Andrew Britton - The Assassin

He studied her dispassionately, then said, “You’re quite beautiful… I can’t imagine he would be able to resist you for long. I know I wouldn’t be able to.” He leaned close, touching the tip of the pliers to her cheek. As the cold metal brushed against her skin, Naomi nearly lost it, but she pushed down her terror with one last tremendous effort.

“Naomi, Naomi…” He repeated her name in a singsong kind of way, then shook his head in amusement. “I can see that there’s something between you two. It couldn’t be more obvious. Do you think you can replace his dead fiancee? Answer me.”

“I don’t know,” she mumbled.

“Do you want to?”

She didn’t reply, and he let it go. He leaned down to the toolbox and replaced the pliers, then came up with a retractable utility knife. Extending the blade with his thumb, he examined the edge, then tossed it back in the box. “That won’t work. Plastic surgeons can work miracles with clean cuts these days. Let’s see if we can’t find something a little more… interesting.”

She didn’t want to ask it, but she couldn’t stop herself. “What are you doing?”

“Well, it’s simple,” he said, still digging around in the toolbox. “Killing you outright would be too easy and, frankly, a little boring. I think I’ll make you suffer first.”

He looked up to catch her reaction, and when he spoke, his voice was matter-of-fact. “You really shouldn’t have interfered in what I’m trying to do here. In your case, I could almost put it down to ignorance, but Ryan should have known better. Unfortunately, he’s not around to take his share of the blame, which leaves only you.” He dug around for a minute more, then produced a fixed-blade scoring knife. He held it up so she could see the hooked edge. “This is better.” He smiled gently. “Now, let’s see what we can do with that pretty face, shall we?”

As he advanced, Naomi pulled away as far as she could, aware of a low moan building deep in her throat. The steel cuffs were digging into her wrists, tearing the skin, but the pain didn’t register; all she could think about was getting away from the knife.

It was no good; there was nowhere to go. She felt flailing panic in her chest, felt her legs giving way as he pinned her painfully against the lathe. She could hear herself saying no and repeating the single word over and over as the jagged parts of the lathe dug into the lean muscles of her back. She was intensely aware of what this man had done to Katie Donovan a year earlier, and knew that she was about to suffer much, much worse. Her arms were pulled to the right, her left pinned between his body and hers. Naomi was wedged in place as he grabbed her throat with his left hand, pushing her head back, bringing the knife to her face with his right. She closed her eyes as tightly as she could and waited for the tearing pain to begin, praying it wouldn’t last too long.

But it never came. There was a sudden noise at the entrance, and Vanderveen stopped, looking left. Foster was standing inside the glass doors, about 20 feet away. “We can’t wait any longer,” he said uneasily. “Nazeri has to get moving. Right now.”

“In a minute,” Vanderveen replied. “This won’t take long.”

“Will…”

Vanderveen looked from Naomi’s terrified face to the door, then back again. He was clearly torn, but finally, he released her. Her strength failed her, and she slumped to the floor, only stopping when the cuffs pulled her arms taut over her head.

“Okay, I’m coming.” He looked back at Naomi, who had buried her face in her right shoulder. “Don’t go anywhere.”

At that same moment, Ryan Kealey’s rented Accord was racing south on FDR Drive, having just crossed the Triborough Bridge over the Harlem River. As soon as they’d left the safe house on Vyse Avenue, he had placed a direct call to Jonathan Harper at Langley, requesting a check on the name Nazeri in the New York area. Fortunately, the search yielded only a small number of results, and through the process of elimination, they were able to narrow it down to one probable address.

It was indeed that of Bridgeline Transport Inc., a freight company with terminals in Montreal and Ithaca, was owned by a man named Amir Nazeri, who’d emigrated from Tehran in the early eighties. The company also owned a vending service based on West Thirty-seventh Street, which was their current destination. Harper had demanded to know what was happening, but Kealey had cut him off in mid-sentence, not wanting to tie up the line. Repeated calls to Kharmai’s cell phone had gone unanswered, and he knew they were running out of time.

Up ahead, brake lights flashed as vehicles slowed to a halt. So far, they had managed to avoid most of the traffic, but it couldn’t last. He swore and slammed his hand against the wheel. Samantha Crane didn’t move an inch. She was sitting in the passenger seat. Over the past ten minutes, she had recovered slightly from Hakim Rudaki’s revelation. Now, she appeared neither drained nor angry. Her body was unnaturally still, her mouth set in a straight, tight line. Her eyes were unreadable, but Kealey knew exactly what she was feeling. He’d felt the same depth of betrayal when Will Vanderveen had shot him in Syria eight years earlier, right after killing 5 of his fellow soldiers. But that was in the past, and at the moment, all Kealey could think about was Naomi.

He was desperate to get to her, but at the same time, part of him wanted to sit in traffic forever. He was terrified that he’d get to the warehouse to find she was already dead, that he had failed her just like he’d failed Katie. Her words of the previous night were banging around in his head, but now they seemed taunting rather than reassuring. You’ve never let me down, and I know you never will. I trust you completely. He shook his head unconsciously, trying to free himself of the burden, knowing it was pointless to even try. If he proved her wrong — if she died because he couldn’t get there in time — he knew he would never be able to forgive himself.

Finally, the traffic broke, and they reached the exit for the Midtown Tunnel. He shot a look over his shoulder, then swerved into the next lane without indicating, punching the accelerator. The Accord shot forward on the service road. A few seconds later, the tires squealed in protest as Kealey swung a hard right onto East Thirty-seventh Street.

As he shifted into third gear, Samantha pulled out her Glock 29. He glanced over and saw her pull back the slide to check for a round in the chamber. She rested the gun on her lap and said, “How many people are we looking at here? I mean, it is just the two of us.”

It was the first time she had spoken since they’d left Vyse Avenue, and the question caught him off-guard. “Vanderveen, Foster, and this guy Nazeri. No more than that,” Kealey replied at length. “But they’ll all be there. I don’t think they’ll have moved the bomb yet. At least, I hope to God they haven’t.”

“How big a bomb are we talking about?”

“Fifteen thousand pounds.”

He didn’t look over, but he felt her staring at him. “Are you serious?” she finally asked.

He glared at her, and she was instantly repentant. “Never mind,” she mumbled. “Dumb question.”

Kealey shot a look at the speedometer: with Third Avenue looming, he was ahead of the traffic and building speed. As he watched, the light ahead turned yellow. People were lined up on either side of the street, waiting to cross, and he was still about 300 feet away from the intersection.

He punched the pedal and hit the horn as the speedometer continued to climb.

Naomi, still slumped against the front of the lathe, didn’t look up until she was sure she was alone in the warehouse. As she got to her feet unsteadily, she could hear the three men through the open glass doors. Suddenly, the truck started up and pulled away. She froze, wondering if that was it, if they were too late to stop the bomb, but the noise didn’t travel far. She realized that the Isuzu was still in the parking area, probably sitting in front of the roll-down vehicular door. It might not be gone, but it would be leaving soon, and as soon as it did, Vanderveen would be back to finish the job.