Dance Of Death

Smithback's mouth went dry. Jesus, am I being kidnapped or something? He grabbed for the door lock, but as with most cabs the outer knob had been removed and the pull itself was engaged, sunk beneath the level of the window frame.

He renewed his frantic tattoo against the Plexiglas shield. 'Stop the car!' he yelled as the cab squealed around a bend. 'Let me out!'

When there was no answer, Smithback reached into his pocket and plucked out his cell phone to dial 911.

'Put that thing away, Mr. Smithback,' came the voice from the front seat. 'You're in good hands, I assure you.'

Smithback froze in the act of dialing. He knew that voice: knew it well. But it certainly didn't belong to the Mediterranean-looking man in the front seat.

'Pendergast?' he said incredulously.

The man nodded. He was looking in the rearview mirror, scanning the cars behind them.

The fear abated-slowly, slowly-to be replaced by surprise. Pendergast, Smithback thought. Oh, God. Why do I get a sinking feeling every lime I run into him?

'So the rumors were wrong,' he said.

'Of my death? Most certainly.'

Smithback guessed they were going at least a hundred miles an hour. Cars were flashing past, vague shapes and blurs of color.

'You mind telling me what's going on? Or why you're in disguise? You look like a fugitive from a Turkish prison-if you don't mind my saying so,' he added hastily.

Pendergast glanced again in the rearview mirror. 'I'm taking you to a place of safety.'

This didn't immediately register. 'You're taking me where?'

'You're a marked man. There's a dangerous killer after you. The nature of the threat forces me to take unusual measures.'

Smithback opened his mouth to protest, then stopped. Alarm, incredulity, astonishment, mingled in equal measures within him. The 125th Street exit passed in a heartbeat.

Smithback found his voice. 'A killer after me? What for?'

'The more you know, the more dangerous it will be for you.'

'How do you know I'm in danger? I haven't pissed off anybody- not lately, anyway.'

To the left, the North River Control Plant shot by. Glancing uneasily to his right, Smithback thought he caught the briefest glimpse of 891 Riverside Drive-ancient, shadow-haunted-rising above the greenery of Riverside Park.

The car was moving so fast now the tires barely seemed to touch the road. Smithback looked around for a seat belt, but the cab had none. Cars flashed past as if stationary. What the hell kind of an engine does this thing have? He swallowed. 'I'm not going anywhere until I know what's going on. I'm a married man now.'

'Nora will be fine. She'll be told you're on assignment for the Times and will be incommunicado for a while. I'll see to that myself.'

'Yeah, and what about the Times? I'm in the middle of an important assignment.'

'They will hear from a doctor of your sudden, serious illness.'

'Oh, no. No way. The Times is a dog-eat-dog place. It doesn't matter if I'm sick or dying, I'll lose the assignment.'

'There will be other assignments.'

'Not like this one. Look, Mr. Pendergast, the answer is-shit!'

Smithback braced himself as the cab whipped around a cluster of cars, weaving across three lanes, swerving at the last moment to avoid rear-ending a lumbering truck and shooting back into the fast lane. Smithback gripped the seat, silenced by terror.

Pendergast glanced once again in the rearview mirror. Looking around, Smithback could see-four or five cars back-a black Mercedes, weaving in and out of the traffic, pacing them.

Smithback faced forward again, feeling a rush of panic. Ahead on the shoulder, an NYPD cruiser had pulled over a van and the officer was out writing a ticket. As they flew past, Smithback saw the cop whirl around in disbelief, then run back to his cruiser.

'For God's sake, slow down,' he choked out, but if Pendergast heard him, he gave no response.

Smithback glanced back again. Despite the awful speed, the black Mercedes wasn't falling behind. If anything, it seemed to be gaining. It had heavily tinted windows, and he could not make out the driver.

Ahead were signs for Interstate 95 and the George Washington Bridge. 'Brace yourself, Mr. Smithback,' Pendergast said over the roar of the engine and the screaming of wind.

Smithback seized a door handle, planted his feet on the plastic floor mats. He was so frightened he could hardly think.

Traffic had begun to thicken as the two-lane exit approached, one stream of cars heading for the bridge and New Jersey, the other heading eastward toward the Bronx. Pendergast slowed, alternatelywatching the traffic ahead and the Mercedes in the rearview mirror. Then, seizing an opportunity, he sheared across all four lanes of traffic onto the right shoulder. A squeal of brakes and a torrent of angry horns erupted, Doppler-shifting lower as Pendergast jammed on the accelerator again, blasting up the narrow shoulder, sending loose trash and hubcaps flying behind them.

'Holy shit!' Smithback yelled.

Ahead, the shoulder narrowed, the curb of the median angling in from the right. But instead of slowing, Pendergast pushed the car relentlessly forward. The tires on the passenger side reared up onto the curb and the vehicle charged ahead at an unwieldy angle, rocking crazily back and forth, tires squealing, the stone wall of the exit perilously close at hand.

From behind came the faint wail of a siren.

Pendergast braked abruptly, then turned into a brutal, four-wheel power slide, just merging into a hole in the traffic converging on the Trans-Manhattan Expressway. He changed lanes once-so fast Smithback was thrown sideways on the seat-twice, a third time, darting back and forth, all the while accelerating. The car blasted along beneath the hulking apartments like a bullet through the barrel of a gun.

A quarter mile ahead, a sea of red lights winked back out of the gloom as traffic bunched up in the inevitable gridlock of the Cross Bronx Expressway. The right-hand lane was blocked off by orange cones, signs announcing a highway repair project that-typically- was empty and unmanned. Pendergast veered into the lane, scattering cones left and right.

Smithback glanced back. The black Mercedes was still there, no more than six cars back, pacing them despite all Pendergast could do. Much farther behind now were two police cars, lights flashing and sirens wailing.

Suddenly, Smithback was thrown to one side. Pendergast had abruptly veered onto the off-ramp for the Harlem River Drive. Instead of slowing, he maintained a speed close to a hundred miles an hour. With a shriek of stressed rubber, the car drifted sideways, its flank contacting the stone retaining wall that encircled the ramp.

There was a scream of ripping steel, and an explosion of sparks flew backward.

'Son of a bitch! You're going to kill-!'

Smithback's voice was cut off as Pendergast braked violently once again. With a bucking motion, the car shot over a divider onto the opposing entrance helix to a small bridge spanning the Harlem River. The vehicle fishtailed wildly before Pendergast regained control. Then he accelerated yet again as they shot over the river and into a tangle of narrow streets leading toward the South Bronx.

Heart in mouth, Smithback glanced once again over his shoulder. Impossibly, the Mercedes was still there, farther back now but gaining once again. Even as he watched, the driver's window of the Mercedes opened and there was a sudden puff of smoke, followed by the crack of a gunshot.

With a thunk!, the passenger side mirror vanished in a spray of glass and plastic, annihilated by a high-caliber bullet.

'Shit!' Smithback screamed.