An explosion shook the tunnel around us.
Julianne screamed.
I looked back, over my shoulder, back towhere we’d left Morrissey. The tiled walls and shiny ceilingreflected the orange glow of flame. The smoke came fast, like anacrid thunderhead.
Unlike in the movies, gunfire doesn’t easilycause car explosions, but explosives wired to the gas tank could.They also caused one hell of a traffic mess when detonated in atunnel. And one hell of an emergency response that criminal typeswould be eager to avoid.
I had a feeling Morrissey was going to comeout of this just fine.
By the time Julianne and I reached the end ofthe tunnel, sirens echoed from everywhere and the smell of burningcar coated the back of my throat and infused my hair. I pulled herup on the walkway to the side of the two traffic lanes andconcealed the Glock along my leg. We made it to the mouth of thetunnel and walked out onto the streets of Manhattan. The area wasswarming with cop cars, and I jammed the pistol into my tinybag.
We walked to Grand Central station, stoppingat a Banana Republic in the terminal to pick up a dress to pullover my bikini, a change of clothing for Julianne and gym shoes forboth of us. The clothing wasn’t pricey, but the purchase still tookmost of the money Jacob had stashed in the purse. Two subway farestook the rest.
“Why are we going to Columbus Circle?”Julianne asked.
I thought of the glorified roundabout markingthe southwest corner of Central Park. It offered continuallyflowing 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 somewheresafe.”
If I thought it was hot on the streets, I wasmistaken. Descending into the subway tunnels felt like burrowinginto humidity hell. Exhaust and the odor of hot humanity swam inthe air. I heard the click of heels and rumble of voices, nothingbut ordinary subway sounds.
We moved into a wide area of red quarry tilerimmed with scarred wooden benches. Live music echoed off walls andfloors, zamponas, charango, guitars, and percussion, a distinctlySouth 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 throughplatforms only to cross over tracks and double-back. The third timewe passed the Andean band, she spoke up. “Are we lost?”
“I’m making sure we weren’t followed.”
She glanced around, as if the bogeymanhimself might jump out from the nearby newspaper stand.
“Were we?”
“No.”
She let out a long breath, but still lookedfar 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 upfast. Julianne was pretty and blond, but there was simply no way acriminal enterprise could make enough money selling one girl.Bradford and Sims was no modeling agency, their little pornoperation aside. But I was becoming less and less sure they dealtin human trafficking, either.
“Well, thanks. I know I didn’t seem like Iappreciated you saving me at first, but I do. I was just a little,you know, shaken up.”
She was sounding better, clearer. Thecombination of caffeine and getting shot at was working against thedrugs in her system.
“Understandable.” I gave her a smile and ledher past the band one last time and up a sloping ramp toward the Strain that would take us to Times Square.
“Who are you, anyway?” Julianne asked, oncethe 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 herlineless forehead. “I … I don’t have a good track record withfriends.”
I knew the feeling. “Okay, how about abodyguard? 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 wasbetter to keep things simple and them at arms’ length. I wasalready starting to like Julianne more than I should.
“If someone is looking out for me, isn’t itbetter that I know who?”
The platform was crowded, the rush hourstampede starting to heat up. The S train ran between Grand CentralStation and Times Square every fifteen minutes. We wouldn’t havelong to wait, but I still felt as if it couldn’t come fastenough.
“I’ve never really had anyone who has lookedout 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 werebetween the two of us.
“I had friends and stuff, but no one everseemed 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 rememberthinking she did. She died when I was sixteen.”
I focused on the rumble of the trainapproaching. I had been ten when I lost both parents. At leastJulianne 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 thisthan human trafficking. If her dad was a VIP, like Jacob said, thiscould be a kidnapping for ransom. Or leverage. Take a senator’sdaughter, and you own him. That could be useful for certaincorporations. Or certain foreign governments.
The train rolled in, the sound too loud forwords. Doors opened, releasing crowds of commuters, then we steppedon and they sucked closed behind us. I stood, holding onto apole.
Julianne stood next to me. I scanned thecrowd around us, looking for potential trouble. We remained quietuntil we emerged from the 42nd Street subway station and joined thesteamy, neon hubbub of Times Square.
She broke the silence. “Being alone, notknowing who you can trust, it’s not fun. You don’t know what thatfeels like.”
Actually, I did. Not that I was going toshare the dark
