CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
HUNTERDay three and Grace is drumming her fingers on a stack of boxes in the corner of the old lock-up. “You know what I’m thinking, don’t you?”
It’s strange that even though we’ve only been together a short while, I do know what she’s thinking. “We can’t stay here.”
She nods, approaching me in the doorway. “Sitting idle isn’t going to put these guys behind bars, is it?”
I trace the side of her cheek with the pad of my thumb. “You want to take the fight to them, and I’m hazarding a guess here you have a plan,” I take in her expression, “that I’m not going to like, am I?”
Her answer is simple. “No.”
*
This is madness, I tell myself.
At first, separating like this sounded like the worst possible idea, but the more I listened to Grace’s idea, the more it started to sound like the only way.
So, here am I—alone for the first time in days.
It’s strange being back in the heart of New York. It feels like we’ve been gone a lifetime. At least, a lifetime’s worth of events has happened, none of which I’m too eager to repeat if we make it out of this.
Except for the killer sex, you mean?
There is that, yes, though it’s progressed to more with Grace. The outlaw thing suits her well. As for me, Clyde I am not. Sooner or later this entire mess is going to come to a head. I only hope doesn’t cost us our lives.
The cabbie is growing impatient. “You getting out, brother, or you want to daydream all day?”
I’ve been staring out the window at my apartment block, but everything seems normal. Kids skip down the sidewalk, a mother cooing at her baby. It’s a typical day in New York City.
I made the cabbie loop around the block five times just to be sure, but his patience is thinning. “Come on, pal.”
It’s painful, I know, but I’ve got to make this realistic. Like Grace said, there’s no doubt they’ll be watching.
I hand the cabbie a hundred, “Thanks,” stepping out and pulling the Yankees cap I’m wearing tightly down on my head.
This whole plan is full of risk. It could go wrong in so many ways. I try my best to screen it out as I walk.
I cross the street keeping a close eye on my surroundings. It’s second nature now, looking over my shoulder.
I take the stairs three at a time, bounding up to the second floor.
The hallway is clear.
I move to the door of James’s apartment and unlock it, pushing through.
I stop.
It’s hard to tell if this is the same apartment or what’s left of a bombing run. It’s a shamble of tossed drawers and clothing, every possession James had, I had what few of them we have, strewn all over.
Sorry, bud.
It doesn’t get any better as I walk into the bedroom. The entire mattress has been lifted away, the underside slashed and searched. I don’t know what they expected to find, but there was nothing here in the first place.
I pause in the living room and check my watch, setting a timer for ten minutes and checking out the window in one-minute intervals.
It only takes five.
I draw in a deep breath and send a text from the burner in my pocket, snapping the SIM and cell in two when I’m done.
Here goes nothing.
I head back out into the hallway, closing the door behind myself.
I take the stairs.
The interior of the building is remarkably quiet for this time of day.
I’m just about to walk through the front doors when I realize it’s blocked.
Captain Johnson and a couple of officers are standing outside, Bobby included, their backs turned.
Shit. This is not how it’s supposed to go. If they catch me inside, away from witnesses, I’m dead.
They haven’t spotted me… yet.
I turn and slowly start to make my way up the stairs. I’ll find another way outside.
“Beckett!” the Captain shouts. “Stop right there!”
Fuck.
I don’t stop, I hammer up the stairs as hard as I can, past the first, second, third floors, my thighs burning as I come up to the door leading out to the roof.
“Beckett!” the Captain shouts again. “There’s nowhere to go.”
He might be right, but it’s not going to stop me trying.
I hear footsteps echoing up from the bottom of the stairwell, weapons being un-holstered.
I come out into the open, onto the flat of the rooftop. I push through a line of sheets hanging out to dry and keep running.
I’m approaching the edge of the building.
What now, genius?
A shot ricochets off the brickwork to my left, another clipping the ground behind me.
Yep, they’re not looking to take me alive.
I look back again as they break through the sheets, guns raised.
I increase my speed. It’s a good fifteen feet down to the next building, a two-floor drop.
I’ve got no choice.
This is going to hurt.
I leap with everything I have.
Another shot goes wide.
My shirt sails up against my back. I’m aware of wind whipping past my ears, a euphoric sort of lightness before the roof of the next building rushes up.
I brace myself.
I hit hard and immediately break into a roll, my shoulder taking most of the impact and the inertia sending me right to my feet.
Something hurts, I’m not sure what, but I don’t have time to play Doctor Google, pushing on for the first door I see.
I pull it open—unlocked, thank fuck—and start to race down the stairs.
Keep it up. Find a way out.
I leap down the stairs a floor at a time, my breathing ragged.
I come out to the first floor and push through the back door.
It opens out into a small park packed with mothers and strollers, kids climbing over the well-worn equipment.
Perfect.
I freeze. Two cops are on the other side. They spot me and take out their weapons.
I turn to the go left, but Johnson and the others are there. God knows if they’re part of this, what the Captain’s told them, but I can’t take any chances.
I’m caught in the middle.
I’m trapped.
One of the mothers sees the guns and screams.
All hell breaks loose, mothers running to their children and pulling them to the ground.
The Captain’s gun wavers. He can’t get a clear shot, but I can’t give him this.
I get down on my knees, placing my hands behind my head as the park clears out.
The Captain can’t shoot, not with this many witnesses, not when I’m unarmed.
He approaches. “It’s okay,” he tells those remaining. “It’s under control.”
He stops before me, the other officers gathering behind him. Bobby looks particularly satisfied with himself. “You got lucky, Beckett, but don’t worry. We’ll have alone time soon enough.”
I take a leaf out of the Grace Siddell manual of insults, replying, “So you can stick that pindick cock of yours up my ass? Sorry, but I don’t really swing that way, sorry, Cap.”
He looks to the others. “What a fucking joker this guy is. You’ve been hanging around that bitch of yours too long. Get him the fuck out of here.”
I’m cuffed and pulled to my feet. “You’re not going to get away with this,” I tell him.
He nods, lowering his weapon. “Said every damsel in distress ever, and yes, Beckett, I most certainly will, because this is real life, son. This is it for you.”