“How about it, Chandler?”
I blinked, bringing my thoughts back to Kirk,an idea starting to form.
“How much did they pay you?” I asked. “TheRussians?”
“Fifty grand. Twenty-five up front. If Idon’t deliver, I have to return it.”
Killing him was no doubt the safer move, butI didn’t kill unless I had a very good reason for it. So far, Kirkappeared to have been upfront about everything.
Besides, I could use some help.
“Tell you what. You return the money, comeback to working for us, and Uncle Sam will give you sixty.”
Kirk smiled, full out this time. “I like thatdeal.”
“Of course you do.”
“You think you can trust me?”
“I think you’re a whore for the money. You’llserve whoever’s paying you.”
“True. So what about the kiss?”
Cocky bastard. “If we get out of this alive,I’ll give you more than a kiss.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
“Now where’s Morrissey’s car?” I rememberedwhat Jacob had told me about the murdered spy. “Staten Island?”
He nodded. “The St. George ferry terminal.Just need to take the number one train to the ferry.”
I hiked up my jeans, slipped the small bladefrom my ankle sheath, and used it to cut the zip tie on hiswrists.
“Give me your jacket.”
“Undressing me? You rethought that wholewaiting-to-see-if-we-lived thing?”
“You’re not that cute.”
“Sure I am.”
Yeah. He was. But I was the one with the gun.I pointed it.
He handed me the garment.
I tore off a sleeve and hiked up hisblood-soaked pant leg. I was right, the bullet hadn’t hit bone. Infact, the wound looked more like a deep cut than a gunshot. Still,flesh wounds, as they call them in the movies, were not somethingto scoff at. They hurt like hell, could render a muscleineffective, and caused significant blood loss.
“Julie, can you … um … step back a bit?”
She nodded, putting both hands over her mouthas if her very breath was infectious. The dazed expression in hereyes was different than the drug buzz. She looked to be inshock.
I used the jacket sleeve to wrap Kirk’s legand slow the bleeding. Ebola or not, this was a mission like anyother. My life was in danger. Other lives were in danger.
Anyone who got in my way was in the mostdanger of all.
“Killing is part of your job,” TheInstructor said. “You must know when to do it and be able to followthrough without hesitation.”
The creak of the bathroom door hinges dumpedanother dose of adrenaline into my bloodstream. I peered throughthe space between the stall walls and door and spotted a flusteredlooking man carrying a briefcase. Judging from the way he moved andhis obliviousness to his surroundings, I pegged him to be just whathe seemed, a guy who needed to pee.
He sidled up to one of the urinals, justabout to open his fly.
I held the Ruger against my leg where hewouldn’t be likely to spot it, but yet it would be ready in case Iwas mistaken, and opened the door.
Kirk limped out of the stall behind me,followed by Julie.
The guy’s eyebrows jutted upward, then anattaboy smile spread over his lips.
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 onthe 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 itsappearance before the Iranians did.
I focused on our surroundings. Exhaust hungin the air like thick fog, along with the usual mix of body odorand too much perfume. Still, compared to the smells in thebathroom, the air was positively fresh.
Tiled floors and walls bounced the clack offootfalls and rumble of voices until they meshed into a generalroar, each sound almost indistinguishable from the other. A brassquartet played New York, New York further down on theplatform. And finally, getting closer, I detected the low roar ofan approaching train.
I almost didn’t hear the voice.
Farsi.
I turned toward the sound, scanning thecrowd. 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 sportcoat, most likely concealing a weapon. His eyes were trained onJulie and Kirk.
The rumble grew louder. People shifted on theplatform, positioning themselves for closest access to the doorsonce the train arrived.
I eyed Kirk. His leg injury would slow himdown, but he could still help me. I could no longer afford to siton the fence. I either had to trust him or not.
I slipped out the pistol and handed it tohim. Then I drew my knife from its sheath and opened the serrated,black blade.
“Get her on the train. You cross me, I’llfind you.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
I stepped to the side. The crowd closed inaround Julie and Kirk, filling the spot I’d vacated.
Avoiding or heading off a dangerous situationwas always preferable to dealing with a threat once it arrived. Asan operative, much of my training focused on being aware ofeverything around me. Not just sight, but sounds and smells andattention to subliminal clues—what most people liked to think of ashunches or intuition. Awareness prevented surprises. It also stavedoff the sin of tunnel vision.
My Persian friend might be very good withwhatever weapon he held under his jacket, but when it came to beingaware, his training was lacking.
I circled to the right, moving purposefullybut slowly enough not to gain notice. Reaching the benches liningthe 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. Thetrain’s roar grew louder, drowning out all other sounds, even thepatter of my own heartbeat.
I stepped up, only inches behind him.
He didn’t know I was there until I had myleft hand on his mouth, fingers bruise-tight across his lips, thumbover his nose, squeezing down. I yanked his head back, to my rightshoulder, and at the same time, thrust my knife low and buried ithard into his back, punching through his ribs, penetrating hisheart.
He arched and cried
