The instant she roundedthe corner, the echo of the woman’s second scream pierced theotherwise silent corridor. Anya sighed as the reality reached her.The determined cop had obviously made his way through the openwindow, as well. The maid was going to need another blessing to keepthe heart attack at bay.
The policeman was aproblem, but not the immediate concern. At least a dozen secondsseparated him from Anya, giving her plenty of time to form a plan.Still running, she saw a mop bucket with the long, rigid handle of acommercial-grade mop protruding from the soapy water. As she sprintedpast the bucket, she yanked the mop from its rest, spilling the wateracross the floor and creating a minefield of the slickest substancethe cop would ever try to run across. With the mop in her hand, sheturned another corner and kicked open a heavy wooden door. Behind thedoor was exactly what she’d hope to find: a stairwell leading downto the first floor and up to whatever waited above.
As the door closedbehind her on its pneumatic arm, she shoved the mophead against thefirst step and the tip of the handle beneath the handle of the door.It wasn’t an impenetrable obstacle, but it would certainly add afew more precious seconds to the distance between her and herpursuer.
She took the descendingstairs six at a time and slowly peered into the hallway. A manwearing the dress of a man of the cloth strolled nonchalantly downthe hall with a book in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.Confident the man presented no threat, Anya pulled the elastic bandfrom her ponytail and drew her long hair forward, hiding most of herface. She stepped from the stairwell with her head low and her facemostly obscured by her hair.
Walking unhurriedly,she passed the man without a word and continued down the hallwaytoward an illuminated exit sign hanging above the door to herfreedom.
15
CHELOVEKOKHOTA
(MAN HUNT)
Back at SeventhAvenue and Sixteenth Street, a pair of EMTs loaded their gurney ontothe waiting ambulance. The gurney’s occupant, Razmik Sahakyan, anArmenian immigrant, writhed in pain and struggled against thehandcuffs holding his wrists to the rails of the bed. His right leglay twisted, destroyed at the knee.
Finally outside thestore, Special Agent Gwynn Davis stood at the edge of the crowd,listening intently to the chatter over the NYPD radio. Her interesthad nothing to do with the Armenian who’d never again walk withouta limp. She was only interested in the other Eastern Europeanimmigrant who’d made a hit-and-run appearance on the scene. Thefear she’d experienced the previous night over the possibility oflosing the Russian and spending the rest of her career locked in thebasement of the Justice Department reared its ugly head again. Theperfect avenue to escape had presented itself, and AnastasiaBurinkova had taken it. As much as she dreaded the call to her boss,Supervisory Special Agent Ray White, the thought of never seeing Anyaagain tore at her very soul.
Protocol and standardoperating procedure dictated that she must immediately report Anya’sescape, but the lingering hope that Anya may simply be well hiddenand biding her time until the melee ended was too much to resist. Shewatched as, one by one, the police cars, both unmarked and otherwise,pulled away from the scene. One patrol car remained, and leaningagainst the trunk, stood a middle-aged officer with a few too manypounds hanging over his gun belt.
Gwynn approached theofficer, who still looked as if he’d just tried to run a marathon.“Excuse me, officer. I’m Special Agent Davis with Justice. Wereyou able to apprehend the person who ran?”
The officer didn’tlook up to check the DOJ agent’s credentials. Instead, he caughthis breath and said, “No, she was too fast. My partner continuedthe foot pursuit, but she escaped through the church down the block.”After panting for thirty seconds, the cop finally looked up andtilted his head. “What does the DOJ have to do with any of this? Ithought the FBI handled kidnappings.”
“They do, but I justhappened to be in the area. Did you get a good enough look at therunner to give me a description?”
The officer held up onefinger and pulled a water bottle from inside his cruiser. After along drink, he said, “I didn’t get a good look at the guy, butwhoever he was, he had his shirt pulled up over his head, and he waswicked fast. Hang on a minute, and I’ll call my partner.”
Gwynn pulled a smallpad and pen from her bag in an attempt to appear more official.Without her credentials, she was treading on thin ice by sticking hernose any deeper into an NYPD chase.
Regaining his composureand catching his breath, the officer pressed the push-to-talk buttonon his shoulder mic. “Sixty-six fifty-four to sixty-six fifty-five,say location.”
The reply came, notover the radio, but through the air. “I’m right here, you fatmoron. What do you want?”
The officer turned tosee his partner jogging to a stop on the sidewalk fifteen feet away.“Oh, yeah, whatever. This is Special Agent . . .” He pointedtoward Gwynn. “What did you say your name was?”
“It’s Davis.Special Agent Gwynn Davis with Justice.”
He turned back to hismuch younger partner. “Yeah, Davis. That’s it. She don’t carenothin’ about the perp with the busted leg. Alls she wants to knowis if we got a description of the rabbit.”
The younger officereyed her thoughtfully. “I didn’t get a good look at her face.”
“Her?” yelled thefirst officer. “You mean that guy was a girl?”
“Yes, she was ablonde female, probably five feet nine or ten and a hundredthirty-five pounds. That’s the best I can do, but why does theJustice Department care about a runaway good Samaritan?”
Gwynn put on hergovernment-issue stern face. “I’m sorry, officer, but I’m notat liberty to say. Where did you last see the subject?”
He gave her a frownbefore pointing down the block. “She ran out the back of the churchright down there. After that, she was in the wind.”
Gwynn pretended to makea note on
