I noticed the dark glisten drenching one leg of his black trousers.
I pushed up from the street. Pain seared my hands and knees, but I forced it to the background, forced myself to concentrate, adrenaline and training taking over.
Kirk was too focused on Julie and the bullet in his leg to notice me come up fast behind him.
Using the knife edge of my hand, I delivered a sharp blow to the side of his neck, below and slightly in front of his ear. I rotated at the waist, driving all the power I could muster into his carotid artery, jugular vein, and vagus nerve, following through.
His body seized, muscles going rigid, then he slumped forward.
I wasn’t sure if he was unconscious or merely stunned for a few seconds, but either would do. I looped my arm under his and across his back as he crumpled.
“Open the back door.”
Julie stared at me. “Is he … is he dead?”
“Just do it.”
I glanced down Broadway. Although I couldn’t see them, I was sure the Iranians would be here on foot at any moment. Cops too, after the gunshot.
“Unlock the back door. Now.”
She reached in and unlocked it from the inside.
I threw it open and shoved Kirk into the back seat. A quick search of the glove box scored me a handful of zip ties. I used one to secure his wrists in front of him.
He groaned and tried to lift his head, already coming around.
Traffic moved around us, horns blaring from behind, a few idiots even having the nerve to yell obscenities. I tugged my Ruger from the holster and set it on the dashboard. The driver from the car we’d back-ended stepped out onto the street, glimpsed the gun, and climbed back behind the wheel.
I shifted into drive and veered into the parking lane. Steam rose from under our hood, accompanied by the odor of scorched coolant. I doubted the Town Car would be running for long.
Ahead, traffic stopped again.
Iranians and cops would be on us any second. Disappearing was my first priority, getting Julie out of here as fast as we could. But if I hoped to find out what was really going on and why I had been lied to, I would have to take Kirk with us.
I assessed the surrounding cityscape. We weren’t far from Lincoln Center.
“Come on. We’re taking the subway.”
I shoved the car into park and climbed out, pulling Julie with me. Opening the back door, I yanked Kirk to his feet, keeping the gun on his head.
“You, too.”
We made it to the sidewalk, him dragging his feet the whole way.
“Faster, Kirk.”
“She shot me.”
He was gimpy, but he could still walk. I had no sympathy.
“Suck it up, unless you want
“And I thought we liked each other.”
He moved a little faster, grunting as he hobbled, sweat beading on his brow.
I didn’t know if he was working with the men I’d seen in the SUV or not, so I kept my mouth shut. We’d covered about a block when I caught my next glimpse, three of them, running up the sidewalk. They weren’t holding guns, but I saw bulges under their sports coats.
We needed to hurry.
We reached the next crosswalk, the Iranians closing the distance behind us disturbingly fast.
Sirens cut through the air, and a squad rounded the corner, probably sent to check out the disturbance we’d caused. The car stopped just twenty feet from where we stood.
As much as I’d like reinforcements to deal with my Iranian problem, I couldn’t let police complicate my operation, and that included letting them take Kirk to the hospital for his injury or me to jail for the Ruger I had in a death grip.
I eyed Julie. “Quiet, hear?”
To my relief, she nodded.
I circled my arms around Kirk and gazed up at him in obvious adoration, the gun to the back of his head.
“If you signal them in any way, you’re dead.”
He returned my loving smile with one of his own.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I want the cops involved about as much as you do.”
Halfway down the block, the Iranians slowed to a walk, noticed the police car, and then ducked into a bistro with outdoor seating.
The light changed, and the cops passed by.
We continued across the street with the other pedestrians. I kept one arm around Kirk, both helping and steering him, his hands still bound in front of him with the twist tie. We moved quickly, coming as close to a run as Kirk could manage. As soon as the officers drove by the bistro, the Iranians would be back on the street and in pursuit. I had to take advantage of the short delay.
We reached Lincoln Center, rushing by the famous fountain in front of the Metropolitan Opera House without a sideways glance, then plunged down into the oppressive heat of the subway.
I bought three fare cards, and we pushed through the turnstiles. The Iranians had been delayed, but they had to guess we’d make for the train. They would catch up within minutes, maybe seconds. I had to make sure we were not where they expected by the time they came calling.
The Lincoln Center station was accessible to those with disabilities, and while Kirk was still mobile, handrails and ramps made navigating much faster than it would be in some of the less accessible stations. But though we reached the platform in record time, no train was waiting, and I couldn’t detect any rumble to suggest one would be approaching in the next few seconds.
The blood on his leg was obvious, but those who noticed purposely turned their backs to it. I kept a watchful eye out for Good Samaritans. None attempted to get involved.
I needed to find a place to hide. A place the Iranians would be unlikely to expect me to go. A place I could extract some answers.
I steered Kirk and Julie into a men’s restroom.
The place smelled like piss, mildew and those sweet pink deodorizing cakes that never really seemed to work. The bank of urinals and sinks weren’t being used. Dipping low, I noticed one pair of feet under a door. I directed Julie into the large stall on the end and pushed Kirk in after her. After depositing Kirk on the toilet, I flattened him to the tile wall behind him, my forearm snug up under his chin, and waited for the lone man to finish up and leave.
Kirk wisely stayed silent, watching me. Although his skin was pale and sweat beaded on his brow, he was still giving off that calm, deadly vibe.
Too bad for him I was now immune to his charm. Trying to kill me tended to dampen my ardor.
I held the gun against his forehead. When I actually decided to end him, I would opt for the garrote in my purse strap, but there was nothing quite like the barrel of a gun to convey you mean business.
“You killed Morrissey.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then who did?”
“My employers. I was brought in to take his place, rendezvous with you and get the girl. I’m just the hired help.”
“Who are you working for?”
“An interested party from Moscow.”
I narrowed my eyes on his. “Try Iran.”
“The Iranians? I wondered how long it would take them to catch up. Have the Venezuelans rejoined the party yet?”
