Nate Kenyon - Day One

A moment later, Hawke crossed a pedestrian footpath and nearly collided full speed with the rough trunk of a tree on the other side. He forced himself to slow down as he broke cover into open space. A wide stretch of lawn led down to the Wollman Rink, where people ice-skated in the winter, but it was set up in the summers as a children’s carnival, complete with kiddie rides and cotton candy. He had taken Thomas there last year, but Thomas had been more interested in stumbling around outside in the grass than he had been in the carousel.

It was the very same lawn, in fact, that Hawke now ran across, his face tilted upward as he spun to search the skies. The drone was nowhere to be seen. Apparently it had taken the bait and remained fixed like a dog on point to the spot where Hawke had tossed the device, waiting no doubt for reinforcements to arrive.

The idea that they might actually get away made him quicken his steps. He felt exposed out in open air and wanted to get to cover before the surveillance satellites could find him. The entrance to the rink was just beyond a low wall and promenade, but getting trapped inside wouldn’t do them any good. It was an open-air bowl, easy for them to be spotted with few places to hide.

He veered left, heading for the back where there were more trees in between the rink and a gigantic outcropping of rock. As he rounded the promenade and passed a set of tables and an overturned snack shack, its wares strewn across the pavement, he stopped short, blood freezing to ice in his veins.

On top of the rock, crouched no more than thirty feet away, was a gigantic male snow leopard.

Jesus. Hawke tried to keep absolutely still. Central Park Zoo’s animals were loose, after all. The creature’s hindquarter muscles rippled, his back rising up even as he flattened his ears and stretched his thick neck. Hawke could hear the beast’s claws tick against the stone. As Vasco and Young came up behind Hawke and he put out a hand, gesturing for them to stop, the leopard shifted, looking at them and twitching his tail. Then he turned his attention upward.

There was something else moving within the leafy canopy of a tree overhead.

The branches were just low enough for the leopard to reach. He sprang forward toward Hawke, leaping into space with paws extended, and at first he thought the animal was coming for him, but the beast hit the lower tree branches with all his weight.

Something screamed as the leopard clung to the tree for a moment before tumbling down to the ground with a monkey in his jaws.

The beast rolled with his prey, grunting, almost close enough to touch. The monkey screamed again as the beast’s teeth dug for its throat. The leopard shook the monkey hard until it stopped moving, then regained his feet, glancing Hawke’s way before trotting in the opposite direction with his kill.

Hawke took a deep breath, let it out. “Jesus,” Vasco said softly. “That was close. Zoo’s closed indefinitely; don’t feed the animals.” He leaned over with his hands on his knees, retching, his face bright red and slick with sweat.

Hawke risked another look up at the sky and found it empty. He couldn’t hear the buzz of the drone. Had it gone off in another direction? That seemed too good to be true. A darker thought crossed his mind. Weller had given him the device, and it had almost gotten them caught. What were Weller’s true motives, and what had really happened to him? Were they running straight into another trap at the Lincoln Tunnel?

There was a low maintenance or storage building along the side of the rink, under a tall tree. Hawke stopped there for a moment in the shadows, trying to catch his breath and slow the pounding of his heart enough to listen. Vasco and Young pulled up next to him. He peered out around the corner of the building, and saw nothing. The lawn was empty, the sky above nothing but a flat, unbroken gray platter, and the buzz of the drone was gone. He listened for any signs of movement or voices from inside the rink, or from East Drive, and heard nothing but the occasional strange cry of one of the zoo animals.

They were alone. Or at least it seemed that way. As he took a moment to look around, he began to glimpse movement. Bodies shifting behind trees, a flash of dull flesh from an open doorway to the rink, eyes watching them. He saw a shopping cart filled with belongings in the shadows nearby. Only the homeless of New York, come to hide in Central Park. They wouldn’t have any cell phones or machines for Doe to target, and they were used to blending in. They didn’t have a lot of personal information online to use against them. They might be the only ones left, Hawke thought, when this was all over.

Parked about ten feet away was a small Nissan pickup truck with the park name stenciled on its side, a maintenance vehicle of some kind. It looked at least thirty years old, its wheel wells peppered with rust, paint faded and dull and crisscrossed with scratches.

A vehicle like this wouldn’t have a satellite connection, GPS or OnStar. It wouldn’t even have an onboard computer system with any kind of access.

Hawke approached the truck carefully, watching for any signs of it being occupied. The last thing they needed was to have a squatter get defensive about their territory and attack them, or encounter another wild animal looking for a meal. But the truck bed contained a few empty plastic plant pots and scattered soil, an ancient shovel and some knotted rope and nothing else. The cab was empty, its vinyl-covered bench seat ripped in several places, stuffing protruding. He opened the door and sat inside, checking the visor, the ignition, the glove box, and found the key inside the cup holder.

It was perfect.

“What about that guy we just saw get shot in the video of that raid, he your partner in all this? Is that how it’s going down?” Vasco had recovered his breath and now stood a few feet away with his arms crossed, his face still flushed. “And those documents we just saw? What were those?”

The engine turned over several times and then caught with a squeal and a growl, the frame vibrating beneath Hawke. Through the windshield, he could see three grizzled men and two women who had emerged from their hiding places, their clothes ragged and hair long and shiny with grease. One man held an aluminum baseball bat in his hands, another a vicious-looking metal rake.

Hawke looked at Vasco and Young, who were still staring at him. “Get in,” he said. “Or would you rather stay here?”

Young sat between Hawke and Vasco. They took the pedestrian path away from the Wollman Rink, crashed through a low fence and went the wrong way down Center Drive toward the West Side. The truck shuddered and coughed, bald tires squealing as Hawke avoided an Audi that had spun sideways after crashing into a tree. The road was fairly clear, but he knew it would get cluttered when they neared the park’s borders. The Nissan had about a quarter tank of gas, plenty to get them to the Lincoln Tunnel. But the truck’s shocks were gone and the steering felt rubbery and loose, and Hawke wondered if the engine would even make it that far. He was pushing it beyond its limits. The truck didn’t even have a license plate and had probably only been used within the park itself for the past decade and driven not much faster than a runner taking a brisk jog.

He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw nothing pursuing them. Either the drone was still occupied, or it had gone off chasing something else. He took the next curve in the road a little too fast. Vasco had his hands splayed across the dash, bracing himself as the truck fishtailed and they slid across the vinyl seat before Hawke got it back under control.

“Take it easy,” Vasco grunted as Young’s body pressed into Hawke’s side. “I don’t want to die wrapped around a telephone pole.”