river, up at the bridge, skyward as the rain began to stop, while shafts of moonlight pierced the parting of the clouds. Jack could hear his own voice crying out.
“You have to help me…”
The man looked at Jack but said nothing.
“I think I’m dying, but my wife… I have to save my wife…”
Jack’s recollections were suddenly shattered as the garrote grew tighter around his neck, and a knee jammed into the small of his back, pulling him out of his memories to dangle him at the edge of death.
His captor held his cell phone in his other hand, thumb dialing. The signal that struggled through the grate was weak, intermittent, the call static-filled. “Hey, it’s Gallagher… Gallagher!” he repeated. “Listen to me. You’re not going to believe this…”
Frank trudged his way through the tunnel. He hated the dark; he was terrified of it. With the unworldly sounds that permeated the lower depths of the city, his mind filled with images of rats and dead bodies, of the unknown lurking in the shadows. He kept his ears attuned for any sound of Jack, for any indication of an oncoming train, not knowing where Jack could have possibly turned within the confined space of the tunnel.
With the help of the red and green glow of the subway lights, he could see the disturbed gravel, and the intermittent footprints along the rail ties confirmed that he was heading in the right direction.
“Listen to me. You’re not going to believe this.”
Frank heard the voice up ahead, his ear pinpointing the distance. He drew his gun and caught sight of a small service opening in the wall.
“He’s alive.”
Frank felt like a moth drawn to the flame as he crept through the opening on silent feet. He stepped through the dark, catching sight of Jack and an assailant in the checkerboard light wash that poured in from above.
“Jack Keeler…”
Frank raised his gun as he saw Jack facedown in a puddle, a wire dog-tied around his neck, his assailant atop him with a flexed right arm wrapping the wire, his cell phone held in the other hand, pressed to his ear.
“Tell him Jack Keeler is alive.”
Frank pulled the trigger, the report of his Sig Sauer sounding like a cannon in the confined space as the orange glow of the barrel flame momentarily lit the space.
The man fell to the ground, the sounds of death leaking from his mouth, from the exposed side of his head.
Jack rolled over in the puddle, gasping, rubbing his own neck as if it would impart air quicker. He heaved, his lungs expelling water with gut-wrenching coughs that echoed in the abandoned tunnel. He lay on his back, his eyes closed, his mind without focus, as his body struggled to recover from near death. Blood seeped from the razorlike wound that wrapped his neck, the surrounding skin swelling up.
Frank tucked his pistol back into his holster and leaned over the body of the dead man, rifling through his pockets, pulling out keys, a clip of bullets, his wallet. He picked up the cell phone, briefly looking at it, and tucked it into his pocket. He rolled the man over and removed his gun from his holster. He examined it, shaking his head before laying it on the ground.
Frank turned and knelt beside Jack, helping him to sit up. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted the blood on Jack’s neck, holding it to help stanch the flow of blood. “Jesus, are you OK?”
Jack nodded in reflex without thought of his condition. He finally looked up at Frank, looked into his friend’s eyes, his voice hoarse, his throat raw. “I remember.”
Frank stared at him. “What?”
“There was someone else there with me last night.”
“Can you remember what they look like, a name, maybe?”
“No.” Jack shook his head. “But whoever it is… he scares me.”
“Yeah, well, we’ve got an even bigger problem. You sure this is the guy who drove you off the bridge, who kidnapped Mia?”
Jack nodded.
Frank held up the man’s billfold, letting it drop open to reveal a badge and an ID that made Jack’s blood run cold.
Steven Gallagher was FBI.
CHAPTER 20
Cristos entered the room and laid a new silver tray of food and tea on the table before Mia, picked up the tray of tea and the now-empty plate, and handed it to a man at the door, who quickly departed. They were once again sealed in.
“How dare you!” Mia raged as she shook the picture of her children. “My children have nothing to do with this.”
“I see we found our voice.” Cristos’s tone was calm and proper, like a nanny speaking to a child. “Your children are fine. I have not touched them, nor will I. Provided you help me.”
“You killed my husband,” Mia finally said, her eyes filled with anger. She was not going to give this man the satisfaction of crying, letting him see her pain, seeing her weak. “They’re going to find me. The whole world of law enforcement is going to come down on your head.”
“Actually,” Cristos said in feigned sympathy, “the only place they are looking for you is at the bottom of a river.” He picked up a newspaper from the silver tray and placed it before Mia, the headline screaming out the deaths of her and her husband.
Mia sat there in shock. What was stopping them from killing her now?
“I have a very simple question,” Cristos said. “Where is the evidence case?”
Mia stared at Cristos.
“I know that you removed it from the FBI and hid it in the evidence room of the Tombs.”
“How would someone like you know that?” Mia said, channeling her pain into anger.
Cristos stood and walked around the small room. He rubbed his fingers together as he stared off in thought before finally looking back at Mia. “I want you to look at me,” he began as he took a seat next to Mia. “Where in the evidence room of the Tombs is the case?”
Mia stared at him, defiant and silent.
“Where is the case?” Cristos’s voice was barely above a whisper as his dark eyes began to bore into her.
Mia continued staring, her silence taunting him.
He leaned forward into her face; she could smell the odor of cigarettes and wine on his breath. Their eyes were inches apart as he mouthed the words, “Where is the case?”
Mia stared back, but instead of answering, she did the one thing that she did when confronting an adversary, be it her father, her husband, or a suspect.
She simply gave a false, vindictive smile.
Cristos exploded, all refinement melting away, the veins and tendons in his neck distended and throbbing. “ Where is the case?”
Mia had gotten to him. Without a single word, she had unearthed the madman beneath the silk and wool facade.
Suddenly, his hand shot out, grabbing her around the throat, while his other hand grabbed her by her hair. His trembling rage radiated down his arms, through his hands, and into her.
He slowly began to squeeze just enough to send a message that he could snap her neck with his bare hand. Her face began to redden, and although she tried not to react, fear rose into her eyes.
“Tell me where the case is, or this is what I will do to your children.”
There was a knock on the door. The lock was released, and it opened. A dark-haired man no more than
