Brett Battles - Shadow of Betrayal

“As far as I can tell, the tail’s gone,” Orlando said.

“Slow down a little,” Quinn said. “See if he’s hanging farther back.”

“Okay.”

He could hear her relay the instructions to the driver. There was a few seconds’ delay, then the cab slowed.

“Still nothing,” she said a minute later. “I think he’s gone.”

Quinn turned west on Forty-seventh Street, then south again on Fifth Avenue, each time relaying his actions to Orlando. As he crossed Forty-second Street and came abreast of the New York City Library, his phone beeped, indicating he had another call.

“Hold on,” he told Orlando. He switched the calls. “Yes?”

“What kind of car are you in?” It was Peter.

“What? Why?”

“Just tell me.”

Quinn thought for a second. “Buick. A Lucerne, I think. Silver or gray.”

“You need to find someplace to hide that car now!”

“What’s going on?”

“An APB was just issued by the NYPD for a gray Buick sedan with rear bumper damage. Sound familiar?”

“Son of a bitch,” Quinn said.

“They even have the license number. The bulletin says the driver is wanted in connection with a murder. It’s been given top priority.”

Quinn’s eyes narrowed. He’d been set up. He was driving through the streets of New York City with the body of one of the country’s top-ranking intelligence officers in his trunk, and now every member of the New York Police Department was going to be looking for him. Despite the urge to go faster, he slowed down so as not to bring any extra attention to his vehicle.

“I’ll park it and let you know where it is,” he said.

“No. You’ve got to put it someplace no one will find it. We can’t risk someone discovering the body.”

“That’s a little easy for you to say right now, Peter. You’re not the one looking at a federal death sentence.”

“Find a parking garage. All the hotels have them.” When Quinn didn’t respond right away, Peter said, “Are you still there?”

“Yes,” Quinn said. “But it might be a little too late for parking garages.”

One of NYPD’s finest was parked in front of a closed-up newsstand on the left side of the road just ahead, near the corner of Fifth Avenue and West Thirty-sixth Street. There was no chance for Quinn to avoid him, no street he could turn down before passing the patrol car. And pulling over to the curb would only delay the inevitable.

“I’ll call you back,” he said, then switched back to Orlando. “We’ve got a problem.”

He told her Peter’s news while keeping an eye on the cop car as he drove by. Inside there were two officers. They seemed to be talking to each other, not noticing the traffic around them.

There was a moment when Quinn thought he’d made it. But as he checked his rearview mirror to be sure, he saw the cop in the passenger seat look over and point at the sedan.

There was no reason to wait around to see what happened next. Quinn floored it.

“He’s on you,” Orlando said through the phone.

“Yeah … I noticed that.”

Quinn could see the cop car pulling away from the curb, lights flashing in his mirror. He had a half a block lead. He only hoped it was enough.

At first the traffic lights were in his favor. He made it past Thirty-fifth and Thirty-fourth in seconds. But ahead, the light was turning yellow. He slowed only enough to make a wide turn onto West Thirty-third Street. His momentum carried him up onto the first foot of the sidewalk on the left side. If the Starbucks at the corner had still been open, the people inside would have gotten quite a rush.

Quinn straightened the sedan and sped off down the center of the street. He’d just passed the back side of the Empire State Building when the police car rounded the corner from Fifth Avenue. Quinn’s gaze changed from the mirror to the road, and he saw in an instant that his main problem wasn’t behind him, it was ahead.

Instead of cars just being parked along the left side of the road, now there were empty vehicles lining both, cutting the usable road space down to no more than a lane and a half.

“Orlando, where are you?” Quinn asked.

“On Fifth,” she said. “We’re having a little … problem with our driver.”

“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.