Judging from the way he moved and his obliviousness to his surroundings, I pegged him to be just what he seemed, a guy who needed to pee.
He sidled up to one of the urinals, just about to open his fly.
I held the Ruger against my leg where he wouldn’t be likely to spot it, but yet it would be ready in case I was mistaken, and opened the door.
Kirk limped out of the stall behind me, followed by Julie.
The guy’s eyebrows jutted upward, then an
I caught a low chuckle coming from Kirk.
Boys.
We moved to the door. I inched it open, checking the area outside before emerging. I remembered red dots on the signs marking the platform and wound back to it. Sure enough, the number one was among the train lines posted.
Now we just needed the train to make its appearance before the Iranians did.
I focused on our surroundings. Exhaust hung in the air like thick fog, along with the usual mix of body odor and too much perfume. Still, compared to the smells in the bathroom, the air was positively fresh.
Tiled floors and walls bounced the clack of footfalls and rumble of voices until they meshed into a general roar, each sound almost indistinguishable from the other. A brass quartet played
I almost didn’t hear the voice.
Farsi.
I turned toward the sound, scanning the crowd. One of the men from the SUV raced down the steps toward us, a cell phone in his left hand, his right tucked under his sport coat, most likely concealing a weapon. His eyes were trained on Julie and Kirk.
The rumble grew louder. People shifted on the platform, positioning themselves for closest access to the doors once the train arrived.
I eyed Kirk. His leg injury would slow him down, but he could still help me. I could no longer afford to sit on the fence. I either had to trust him or not.
I slipped out the pistol and handed it to him. Then I drew my knife from its sheath and opened the serrated, black blade.
“Get her on the train. You cross me, I’ll find you.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
I stepped to the side. The crowd closed in around Julie and Kirk, filling the spot I’d vacated.
Avoiding or heading off a dangerous situation was always preferable to dealing with a threat once it arrived. As an operative, much of my training focused on being aware of everything around me. Not just sight, but sounds and smells and attention to subliminal clues—what most people liked to think of as hunches or intuition. Awareness prevented surprises. It also staved off the sin of tunnel vision.
My Persian friend might be very good with whatever weapon he held under his jacket, but when it came to being aware, his training was lacking.
I circled to the right, moving purposefully but slowly enough not to gain notice. Reaching the benches lining the wall at the back of the platform, I wound through the crowd, keeping watch on the back of my target’s head, moving closer.
My hair clung to the back of my neck. The train’s roar grew louder, drowning out all other sounds, even the patter of my own heartbeat.
I stepped up, only inches behind him.
He didn’t know I was there until I had my left hand on his mouth, fingers bruise-tight across his lips, thumb over his nose, squeezing down. I yanked his head back, to my right shoulder, and at the same time, thrust my knife low and buried it hard into his back, punching through his ribs, penetrating his heart.
He arched and cried out against my hand just as the train swept into the station, the rumble drowning out everything. I held his mouth and kept the blade in his body, feeling it twitch with his heartbeat.
One …
Two …
Three.
The doors whooshed open and the crowd shifted to one side to allow commuters to clear out of the cars.
I moved with the crowd, stepping away and letting him fall, trying to pull my knife back. But the S&W didn’t have a blood groove, and suction held it fast.
By the time he hit concrete, I had blended into the sea of commuters. I wasn’t worried about fingerprints— the knife handle had been treated to resist latents—but I didn’t like being unarmed.
Screams cut through the ambient noise. People pushed and scattered. I saw a dark-haired man ramming his way through the crowd, moving quickly from my right. Trying to help? Afraid of missing the train?
No. Another Persian assailant.
How did all of these assholes get into the country? Didn’t TSA have a goddamn
The people departing the train cleared the doors, and the crowd surged forward. I caught a glimpse of Kirk ushering Julie into a subway car.
The new arrival noted the same thing. He veered in the direction of the train.
I angled my trajectory to head him off, bouncing between harried commuters. A voice said something over the public address system, impossible to decipher.
One woman elbowed me as I tried to pass. “Hey, wait your turn.”
I refused to give ground. “You don’t want to get on this train.”
She gave me a sour look but wisely allowed me to squeeze past, not that she really had a choice.
I reached the door a split second before the Persian did and jumped inside, taking two running steps and then grabbing the pole used for standing commuters. Channeling my inner stripper, I whirled around, leading with my feet, ankles together.
As the Iranian stepped onto the train, I plowed into him with both heels.
He flew backward, flying into the sharp-elbowed woman and sending both of them sprawling onto the concrete platform.
I fell to the floor of the train, landing hard on my hip.
He recovered before I did, rising to his knees, pulling a pistol out of a shoulder holster, pointing the barrel square at my chest.
The explosion was deafening, bouncing off steel and cement.
I flinched, expecting the impact, expecting the pain.
The Iranian flinched, looking surprised.
A moment later he slumped to the ground, trying and failing to plug the bullet hole in his chest with his hands.
I guess Kirk was trustworthy after all.
The subway car erupted, screams, crying, stampeding people. I grabbed the pole to keep from being swept out, peering past the surge and into the car, searching for Kirk and Julie. Kirk had concealed the gun and was moving with the crowd, pushing Julie toward the open door, acting as if they were part of the panic.
I did the same, getting to my feet and rushing through the door in front of me. With a gun going off and two dead on the ground, there wasn’t a chance in hell the station agent in the booth would let the train go on as usual. We’d have to find another route downtown.
The sharp-elbowed woman lay on the ground behind the dead Persian spy. She looked up, staring at me with shell-shocked eyes.
“You should have listened to me,” I said as I stepped over the body and blended with the crowd.
I caught up with Kirk and Julie at the closest subway newsstand.
“The two of you. Put these on,” Kirk shoved a Yankees baseball cap, and
