Andrew Britton - The Assassin

Just as he was trying to figure out his next move, two things happened at once. His cell phone rang, and he spotted the top of a white Isuzu truck approaching from the north, moving at a slower rate than the surrounding traffic. As he watched, it shuddered to a halt at the light at Fifty-first and Seventh, two cars back from the light itself. Never moving his gaze from the vehicle, he reached into his right pocket and withdrew his phone, flipping it open to answer the call. “Kealey.”

“Ryan? Is that you?”

He froze, unsure he had heard correctly. Sensing his shock, Vanderveen laughed and said, “How have you been?”

“You fucking bastard. Where are-”

“Easy,” Vanderveen said, a warning note creeping into his voice. “That’s no way to talk to a man who’s holding a gun on your girlfriend.”

“You…” Kealey was left speechless, his heart pounding against his ribs, every nerve ending seared by anger and fear. He should never have left her alone… It just didn’t seem real. “Put her on.”

“Just for a minute, then.” There was a pause, a few mumbled words, and then a sharp, defiant refusal. Kealey heard what could only be a slap, the sound of flesh hitting flesh. He knew that the other man had just hit her, and he was filled with a white-hot rage, his hand gripping the phone so tight the plastic was starting to crack. Up ahead, the light at Fifty-first turned green, and the Isuzu rolled forward. Kealey squinted through the glare of the pale afternoon sun but couldn’t see the man behind the wheel.

“Ryan?” Naomi’s voice came over the phone, filling him with dread and despair. She sounded scared as hell, but he could also detect a strange determination. When she spoke, the words came out in a rush. “Don’t worry about me. Just stop the bomb, okay? Just-”

She had spoken as fast as she could, but she was quickly cut off by another audible slap. Vanderveen came back on the line right away. “See? I’m a man of my word. Not very good at protecting your women, are you?” The other man’s voice was filled with a kind of amusement, which bordered on outright glee. “If I hadn’t been distracted earlier, I would have left you a little message to that effect. By which I mean a message carved into her face. Looks like I might still have the chance.”

“You son of a bitch,” Kealey managed. His eyes were glued on the Isuzu. It was approaching fast now, not more than a few hundred feet away. He quickly searched again for police officers, but if they were there, they had lost themselves in the crowd. “If you touch her, I swear to God, I’ll-”

“Let it go,” Vanderveen said, his voice low and strangely hypnotic. “Just let it go off. Let it do what it was meant to do. If you stop it, she dies in the worst way possible. Just like Katie.”

Kealey closed his eyes, aware of a crushing despair. The image came back in an instant: he could see her lying on the kitchen floor, bleeding out from the wound in her neck, begging him for help with those frightened blue eyes. The thought of Naomi enduring the same was just too much, but there was no way to stop it. Vanderveen would kill her anyway, and besides, he couldn’t put her life ahead of the thousands of innocent people in the surrounding buildings. He had already risked too much time in the warehouse by trying to shield her from blame in Crane’s death. There was nothing more he could do for her; he’d just have to prove her wrong.

You’ve never let me down, Ryan, and I know you never will. I trust you completely.

Vanderveen was clearly waiting for his reply. Kealey took a deep breath, then made the hardest choice of his life.

He disconnected the call and dropped the phone.

Reaching under his shirt, he drew his Beretta and held it down by his side for as long as he could. Then he stepped into Seventh Avenue, narrowly avoiding being hit by a passing bus. As soon as it swept by in a blast of cool air, Kealey took a few more steps, crossing into the second lane. The Isuzu was close now, and judging by the sweaty, agitated look on the driver’s face, he had the right vehicle. He was aware of squealing tires, a cacophony of horns, and the shouts of pedestrians rising up from the sidewalk, but he shut it all out. Lifting the gun in two hands, Kealey set his feet, aimed at the man behind the wheel of the approaching truck, and squeezed the trigger.

In the passenger seat of the red Mercury Sable, Naomi Kharmai looked down at her balled fists, trying to ignore the stinging pain on the left side of her face. Her wrists were still cuffed; Vanderveen had thrown a sweater over her hands to hide the evidence as he’d hustled her into the car a few minutes earlier. She could taste blood in her mouth, and she felt dizzy from the three blows he had just delivered. After hitting her twice while on the phone with Kealey, he had administered a third, brutal punch to the side of her head, more out of frustration than anything else. At least, that was her guess. Fortunately, the angle had taken away most of his leverage, so the blow hadn’t done nearly as much damage as it should have. Still, she could feel something warm running down past her ear, and looking down, she could see a few spots of blood on her sweater, bright red against the white material.

After Ryan disconnected the call, Vanderveen had thrown the phone onto the floor by her feet. Then he had lapsed into a barrage of biting profanity. She didn’t dare to look at him, afraid of drawing his wrath. She was intensely aware of the Glock 19 in his left hand, which was resting in his lap and pointed toward her. She had briefly considered throwing open the door and diving out, but she knew she would never get clear in time. At that angle, the bullet would tear right through her abdomen, leaving her with a wound that would almost certainly prove fatal, but only after an hour or so of excruciating pain.

Far more terrifying than the gun, however, was the knife he’d dropped into his pocket before pushing her out of the warehouse and into the car. It was the same knife he’d threatened her with earlier, and judging by what he’d said to Ryan over the phone, he was anxious to use it. She couldn’t stop thinking about that shiny hooked blade, but the gun was right there, clearly visible, and she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to fire. By the time they crossed West Forty-second Street, she’d decided the best thing to do was to sit still and wait for an opportunity.

As her mind raced to find one, though, Vanderveen turned the wheel hard to the right. She looked up to see a sign that said WEST 48TH STREET, and she suddenly realized where they were going. The Renaissance Hotel at Forty-Eighth and Seventh.

They were heading right for ground zero.

NEW YORK CITY

Joseph Ruggeri counted himself a fortunate man, despite being in desperate need of a shower and a month’s worth of sleep, and for one simple reason: he was one of the very few cops in the five boroughs with the rest of the day off. The twenty-six-year-old Ruggeri had just come off a twelve-hour desk shift at the precinct on the corner of West Fifty-fourth and Eighth, the home of the Patrol Borough Manhattan South, and was looking forward to a good meal and a warm bed, preferably his girlfriend’s. The bed would have to wait a little bit longer, but he knew where the meal was coming from, as his uncle co-owned the Stage Deli and Restaurant on Fifty-fourth and Seventh.

He had changed into street clothes before leaving the precinct: a white T-shirt under a brown canvas jacket, worn Levis, and running shoes. His service weapon, a Smith amp; Wesson Model 5946, was holstered on his right hip, but he hardly noticed it; he carried the gun almost everywhere and was used to its comforting weight.

Ruggeri had been on the force for just over four and a half years. Like many men in his age group, he’d felt the need to serve his country following the events of September 11th, 2001, and as with most of his like-minded peers, that meant one of two things: the military or law enforcement. Ruggeri was Brooklyn born and raised; his parents still lived in the same house he’d grown up in, and his six siblings all lived within the five boroughs, except for one sister who’d strayed to Trenton, of all places. Leaving them behind to go to Afghanistan or some other godforsaken place was simply not an option. The idea of crossing the Jersey line filled him with a distinct sense of unease; Afghanistan might as well have been on a different planet. So it was the NYPD, and he’d never regretted it. He enjoyed the work, he loved being able to get a home-cooked meal any day of the week, and he especially loved the nice little jump he had just received on his last paycheck.