“Switch cabs. Meet back at the safe point. I’ll be there soon.”
“What are you going to do?”
Quinn hesitated. The light at the upcoming intersection was red. There were half a dozen cars waiting for it to change, blocking the way. Behind him the cop car was coming on fast. He was about to be boxed in.
“Just go. I’ll be there.”
He picked up his phone, hit disconnect, then shoved the device in his pocket.
There was really only one choice. He was going to have to run for it, and hope the cops wouldn’t risk hitting innocents by opening fire on him.
As he eased off the gas, he reached under his seat, pulled out his SIG, and placed it on his lap. With his left hand, he reached for the door handle, but stopped before opening the door.
Ahead to his right, an opportunity.
He jammed down on the accelerator, turned the wheel hard to the right, then left again as he negotiated the narrow gap between two parked cars onto the sidewalk. There was the screech of metal on stone as the side of Quinn’s sedan slammed against the marble-tiled building before centering itself on the walkway.
The drivers in the other cars gaped at him as he raced by. Near the corner there was a couple walking down the sidewalk with their backs to him. Quinn jammed his palm down on the horn. The couple turned, their eyes growing wide. At least the woman had sense enough to pull her companion between two parked cars a second before Quinn raced by.
Ahead on the intersecting street, Broadway, cars drove from right to left, unaware of his approach. As he reached the GameStop store on the corner, he glanced in the mirror again. The cops had slowed at the back of the traffic and were trying to maneuver onto the sidewalk behind him. But their driving skills were nowhere near as good as his, and they were finding it more difficult than they’d anticipated.
The intersection was only ten feet away. Quinn pressed the car’s horn with one hand and turned the wheel to the left with the other as he flew off the end of the sidewalk into traffic. His horn was soon joined by others.
Then there was the screech of tires.
Then the crunch of impact.
The sedan had been jolted to the left as a cab slammed into the passenger side. He could feel the Buick wanting to flip over, but it remained upright. Quinn looked over his shoulder. The driver of the cab was staring at him in a daze, the front end of his taxi still touching Quinn’s car.
Quinn pressed down on the accelerator and tried to pull away. But as he did, he could feel the cab wanting to come with him. He threw the Buick into reverse and pushed down on the gas again. That did it. The cab groaned as it spun away, setting Quinn free of the unwanted obstruction. Quinn shoved the transmission back into drive, then took off down Broadway.
Behind him was chaos. Cars scattered all over the place. People standing in the middle of the street. And two cops rounding the corner on foot, guns in hand, but with nothing to shoot at.
For the moment he was alone, but he knew that wouldn’t last long.
He needed to dump the car. Fast.
He turned down West Twenty-seventh and found a spot in front of a jewelry store on the right. It was just large enough for him to fit, and would keep the damaged side of the car facing away from the street. Before he got out, he had to search for his gun. It had flown off his lap during the accident. He could feel the seconds ticking away as he felt around the darkness for it. Finally, he found the SIG stuck between his seat and the door.
Adrenaline still pumping, he all but jumped out of the car. He had to force himself to walk, not run, around the front of the vehicle and onto the sidewalk.
The street was quiet. No one else was out. The only real noise was distant. Cars moving through the city as they did at all hours, a few horns. And sirens. More than on the average New York night. He tried to gauge their location and direction. None seemed to be heading toward him. Yet.
There was a Honda Prelude parked behind his Buick. He knew he’d have no problem getting in and getting it started. And its trunk would be large enough for the body of the Deputy Director.
Quinn walked over to the rear of his sedan, pulled out the key, and stuck it in the lock on the trunk. Only when he turned it, nothing happened. He tried pulling it open with his other hand, but there was only the groan of the vehicle’s springs.
The trunk lid wasn’t going anywhere. It had gotten tweaked during the accident, and would take equipment and time he didn’t have to open it.
He pulled out his phone and dialed Peter. “It’s Quinn,” he said.
“Where the hell are you?”
“You need to send someone for the car.” He gave Peter the address of the building closest to where he’d parked the Buick. “You have to make it quick. The cops are looking for it now.”
“Jesus. I told you to park it in a—”
Quinn hung up, then began walking. It turned out he wouldn’t need the Prelude after all.
CHAPTER 10
By the time Quinn made it to the Marriott Marquis Hotel in Times Square, it was almost 3 a.m. Even then, there were dozens of people about. It was New York after all, where the night people replaced the day people, keeping the city in constant motion.
Escalators took him up several floors to the main lobby level. As he stepped off, his phone began to vibrate. He wasn’t surprised by the name on the display. ORLANDO.
Instead of answering, he looked around, spotting her in seconds. She was across the lobby, standing against the wall. When their eyes met, she lowered her phone and smiled.
A moment later he spotted Nate standing several feet away from her. Quinn’s apprentice was scanning the room, doing what he’d been trained to do in these exact kinds of situations.
“Took you long enough,” Orlando said once he reached her. Per standard procedure, she’d refrained from calling him after they split up.
He gave her a condensed version of what had happened. When he finished, he asked, “Do you know if Peter got anyone to the car yet?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s here, you know.”
“In New York?” Quinn asked, surprised.
“No. I mean here in this hotel.”
That gave Quinn a moment’s pause. “Where?” he said.
“He’s got a room upstairs. He asked me to bring you up as soon as you got here.”
“He asked
“I didn’t say I would. We can just leave if you want.”
Quinn paused. Orlando’s suggestion was very intriguing, but after a few seconds he shook his head. “Let’s just get it over with.”
Peter’s room was on the twenty-third floor. The door opened as they approached it. That wasn’t surprising. Quinn had noticed several cameras placed discreetly along the corridor leading up to the door. Those inside had no desire to be surprised by unexpected guests.
Sean Cooper, one of Peter’s men, stood just inside the room holding the door.
“Quinn,” Cooper said.
“Sean,” Quinn replied as he and the others stepped inside.
“Heard about the accident,” Cooper said. “You all right?”
“I’m fine,” Quinn said.
The room had two double beds, a rust-colored couch next to the window, a small desk against the wall, and a television cabinet. Your standard tourist room.
There was a computer on the desk. The screen looked like it had been divided into four images. Feeds from the cameras outside the room, Quinn guessed.
