My heart was a hummingbird trapped in my chest. With all the training I’d had, the sound of gunfire was still a viscerally frightening thing, especially at my back. I was sure it was much worse for Julianne. To her credit, she kept up as best she could, her sandals pounding the concrete behind me, her breath coming fast and rhythmic.
I wasn’t sure how long one man could hold off Hawk Nose’s entourage. In a firefight, numerical superiority usually won out. I had to wonder if we’d see Morrissey again, but I pushed those thoughts from my mind and kept running. Finally I picked up the faint smell of fresh air, the first sign that we were near the end.
An explosion shook the tunnel around us.
Julianne screamed.
I looked back, over my shoulder, back to where we’d left Morrissey. The tiled walls and shiny ceiling reflected the orange glow of flame. The smoke came fast, like an acrid thunderhead.
Unlike in the movies, gunfire doesn’t easily cause car explosions, but explosives wired to the gas tank could. They also caused one hell of a traffic mess when detonated in a tunnel. And one hell of an emergency response that criminal types would be eager to avoid.
I had a feeling Morrissey was going to come out of this just fine.
By the time Julianne and I reached the end of the tunnel, sirens echoed from everywhere and the smell of burning car coated the back of my throat and infused my hair. I pulled her up on the walkway to the side of the two traffic lanes and concealed the Glock along my leg. We made it to the mouth of the tunnel and walked out onto the streets of Manhattan. The area was swarming with cop cars, and I jammed the pistol into my tiny bag.
We walked to Grand Central station, stopping at a Banana Republic in the terminal to pick up a dress to pull over my bikini, a change of clothing for Julianne and gym shoes for both of us. The clothing wasn’t pricey, but the purchase still took most of the money Jacob had stashed in the purse. Two subway fares took the rest.
“Why are we going to Columbus Circle?” Julianne asked.
I thought of the glorified roundabout marking the southwest corner of Central Park. It offered continually flowing traffic, access to streets leading in several directions, and the cover of crowded sidewalks. A decent place for a hand off. “It’s just a meeting place. We’re trying to get you somewhere safe.”
If I thought it was hot on the streets, I was mistaken. Descending into the subway tunnels felt like burrowing into humidity hell. Exhaust and the odor of hot humanity swam in the air. I heard the click of heels and rumble of voices, nothing but ordinary subway sounds.
We moved into a wide area of red quarry tile rimmed with scarred wooden benches. Live music echoed off walls and floors, zamponas, charango, guitars, and percussion, a distinctly South American sound, maybe Peruvian. I’d only been to Peru once, but I’d spent significant time in Columbia, Brazil, and Venezuela, the last time I remembered seeing a Tec-9, until today.
I had to wonder …
I led Julianne down steps and through platforms only to cross over tracks and double-back. The third time we passed the Andean band, she spoke up. “Are we lost?”
“I’m making sure we weren’t followed.”
She glanced around, as if the bogeyman himself might jump out from the nearby newspaper stand.
“Were we?”
“No.”
She let out a long breath, but still looked far from relieved. “What you said back at the beach, was it true? Were they really going to sell me as a sex slave?”
I nodded, although my doubts were adding up fast. Julianne was pretty and blond, but there was simply no way a criminal enterprise could make enough money selling one girl. Bradford and Sims was no modeling agency, their little porn operation aside. But I was becoming less and less sure they dealt in human trafficking, either.
“Well, thanks. I know I didn’t seem like I appreciated you saving me at first, but I do. I was just a little, you know, shaken up.”
She was sounding better, clearer. The combination of caffeine and getting shot at was working against the drugs in her system.
“Understandable.” I gave her a smile and led her past the band one last time and up a sloping ramp toward the S train that would take us to Times Square.
“Who are you, anyway?” Julianne asked, once the band was far enough behind us to hear one another speak.
“Not important.”
“It is to me.”
“Then just think of me as a friend.”
She frowned, a tiny crease forming on her lineless forehead. “I … I don’t have a good track record with friends.”
I knew the feeling. “Okay, how about a bodyguard? I was sent to keep you safe.”
“You and the driver.”
“Yes.”
“Sent? By who?”
I said nothing.
“Please?”
“I shouldn’t have told you that much.”
Not that my explanation would hurt anything, but I’d learned, when dealing with civilians in the field, it was better to keep things simple and them at arms’ length. I was already starting to like Julianne more than I should.
“If someone is looking out for me, isn’t it better that I know who?”
The platform was crowded, the rush hour stampede starting to heat up. The S train ran between Grand Central Station and Times Square every fifteen minutes. We wouldn’t have long to wait, but I still felt as if it couldn’t come fast enough.
“I’ve never really had anyone who has looked out for me before. Not really. Not since my mom died.”
I didn’t react, not outwardly anyway. Inwardly I was struck again by how many similarities there were between the two of us.
“I had friends and stuff, but no one ever seemed to be there when I needed them, you know?”
“You’re trying to manipulate me.”
She had the nerve to give me a little smile. “Maybe.”
“It’s not working.”
“My mom used to love me. At least I remember thinking she did. She died when I was sixteen.”
I focused on the rumble of the train approaching. I had been ten when I lost both parents. At least Julianne still had her father.
“I’ve kind of been on my own after that.”
“What about your dad?”
“He’s not important.”
I didn’t believe her. There was more to this than human trafficking. If her dad was a VIP, like Jacob said, this could be a kidnapping for ransom. Or leverage. Take a senator’s daughter, and you own him. That could be useful for certain corporations. Or certain foreign governments.
The train rolled in, the sound too loud for words. Doors opened, releasing crowds of commuters, then we stepped on and they sucked closed behind us. I stood, holding onto a pole.
Julianne stood next to me. I scanned the crowd around us, looking for potential trouble. We remained quiet until we emerged from the 42nd Street subway station and joined the steamy, neon hubbub of Times Square.
She broke the silence. “Being alone, not knowing who you can trust, it’s not fun. You don’t know what that feels like.”
Actually, I did. Not that I was going to share the dark times of my life with Julianne James.
But I could see her point.
Everyone needed someone to rely on. I had Kaufmann, the parole officer who’d been there for me when my life fell apart at age fourteen. He still checked in with me from time to time. He had no clue about the nature of my real job, my real life. But just knowing he cared made all the difference.
“Tell me why you’re helping me,” Julianne said, “and I’ll leave you alone.”
