Gwynn slid the cardfrom his hand and dropped it into her bag. “Let’s go. Somebodymight be buying your dress right now. What would you do then?”
Anya cocked her head.“I would choose another one.”
“You’re missing thepoint. Just get out.”
Ninety minutes later,Anya emerged from the dressing room and onto the mirrored platform.
Gwynn tugged at thewaistline and made tiny adjustments to the fabric of the eleventhdress. She stood back and twitched her nose. “You look amazing init, but you’re perfect, so you make every dress look terrific. Ireally hate you.”
Anya sighed. “Ireally hate trying on dress after dress. Please choose one so we cango home.”
Gwynn ignored her. “No,this one isn’t exactly right. Let’s go to Bergdorf’s.”
The saleslady rolledher eyes. “We have a much more expansive selection than Bergdorf’s.I think I have just the dress for your friend. I’ll be back in aflash.”
Anya laid a hand on thelady’s shoulder. “If you have perfect dress for me, why did youwaste all of this time showing me the first eleven dresses?”
She pulled away fromAnya’s grasp. “I was developing an eye for your style.”
Anya turned, and Gwynnunzipped the latest dress. She stepped from the gown, leaving itpiled on the floor behind her. Curious eyes glared as she stoodbarely clothed before the mirrors, but Anya ignored their stares asshe stepped into her jeans and pulled on her shirt. As the Russianstepped from the raised platform, the saleslady returned with yetanother gown.
Anya brushed past her.“I cannot try on another dress. Can’t you please just pick one?”
Gwynn pulled her friendtoward the door as she dialed the driver’s number from memory.“We’re ready to go.”
The driver stammered.“Uh, wait. You must stay inside. The police are . . . I mean,there’s a . . . just stay inside! I’ll call you when it’s safeto come out.”
Noticing the look onGwynn’s face, Anya asked, “What is it?”
“The driver saysthere’s some sort of disturbance on the street outside, and thepolice are involved.”
Without a word, Anyasprinted toward the Sixteenth Street exit. The same instinct sentSpecial Agent, albeit undercover, Davis charging for the exit onlysteps behind her partner. A uniformed guard at least a hundred poundsoverweight stood between a bevy of curious onlookers and the lockedexit doors.
Gwynn parted the crowdand stopped inches in front of the shocked guard. “I’m a federalagent. What’s going on out there?”
“I don’t know,ma’am, but the doors are locked, and you’ll have to stay insideuntil NYPD says it’s safe.”
“You’re notlistening. I said I’m a federal agent. Now, get out of my way.”
The guard held up bothhands. “Until you show me some ID, you’re nobody, so calm downand let’s see your badge . . . federal agent.”
Gwynn drove her handinto her bag where her credential pack should’ve been but felt onlyan empty interior compartment—just as it should’ve been for anyundercover officer. The realization hit her at the same instant shesaw her favorite Russian slip behind the guard and twist the lock onthe door.
A collective gasp rosefrom the bewildered crowd, and the guard spun to see the previouslylocked door swinging closed. He gave Gwynn a shove. “Get back,lady. I don’t care who you are.”
He propelled hisformidable heft toward the door, pulled on the handle, and resecuredthe locking bolt.
Gwynn’s heart raced,and her mind exploded as thoughts of what Anya might do on the streetrushed through her head. As much as she didn’t want to lose acooperating participant, which would end Operation Avenging Angel,her greatest fear was having video of the beautiful Russian on everycable news show as she sliced off the head of some unsuspectingcriminal in Downtown Manhattan.
Growing more desperateto see the action outside the doors, Gwynn ran from the crowd andpressed her face to the heavy glass of a nearby floor-to-ceilingwindow. The vantage point gave her a terribly obstructed view of thescene unfolding outside. Four NYPD police cars blocked theintersection of Seventh Avenue and Sixteenth Street while acollection of unmarked cars rested at various positions around thescene. A pair of ambulances awaited the outcome, their crew standingby with gloved hands and gurneys poised. Whatever was happening,Gwynn knew all too well the outcome had little chance of endingpeacefully. Every fiber of her being screamed for her to be on thatstreet with her sidearm in one hand and a bullhorn in the other.
Well out of Gwynn’sline of sight, Anya took cover behind a stone pillar and leanedoutward, inch by inch, taking in the scene on the street. A boy ofperhaps three dangled from a man’s left arm, tears streaming fromhis terrified face. The man’s right hand trembled, and his knucklesturned white from gripping the handle of a chef’s knife.
The ubiquitous roar ofthe New York City street was hushed, leaving an eerie silence hangingin the air, punctuated only by the cries of the child and the franticyelling of his captor.
“Na im vordin e!Na im vordin e!”
Anya scanned the crowdof mortified bystanders and the faces of the police officers peeringacross their pistols. No one, except her, knew the man holding thescreaming child was speaking Armenian and declaring the child to behis son. A wave of conflicting thoughts and emotions poured throughher head as she tried to develop a strategy to end the standoffwithout the child being hurt. Fearing the dozens of cameras and cellphones trained on the scene, she pulled her shirt over her head,leaving only her eyes exposed to the lenses. In confident, calmArmenian, as she approached from the sidewalk, she repeated, “Givethe boy to me. I promise no one will hurt him.”
The man locked eyeswith her as she continued her approach. The indecision in his facemirrored the emotion she felt about inserting herself into asituation that was never hers. Her calm tone continued as sherepeated the phrase with every step until the man let the boy slidefrom his arm. Simultaneously, with the boy’s feet striking theground, Anya’s fist struck the knifeman’s bicep. The blow shockedthe man and left his arm incapable of raising
