The Final Cut

Nicholas jerked up and headbutted him, a sickening sound of flesh against flesh, then hit him hard in the jaw with the small Glock. A shot rang out. The idiot fell sideways, his head hitting the concrete floor with a thick, meaty sound. The man’s legs twitched, and Nicholas shoved them off and rolled spread-eagled on his back, the scent of his blood hot and thick in the air.

Mike had shot the idiot.

Nicholas came up on his knees, dragged the idiot behind the cover of a concrete pillar, and tore off the black mask. He was young, thirties, dark hair. Indistinguishable, eyes blank, blood spreading out from his back to halo around his body. He was very dead.

Mike shouted, “Nicholas, the kicker, he’s ru

More sirens now, drawing closer.

Nicholas took off, Mike right behind him. He slowed when he reached the final curve that turned into the street, gestured for her to hold up. He took three more steps, saw the garage barrier. It was closed tight, but the door to the street beside it was wide open.

He heard footsteps and people shouting. He charged through the open door to see light bars flashing, an echo of the cacophony of noises in his ears. An NYPD cruiser skidded to a stop at the curb, two officers bolted from the car, guns drawn. “Stop! NYPD!”

Mike screamed, “Federal agent! Federal agent, don’t shoot!” She held her Glock in one hand and her creds high in the other.

Nicholas saw a flash of black to his right. He ignored the shouts from the cops and edged carefully toward the alley. Mike ran into the alley behind him, shouting over her shoulder, “We need backup!”

The kicker was trapped at the back of the alley, a high fence behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and Nicholas saw a rim of jaw-length white hair under his mask. Of all things, the kicker smiled, then leapt onto the chain link and began climbing, fast and fluid as a monkey. Nicholas’s Glock was empty. He knew he couldn’t climb the fence, his shoulder was hurting so badly he could barely raise his arm. He could only watch the man pull himself up and over the fence, down the other side, and listen to his light footfalls disappear into the black night.

Mike fired until her gun was dry, but the kicker was gone.

She looked at him, then down at herself. She began to laugh. She choked out, “I don’t believe this, I really don’t.”

“Is your head all right? Believe what?”

“Open your coat and look at yourself. You’re still wearing your tux, what there is left of it.”

He said, “I doubt the dry cleaner is going to be able to fix this.”

42

Three more NYPD cruisers crowded the street, pulling over curbs, into driveways, one even mowing down two garbage cans.

It was mayhem until everyone was clear they were dealing with federal agents. A sergeant arrived and finally sent out men to find the kicker.

Mike sighed. “He’s long gone. They’ll never find him now, not in a million years. He’s fast, Nicholas, and that kick to my head, I’m still woozy. What’s this?” She slumped against the wall of the building, and eyed the blood she’d wiped off her face.

Nicholas took a Kleenex from one of the officers and wiped off the blood. “A flying bit of concrete.” He felt her head. “And a good-sized lump. You’ve got a hard head, thank the good Lord.”

“Give me the Kleenex, you’ve got a cut lip.”

She dabbed at his mouth. “What’s with your shoulder?”

“Tire iron,” Nicholas said shortly, and moved it a bit. Better. They watched the NYPD officers hurrying off in all directions.

“How did you know?”

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. She saw he was uncomfortable and said only, “Your gut, right?”

“Maybe. Something felt off when I got out of the car.”

She placed her hand flat against his belly. “I’m not feeling you up. I’m thanking your gut.”

He laughed, couldn’t help it. A Latina officer, her hair in a long braid, gave Mike the idiot’s wallet. His driver’s license was from Sacramento, California; his name listed as De

“It’s a fake,” Mike said. “See, it’s missing the three-color holograph. More false identities, Nicholas. He must be co

He took the license and turned it over in his hands. “Or Anatoly did. The kicker had white hair hanging down from beneath his mask. I couldn’t believe it. He moved like a much younger man. He was fast and well trained, but they came prepared with their MP5s.

“I’m sure the kicker was the one in charge, not the dead guy. If the idiot had been as talented as he is, I’m afraid guns wouldn’t have been necessary.” He looked toward the dead man now surrounded by techs, a detective from the 7th Precinct, and saw the ME striding up, obviously pulled from sleep, his gray hair a rooster tail on top of his head.

Mike said, “A shootout in the garage in the middle of the West Village. The neighbors must be loving this.” She walked away to examine the open door beside the garage barrier. She called out, “Well, how they got in is easily answered. They jimmied the lock. Maybe we can see them on the security video tape.”

It was 3:30 a.m. before they were cleared for the night. Nicholas fetched his leather carry-on from the backseat of the wrecked Crown Vic. Mike said at his elbow, “I really liked this car. I put in a call to maintenance, got the night guy. He swore when I come down tomorrow morning, there’ll be a new ride here in my spot. Well, not new, you know what I mean.”

“So long as it runs and has glass in all the windows, that’s fine.”

As they took the elevator to the lobby, Nicholas said, “Even though your doorman didn’t see anyone out of place, the crime scene techs checked through your flat; they say nothing was disturbed. You need to check, too.”

Mike nodded to the doorman, who looked as though he was bursting with excitement and questions, but they didn’t slow.

The third-floor halls were as quiet as the garage had been, everyone back in bed after the excitement. Consummate New Yorkers in her building, even the yelling, the bullets flying, the sirens out in front of the building didn’t bother them for long.

Mike’s neighbor Frank Pressfield opened his door. “Are you okay? Snot-nosed kid controlling the crime scene wouldn’t let me talk to you.”

“We’re fine. No respect these days, Frank, and here you were, ready and able to tell them what to do. Two guys ambushed us in the garage. One’s dead, the other got away.” She gestured to Nicholas. “Nicholas Drummond, New Scotland Yard, meet Frank Pressfield, formerly of the Sixty-eighth.”

The two men shook hands, and Frank said, “You’ve had quite the reception, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I have.” And he thought of Elaine.

Anger, grief, questions, all three welled up in him, and a bone-deep tiredness he knew hours of sleep wouldn’t fix. Elaine was gone. She’d died a stranger in a strange land, and it made him sick to think of it. And now whoever had killed her was clearly after him and Mike. But why? They were only two individuals; there were hundreds more FBI agents to take their places.

Rage began to build, at Victoria Browning and Andrei Anatoly, at the man with his white hair, but he tamped it down into his belly, knowing he’d need it later.

“We’re going to crash,” he heard Mike saying to Frank. “We’ve been at it all day. Thanks for checking on me.”

Nicholas nodded to him and followed Mike into her flat across the hall. She switched on the lights and shrugged out of her coat, and he saw how beat up she was. Her leather jacket was ripped, her jeans covered with grease stains. As for him, the bespoke tux was ready for the trash bin.