I pulled on the door handle. It was locked.
“Open the goddamn door, Morrissey.”
“Are you sure she isn’t hurt?”
“I’m fine,” Julianne mumbled.
The door unlocked. I pushed Julianne into the back seat of the car and slipped in beside her. Morrissey hit the gas, flattening us against leather. I fastened my safety belt and made sure Julianne did the same. The air conditioning raised goose bumps on my nearly naked skin.
We wound along twisting, tree-lined streets dotted with quaint Victorians that probably cost half as much as my apartment building back in Chicago. I spotted a dark blue van turn onto the street behind us and caught a glimpse of Hawk Nose behind the wheel.
They had automatic weapons. If we got stuck in traffic, we were dead.
“You spot ‘em?” I asked Morrissey.
“Yeah. See the bar back there?”
I glanced at a leather-covered compartment just to the right of Julianne’s footspace.
“I stashed something in the ice bucket for you.”
I opened the little cubicle. Tucked into the insulated bin was a Glock 22. Fifteen .40 rounds in the magazine, one in the chamber.
Julianne made a mewing sound in the back of her throat.
“Hold on.” Morrissey swerved across traffic and onto a ramp leading to the expressway. Tires squealed and horns honked.
I glanced out the back window in time to see the van complete the same risky maneuver.
“You didn’t shake them.”
“I see that.” Morrissey’s tone was dry, as calm and still as I’d noted when I’d first seen him outside the hotel.
He drove on, a mile, two, five humming by under the tires, Hawk Nose and his boys still following.
I held the gun in my lap, my index finger stretched along the side of the trigger guard, thinking. So many parts of this assignment didn’t add up. So many details didn’t make sense. A whole house on Long Island Sound and only one girl loaded into the helicopter? At least five highly-trained and armed men to watch over her? Pornocopia central but no one laying a finger on her?
After I’d jumped with Julianne, things must have gotten immeasurably messy for The Bradford and Sims Modeling Agency. They had no idea who I was, who I worked for. The smart move would be to cut their losses, wipe down their rented house and disappear, not go on a high speed chase to … do what? Recover one girl? Or erase three witnesses while potentially creating many more?
The whole thing seemed foolhardy.
“Who are these guys?” I asked Morrissey.
He shrugged a shoulder. “I know as much as you.”
“Haven’t you been on this case for a while?”
“Working for the car service, not the modeling agency.” He accelerated, weaving through a caravan of slower moving cars. “I do what I’m asked, just like you.”
My turn to nod. And seeing that I’d already delivered Julianne to Morrissey, my part of the operation was over.
Not that now would be a convenient time to take my leave.
“Where are you taking her?”
“Somewhere safe.”
I sensed Julianne’s glance from Morrissey to me. I met her eyes. “It’s going to be all right.”
“How do I know that?”
“We’re the good guys. We were assigned to protect you.”
“Protect me? You threw me out of a helicopter.”
“I did it in a protective way.”
She eyed me as if I was crazy and she was afraid it would rub off. I thought once more about Jacob’s orders, that she not be harmed in any way.
Was this really human trafficking? Or something else?
“Who is your father?” I asked her.
“What?”
“Your dad. Who is he?”
Some of the fear went away, replaced by anger. “It doesn’t matter.”
I had lived up to my end of the op. I had no control over what happened to her from here on out, and I had no business knowing anything more. Any curiosity I felt, any sympathy I had for this girl, were meaningless to the mission. So rather than push it, I clammed up and turned my attention back to the men chasing us.
The green whipping past the windows fell away to shopping centers, and finally, industry. Ahead, the Manhattan skyline shivered in the glare of the afternoon sun like a mirage.
I heard a pop. The car lurched and skidded.
I threw an arm over Julianne, forcing her down.
“Are they shooting at us?” she squealed.
Morrissey regained control, but the car shuddered and bucked with each rotation of the punctured tire.
Ahead, a sign directed us to the Queens Midtown Tunnel. Morrissey took the turn.
I couldn’t believe it.
“Tell me you’re not heading into the city with these guys on our tail.”
He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “You have a better idea?”
This chase along the expressway was one thing. Once we were in the city, traffic would be slow, sometimes standing still. What would prevent Hawk Nose and his boys from walking up to the limo and taking a shot?
“Yeah, drive somewhere else. Unless you want to make us a slow-moving target.”
“I get the idea that you can move pretty fast when you want to.”
“What are you planning?”
“I’ll take care of the guys behind us. You have the girl at Columbus Circle at six o’clock.”
I didn’t ask how he was going to take care of them. I had a feeling he’d find a way, and that I’d know what action I had to take when the moment came.
We moved through the EZ Pass toll and plunged into the tunnel.
Traffic moved steadily in two Manhattan-bound lanes. The air held the odor of trapped exhaust. The shiny, cream colored ceiling reflected headlights, their glare adding to the artificial lighting and neon-bright speed limit reminders every hundred feet. There was a cacophony of horn honking, helpful New Yorkers trying to tell us we had a flat, as if the sparks being thrown off the bare rim weren’t obvious enough.
“Hold on and be ready to release your seat belts.”
Julianne’s fingers circled my free hand and clenched. I braced my legs wide.
The Town Car’s wheel screeched, metal on pavement. The drivers around us fell back, apparently not wanting to get too close. Only the van stayed glued a few feet behind our bumper, close enough for Hawk Nose to glower at me, close enough to take a shot.
So why didn’t he? He might hit the girl?
Morrissey slowed the car and inched toward the center, straddling lanes. Horns echoed off concrete. Surrounding cars fell back farther. A few more seconds passed.
He hit the brakes and the car skidded sideways.
Tires screeched all around, the sound amplified in the tunnel.
“Now. Go.”
Before the car had reached a complete stop, Morrissey was moving. He pulled an assault rifle from under the seat and slid across to the passenger door.
I was moving too, pushing Julianne in front of me, over the seat, out the door. The cars ahead kept moving down the tunnel, leaving both lanes free and clear. I grabbed Julianne’s arm and ran. The soles of my bare feet slapped pavement. The muggy air smelled of exhaust and burned rubber. Angry voices and horns behind us gave way to bursts of gunfire and screams.
