was Brooklyn born and raised; his parents still lived in the same house he’d grown up in, and his six siblings all lived within the five boroughs, except for one sister who’d strayed to Trenton, of all places. Leaving them behind to go to Afghanistan or some other godforsaken place was simply not an option. The idea of crossing the Jersey line filled him with a distinct sense of unease; Afghanistan might as well have been on a different planet. So it was the NYPD, and he’d never regretted it. He enjoyed the work, he loved being able to get a home-cooked meal any day of the week, and he especially loved the nice little jump he had just received on his last paycheck.
He crossed Fifty-fourth heading south, the colorful facade of the Stage Deli coming up on his right. Just as he started to open the door, a distant popping noise caused him to turn left instead. After twenty-six years in the city and four and a half on the force, he recognized the sound of gunfire instantly. His hand dropped and slipped under his jacket, finding the butt of his weapon, but his eyes were locked on the scene in the near distance. He had a bad angle — no sign of the shooter — but as he watched in disbelief, a white box truck swung hard to the right on Seventh Avenue, then started to tip.
Drawing his weapon, he instantly ran forward, doing his best to cover the next seven blocks in the least time possible. At the same time, his left hand dipped into his jacket and found his cell phone. The precinct was on his speed dial, so he hit the number and kept running hard.
At the intersection of Forty-eighth and Seventh, Kealey was firing as fast as he could into the windshield of the Isuzu, which was still moving toward him. He saw his first shot crater the glass just left of the driver’s head, then adjusted the next three and saw the intended effect. The driver seemed to jerk spasmodically behind the wheel, inadvertently pulling it hard to the right. He fired another three shots as the truck veered sharply toward him. He dived out of the way but wasn’t quite fast enough; the grill caught his left ankle, spinning him around in midair, and he hit the pavement hard, ending up in the next lane. A southbound Lincoln Navigator screeched to a halt, tires smoking, the front wheel less than 3 feet from his head. He had no time to consider this further; behind him, he heard a strange, anticipatory silence, then a loud crunch, glass shattering, the scream of metal sliding across the road.
He got to his feet, ignoring the crushing pain in his ankle, and turned to see something that chilled his blood: the truck was on its side, sliding across the pavement, throwing up a shower of sparks. Kealey felt everything stop inside his head. He waited for the bright flash, knowing it would be the last thing he’d see in his life, but it never came. As the truck finally came to a halt, everything started to move again, like a tape coming out of slow motion. People were screaming, running north and south on Seventh, and he was aware of distant sirens. But the cops wouldn’t get there in time, and he had to be sure.
Kealey ran forward, his ankle delivering shivers of pain with every step. His attention was completely focused on the roof of the cab, which was facing back toward the Renaissance Hotel. He lifted the Beretta again, silently adding up the shots in his head. He knew he’d fired at least seven, which left him with more than enough to make sure the driver was dead. Just as he was about to fire through the roof, though, he felt someone hit him hard from behind. His lower back arched painfully, his head whipping back as he pitched forward onto the pavement, the gun coming loose. The crushing blow nearly left him unconscious, and his back felt as if it had snapped in half. He did his best to sit up, trying to figure out what had happened.
Looking back, he half expected to see Will Vanderveen, but it was just some guy he’d never seen before, a heavyset man with a thick beard and a look of determination on his face. He wasn’t a cop, Kealey knew, or he would have said something to that effect. And then it hit him; his assailant was just a bystander who didn’t know any better. Kealey briefly considered explaining it to him, but there wasn’t time. Instead, he simply slammed a fist into the man’s throat. The bearded man rolled away instantly, his hands shooting up to his throat, a strangled noise coming out of his mouth. Kealey turned painfully back to the truck and reached for his Beretta.
