Andrew Britton - The Assassin

He crossed Fifty-fourth heading south, the colorful facade of the Stage Deli coming up on his right. Just as he started to open the door, a distant popping noise caused him to turn left instead. After twenty-six years in the city and four and a half on the force, he recognized the sound of gunfire instantly. His hand dropped and slipped under his jacket, finding the butt of his weapon, but his eyes were locked on the scene in the near distance. He had a bad angle — no sign of the shooter — but as he watched in disbelief, a white box truck swung hard to the right on Seventh Avenue, then started to tip.

Drawing his weapon, he instantly ran forward, doing his best to cover the next seven blocks in the least time possible. At the same time, his left hand dipped into his jacket and found his cell phone. The precinct was on his speed dial, so he hit the number and kept running hard.

At the intersection of Forty-eighth and Seventh, Kealey was firing as fast as he could into the windshield of the Isuzu, which was still moving toward him. He saw his first shot crater the glass just left of the driver’s head, then adjusted the next three and saw the intended effect. The driver seemed to jerk spasmodically behind the wheel, inadvertently pulling it hard to the right. He fired another three shots as the truck veered sharply toward him. He dived out of the way but wasn’t quite fast enough; the grill caught his left ankle, spinning him around in midair, and he hit the pavement hard, ending up in the next lane. A southbound Lincoln Navigator screeched to a halt, tires smoking, the front wheel less than 3 feet from his head. He had no time to consider this further; behind him, he heard a strange, anticipatory silence, then a loud crunch, glass shattering, the scream of metal sliding across the road.

He got to his feet, ignoring the crushing pain in his ankle, and turned to see something that chilled his blood: the truck was on its side, sliding across the pavement, throwing up a shower of sparks. Kealey felt everything stop inside his head. He waited for the bright flash, knowing it would be the last thing he’d see in his life, but it never came. As the truck finally came to a halt, everything started to move again, like a tape coming out of slow motion. People were screaming, running north and south on Seventh, and he was aware of distant sirens. But the cops wouldn’t get there in time, and he had to be sure.

Kealey ran forward, his ankle delivering shivers of pain with every step. His attention was completely focused on the roof of the cab, which was facing back toward the Renaissance Hotel. He lifted the Beretta again, silently adding up the shots in his head. He knew he’d fired at least seven, which left him with more than enough to make sure the driver was dead. Just as he was about to fire through the roof, though, he felt someone hit him hard from behind. His lower back arched painfully, his head whipping back as he pitched forward onto the pavement, the gun coming loose. The crushing blow nearly left him unconscious, and his back felt as if it had snapped in half. He did his best to sit up, trying to figure out what had happened.

Looking back, he half expected to see Will Vanderveen, but it was just some guy he’d never seen before, a heavyset man with a thick beard and a look of determination on his face. He wasn’t a cop, Kealey knew, or he would have said something to that effect. And then it hit him; his assailant was just a bystander who didn’t know any better. Kealey briefly considered explaining it to him, but there wasn’t time. Instead, he simply slammed a fist into the man’s throat. The bearded man rolled away instantly, his hands shooting up to his throat, a strangled noise coming out of his mouth. Kealey turned painfully back to the truck and reached for his Beretta.

In the driver’s seat, Amir Nazeri was hanging on to life by a thread. One of Kealey’s bullets had creased the left side of his skull; another had torn into his chest, just beneath his clavicle; and a third had pierced his face, penetrating the right lateral nasal wall before angling up through his left eye, coming to rest in the orbit. Strangely enough, the pain wasn’t that bad, and he had the strength, in his final moments, to tear the M60 fuse igniter free from the right side of his seat. He’d been wearing his seat belt when the vehicle tipped over, and his body was now dangling to the right, toward the shattered passenger-side window and the pavement. With tremendous effort, he managed to bring his left arm around — it didn’t seem to be working correctly at all — and get one of his fingers inside the pull ring. As he prepared to carry out his final task, he thought of his dead cousin and smiled.

It was the last act of his life.

At that precise moment, Kealey fired six more shots through the roof of the cab. All six found their target, though it was the second that killed Nazeri as it tore through the top of his skull, penetrating his brain and coming to rest in his cervical column. Kealey instantly moved round to the front of the vehicle and crouched, gun up, aiming through the shattered windshield. He could see that the driver was dead, and his thoughts turned instantly to defusing the bomb; until he got inside, he couldn’t be sure if it was on a timer or if Vanderveen had rigged up an electrical firing system.

Before he could act, though, he was aware of a voice carrying high over those of the frantic onlookers. He looked up, breathing hard, and saw something that turned his spine to ice. Another vehicle — a red Mercury Sable — was parked directly next to his stolen Crown Vic, about 50 feet north of his current position. A man who looked vaguely familiar was standing next to the open driver’s door, his left arm wrapped around Naomi Kharmai’s throat. Vanderveen looked different, but Kealey instantly made the connection, looking for the man’s right hand. He couldn’t see it.

“Let her go!” he screamed, bringing the Beretta to bear. The other man was ducking behind her, giving him nothing to work with. Through the adrenaline, his mind did a quick assessment and gave him the bad news. He had one round left in the chamber, maybe another in the magazine.

Two rounds. Maybe.

“Set it off!” Vanderveen shouted back. Kealey watched with horror as the other man’s right hand came up out of nowhere, holding a knife. He flashed on Katie Donovan’s death involuntarily, his mind caught up in a whirl of terrible images, past and present. “There’s an M60 in the cab, Ryan. Set it off and make it painless for everyone. Otherwise, you watch her die, and I don’t have to tell you what that’s like.”

Vanderveen moved the knife up and touched the hooked, 3?-inch blade to Naomi’s right cheek. She was clearly terrified, but Kealey tried not to look at her face, knowing it would only distract him. He was entirely focused on finding a shot, but the other man was crouched behind her, making himself an impossible target. If Kealey pulled the trigger, he would almost certainly hit Naomi instead. He moved forward, his feet crunching over shattered glass, his broken ankle forgotten entirely.

“Stop there!” Vanderveen shouted, using the knife to make his point. Naomi cried out, and a tiny point of red appeared on her cheek. Kealey stopped instantly, his stomach dropping, his heart lurching.

“Okay, okay! Jesus, just… let her go. Let her go, you bastard! Let her fucking go! ”

“You’re panicking,” Vanderveen shouted back. “That’s not a good sign, Ryan. I’ll tell you what… Forget the bomb. Just kill yourself. Take your own life and save hers. Put the gun to your head and pull the trigger, you fuck. Do it! Do it or she dies! ”

“You’ll kill her anyway.” Kealey was desperate, frantic; there was no way to stop what was going to happen. He couldn’t believe he was in this position again. He had a gun; he had to take the shot, but Vanderveen was giving him nothing. He could aim for the left arm around her throat, but unless he was incredibly lucky, the bullet would not strike bone but would pass through and into her body. He just couldn’t take the risk.