The End Game

For the moment, they were at a dead end.

Mike said, “This is getting frustrating. We keep having these great breaks that don’t pan out.”

“The bright side,” Nicholas said, “Mrs. Antonio might wrap this up for us, give us the faces of everyone in COE.”

She nodded, dialed Ted “Bud” Anders, in her opinion their best sketch artist. Between him and his laptop, if there was a chance to come through with a good likeness of the four individuals, he’d find it. They’d asked him to do the Middle Eastern man first.

Nicholas heard Bud’s enthusiasm. “Mrs. Antonio has great visual memory, so it won’t take too long, Mike. I’ll send the Middle Eastern guy’s sketch to your cell as soon as I have something.”

When she punched off, Mike said, “No way to nail Bud on how long it’ll take, so I guess we now have to focus on the Honda with Mr. Wounded Knee and his buddy, whoever that was. You know they were probably two of the four people staying in that apartment.”

“And Mr. Wounded Knee was looking for something. But what?”

She threw up her hands. “Nicholas, we need more agents and another twenty hours in the day. And I’m hungry. Let’s head back to the office, pick up some pastrami on rye on the way.”

“I heard your stomach talking, but I was too polite to say anything. Pastrami on rye? I could go for that, maybe a double.”

They jaywalked, got into the Crown Vic. Nicholas had just turned over the engine and started to pull from the curb when Mike suddenly grabbed his arm.

“Nicholas. I don’t believe it. Look, a black Suburban, coming up the street.”

He braked, the car half out into traffic. “Are they going into the garage? Bloody hell, they are. It’s about time a little luck flowed our way. Can you see who’s driving?”

“No, but I can get the plate. It’s New York.” She read off the rest of the numbers.

“Yep, it’s our car.” Nicholas reversed the Crown Vic back into the spot while Mike kept her eye on the Suburban, idling in the garage drive, waiting for the door to go up.

She said, “The driver is young, white, wearing sunglasses and a Boston Red Sox cap. I think I see blond hair, and it’s long. I can’t see his face. We need to get in there, Nicholas, before he parks and goes upstairs to wherever he lives. I’m calling for backup.”

Nicholas was already halfway out of his seat. “I’m going to follow him down the ramp. I’ll text you what floor he goes to.” He took off at a run, weaving in and out of traffic, ignoring curses and loud horns. She saw him bend double to slip under the garage door before it closed again.

Mike called Zachery as she jogged in and out between cars to get across the street. “Sir, we need backup at West Thirtieth and Sixth, in the Meadow Arms apartment building garage. We’ve identified a black Suburban involved in the possible abduction of the woman from the burned repair shop in Brooklyn last night.”

She heard Zachery shout in the background, “Get agents to West Thirtieth and Sixth, and alert NYPD, they’ll be closer.” He came back on with her. “I love it when a talking gut pans out. People are on their way. Get the Suburban, Mike, and be careful. Where’s Drummond?”

“Nicholas is already in the garage following the guy to see where he parks. I’m going in now.”

Her text dinged.

B3

Zachery laughed. “Why am I not surprised? Keep in touch. And Michaela? No more shootings.”

Crap, so he knew about Brooklyn and Mr. Wounded Knee. Mike punched off and started ru

Their black Suburban was all the way down on the third level. The elevator was her best bet. She waved her creds by the young guy at the front desk again and kept ru

He stepped from behind the desk this time, alarm on his face. “Hey, is everything okay?”

She whirled around. “Can you shut down the garage door, so no one can get in or out?”

“I can, but I don’t think the management company would be happy—”

“Do it. Do it now. We have more agents on the way. Tell them there are agents on level B-three, looking to talk to a suspect in a black Suburban.”

The elevator took only three seconds to rumble to the basement garage. She prayed it wouldn’t alert the Suburban driver.

43

KING TO F1

Nicholas leaned against the gray concrete wall. The ramp down into the basement was circular; he’d jogged behind the Suburban, careful to stay out of sight.

The driver hadn’t seen him, another bit of good luck. The big SUV went to the very back row, the farthest from the elevator. It gave Nicholas time to get down to the third floor and take up a defensive position. Mike had been only half joking when she’d made the earlier crack about the other garage shootout. That had been a close one.

Nicholas didn’t want a repeat performance. This time it was the Suburban guy who would be taken by surprise, not them.

He pulled his Glock out of the clip at his waist, heard the elevator ding a soft single note—good, no way would their Suburban guy hear it.

And out came Mike, bent at the knees, looking, looking, hand on the snap of her holster. He laid a finger to his lips when she saw him, and gestured for her to come to him. He pulled her behind a blue MINI Cooper. Not much in the way of protection, but at least it was parked next to a wall space, completely away from the line of sight to the Suburban. He hoped whoever was in the Suburban didn’t have bat ears and hear the elevator ding.

He whispered against her temple, “He parked back there. No sign of anyone yet. And no talking, so he’s probably alone.”

Mike whispered back, “Backup’s on the way. Since this is the only way out, he’ll have to pass us to get onto the elevator or walk back up. If the doorman did what I told him to, the garage door is now closed. Your call, Nicholas, wait here or storm the trenches.”

“Let’s wait, let him come to us.” But no one came. After twenty very slow seconds there was still no movement.

Mike whispered, “What could he be doing? Fixing his hair? A bit of makeup? Nicholas, I can’t stand it any longer. Let’s go see what he’s up to.”

Music to his ears. Nicholas gri

When they were two cars away, they heard a door open. Mike, in front, stopped, raised a fist. Nicholas closed in behind her.

They heard whistling, then the back lid of the Suburban opened with a clunk.

Nicholas held up three fingers. Three. Two. One.

They came in hard and fast, one on each side. Nicholas shouted, his voice echoing hard and low off the walls, “Stop, right there. FBI. Hands where I can see them.”

The man’s hands shot up. “Hey, hey, relax.”

Mike was looking in the back of the truck.

“Holy crap! Nicholas, he has an arsenal in here—weapons, grenades, radios. All right, buddy, what are you pla

“Listen, let me explain—”

Nicholas said, “Turn around, slowly, right now, and put your hands on the car. Now!”

The guy did have long hair, looked bleached, like an L.A. surfer. He was still wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. Nicholas couldn’t see his eyes, couldn’t see what he was thinking. He said, “What are you, some kind of surfer-dude terrorist?”

“Hey, it’s her majesty’s secret service, talking right to me. No, mate, I’m no terrorist. Trust me, this is all a big misunderstanding. If you’d give me a chance to put down my hands and explain—”

“Hands, mate. On the truck. Do it. Now.”

Surfer Dude didn’t move.

Nicholas aimed his Glock right at his face. “Are you deaf? I told you to put your hands on the roof.”