In the driver’s seat, Amir Nazeri was hanging on to life by a thread. One of Kealey’s bullets had creased the left side of his skull; another had torn into his chest, just beneath his clavicle; and a third had pierced his face, penetrating the right lateral nasal wall before angling up through his left eye, coming to rest in the orbit. Strangely enough, the pain wasn’t that bad, and he had the strength, in his final moments, to tear the M60 fuse igniter free from the right side of his seat. He’d been wearing his seat belt when the vehicle tipped over, and his body was now dangling to the right, toward the shattered passenger-side window and the pavement. With tremendous effort, he managed to bring his left arm around — it didn’t seem to be working correctly at all — and get one of his fingers inside the pull ring. As he prepared to carry out his final task, he thought of his dead cousin and smiled.
It was the last act of his life.
At that precise moment, Kealey fired six more shots through the roof of the cab. All six found their target, though it was the second that killed Nazeri as it tore through the top of his skull, penetrating his brain and coming to rest in his cervical column. Kealey instantly moved round to the front of the vehicle and crouched, gun up, aiming through the shattered windshield. He could see that the driver was dead, and his thoughts turned instantly to defusing the bomb; until he got inside, he couldn’t be sure if it was on a timer or if Vanderveen had rigged up an electrical firing system.
Before he could act, though, he was aware of a voice carrying high over those of the frantic onlookers. He looked up, breathing hard, and saw something that turned his spine to ice. Another vehicle — a red Mercury Sable — was parked directly next to his stolen Crown Vic, about 50 feet north of his current position. A man who looked vaguely familiar was standing next to the open driver’s door, his left arm wrapped around Naomi Kharmai’s throat. Vanderveen looked different, but Kealey instantly made the connection, looking for the man’s right hand. He couldn’t see it.
“Let her go!” he screamed, bringing the Beretta to bear. The other man was ducking behind her, giving him nothing to work with. Through the adrenaline, his mind did a quick assessment and gave him the bad news. He had one round left in the chamber, maybe another in the magazine.
Two rounds. Maybe.
“Set it off!” Vanderveen shouted back. Kealey watched with horror as the other man’s right hand came up out of nowhere, holding a knife. He flashed on Katie Donovan’s death involuntarily, his mind caught up in a whirl of terrible images, past and present. “There’s an M60 in the cab, Ryan. Set it off and make it painless for everyone. Otherwise, you watch her die, and I don’t have to tell you what that’s like.”
Vanderveen moved the knife up and touched the hooked, 3?-inch blade to Naomi’s right cheek. She was clearly terrified, but Kealey tried not to look at her face, knowing it would only distract him. He was entirely focused on finding a shot, but the other man was crouched behind her, making himself an impossible target. If Kealey pulled the trigger, he would almost certainly hit Naomi instead. He moved forward, his feet crunching over shattered glass, his broken ankle forgotten entirely.
“Stop there!” Vanderveen shouted, using the knife to make his point. Naomi cried out, and a tiny point of red appeared on her cheek. Kealey stopped instantly, his stomach dropping, his heart lurching.
“Okay, okay! Jesus, just… let her go. Let her go, you bastard! Let her fucking go! ”
“You’re panicking,” Vanderveen shouted back. “That’s not a good sign, Ryan. I’ll tell you what… Forget the bomb. Just kill yourself. Take your own life and save hers. Put the gun to your head and pull the trigger, you fuck. Do it! Do it or she dies! ”
“You’ll kill her anyway.” Kealey was desperate, frantic; there was no way to stop what was going to happen. He couldn’t believe he was in this position again. He had a gun; he had to take the shot, but Vanderveen was giving him nothing. He could aim for the left arm around her throat, but unless he was incredibly lucky, the bullet would not strike bone but would pass through and into her body. He just couldn’t take the risk.
Where were the cops? Why wasn’t anyone moving in? It seemed as though someone in a better position should have tried to defuse the situation. But even as he thought it, he could see men edging in from behind, trying to approach unseen. He did his best not to look at them, but Vanderveen seemed to sense their attention anyway.
“Back! Get back or I cut her throat! You want that on your conscience?”
Vanderveen’s would-be assailants retreated immediately, raising their hands. Kealey had been ready for them; he was sure the distraction would cause Vanderveen to turn, thereby giving him a shot, but it hadn’t happened. The other man seemed to be in perfect control, despite the fact that he was trapped in a busy intersection with police on the way and Kealey waiting for his slightest mistake. He didn’t appear to be fazed at all by the hopeless nature of his situation; in a matter of minutes, he would either be dead or in handcuffs. In truth, though, only one of those was a real possibility. Kealey tightened his finger on the trigger, waiting for Vanderveen to make his final mistake.
Vanderveen was doing his best to keep behind the woman, knowing that Kealey wouldn’t need much of a target. For a split second, he marveled at his own actions, amazed at the fatalistic nature of the choice he’d made in the car. He had raced into this situation knowing there was almost no possibility of escape, yet he didn’t regret it at all. It seemed right that it should come down to this: the two of them face-to-face in Midtown Manhattan. He still had the gun in his pocket and knew he should have used it right from the start. The knife had proved irresistible, though. What better way to remind Ryan of what he had lost? And what better way to set the stage for a loss even more profound, more horrific than the one he had suffered before?
Every fiber of his being was sparked into life by this incredible showdown; he had never felt more alive, more powerful. More elemental. But at the same time, he was suffused by a bitter, blinding rage. Kealey had stopped him yet again, ruining what should have been his crowning achievement. His hatred of the other man could not be more intense if it had been instilled from birth, and it was the main reason he’d driven to the hotel instead of just killing the woman and leaving the city. It wasn’t enough to take her life. He wanted, needed Kealey to see it happen.
Vanderveen pressed his face into the nape of Kharmai’s neck and breathed deeply, catching the mingled scents of vanilla, sweat, and fear. An unusual combination, but not unpleasant… at least not to him. Carefully, using her hair to conceal as much of his face as possible, he raised his lips to her ear and said, “Naomi, are you ready to die?”
She didn’t respond; she didn’t even moan. In that strange moment, he was intensely proud of her. He pulled her even tighter, letting his lips touch the lobe of her ear. He was aware of her heart thudding, her body shaking, her breath coming in short, quick spurts. And yet, despite her obvious terror, she didn’t scream… She didn’t even whimper.
What an incredible woman. If he had chosen a different path, a different life, he might well have selected a girl like this to share it with. For a brief moment in time, it seemed as if they had somehow fused, as if their bodies were one.
But she belonged to Ryan, and for that, he couldn’t forgive her.
He reversed his grip on the knife, placed the tip at the hinge of her jaw, and pushed it in.
Kealey heard words come out of his mouth when he saw what was happening, but he couldn’t be sure of what he was saying, his screams drowned out by those of the onlookers. He fired instantly, knowing that it no longer made a difference; Vanderveen had changed everything by putting the knife in, and Kealey knew instinctively that the other man wouldn’t stop until Naomi was dead. His first shot missed completely, but he got lucky with the second, as Naomi wrenched her body to the left, trying to get away from the knife. Vanderveen followed her before regaining control, exposing his right shoulder for less than a second. Kealey’s round ripped into his arm just above the elbow, tunneling the length of his bicep before exiting at an angle near his shoulder, catching the edge of his neck.
Vanderveen jerked back, but somehow managed to bring Naomi’s body back in front of his own. The knife was still moving up, and there was so much blood… impossible amounts of blood. Kealey was still squeezing the trigger, swearing and screaming all at once, but nothing was happening. He dropped the mag and reached for another, slamming it in, racking the slide. The movements were like second nature: mechanical, yet strangely fluid. Despite the speed with which he’d reloaded, precious seconds had been wasted, time which Vanderveen had used to continue his grisly work. Kealey leveled the gun, but the moment was gone. He’d been running forward and was now just 30 feet from the struggling pair. He moved to the right, looking for a shot.
Naomi screamed in agony as the blade crossed under her ear, nicking her jawbone before sliding up to her right cheek. She felt the razor edge cutting deep as it moved over her skin, angling up to her cheekbone. Rationally, she knew what was happening, but her mind was somehow detached, unwilling to accept what was taking place.
