Deadfall (14 page)

RAFE IS STILL
holding the gun underneath his sweatshirt when you pull up to Forty-Fourth Street. The girl—Alana—sits beside him, staring out the window. Her cheeks are red and wet. The whole ride she’s turned her hands over, squeezing them, picking at the skin around her fingers until it bled.

You pay the cab driver as you all get out, and walk toward the warehouse’s doors. You keep the ledger close to your chest, knowing it’s exactly what Celia needs—evidence she can use to pull the case together.

When you get into the cellar a few candles are lit. Salto is up, clutching her arm to her chest, her dark hair sticking to the sides of her face. Devon and Ben are there, but Devon’s shirt has a blood spatter on the sleeve.

“What the hell happened?” Rafe asks. “Where’s Aggy?”

Devon rubs his hands behind his head. He’s looking past you, his eyes washed over. “I didn’t see them. I didn’t know they were following us until they were there.”

“They killed him?” you ask.

“We were out getting food for everyone. Salto needed water. I was in front and Aggy was behind; he was making sure we were good. They chased us into this alley by the Manhattan Bridge. We started climbing the fence, but he got caught on the wire at the top. That’s when they shot him.”

Ben and Devon notice Alana behind you. “Who is that?” Ben asks. “Why is she here?”

“The apartment,” you say. “Cross wasn’t there. So we brought his daughter here . . . until we can get to him.”

Salto shakes her head. “Are you out of your mind? What the hell are we going to do with her?”

You hold up the ledger. “We have everything we need—all the names of the hunters, who they killed, when they joined. It’s all right here. Now we go to the police. He can’t run if we have her. He’s not going to leave her with us.”

“They’re going to be looking for us more than ever now.” Devon paces the narrow room. “We’ve been at this base for too long. We have to leave.”

You grab the beaten gray backpack beside the wall, throwing it at Devon. “So let’s go, then. There’s that park on the West Side Highway—the one with the baseball field. We can stay there until we figure this out.”

“You’re okay with this?” Devon says, turning to Rafe.

“It’s not my decision. . . .” he says.

“What else are we going to do?” Ben asks.

The girl sits against the wall, her face in her hands. You can hear her heavy, choked sobs. You’ve told her you won’t hurt her. It’s the truth. You won’t, and you won’t let anyone else either. You just have to get through the night.

“We should move.” You grab your backpack, throwing one of the old blankets in the top. You offer the girl your hand but it takes her a minute to pull herself up, to wipe her cheeks.

“I’ll call Celia on the way.”

THE PICTURES ARE
spread out on the table. Celia stands across from D’Angelo, studying them. A podlike intercom sits beside them. Every now and then they hear Fitzpatrick drinking his coffee on the other end of the line. Celia’s never met him in person, but she imagines him as a little older than her, with fiery red hair and a freckled Irish complexion.

This is the first time she’s seen the photos of Connor. Fitzpatrick sent the copies from New York. There’s a close-up of his tattoo, an image of a curled-up snake, with the code JSU02649 beneath it.

“The hunter who did this,” Celia says, pointing to the picture of the bullet wound. “They knew the exact angle. The bullet went through the neck and into the brain—he died immediately. It was so precise.”

“We’re calling them hunters now?” Fitzpatrick’s voice asks from the intercom.

D’Angelo shakes her head. She has short, wavy, black hair she pins back with bobby pins, and eyes the color of espresso beans. “What else do you need to be convinced?” she asks. “I found a girl in Seattle with her throat slit with a hunter’s knife—same tattoo. When are you going to come to our side?”

“There’s no sides,” Fitzpatrick says. “I’m just saying . . . a ring of people who hunt humans? It sounds a little sci-fi Tom Cruise–movie bullshit, huh?”

“It doesn’t when you have targets—kids—who are willing to testify about what happened,” D’Angelo says. “We’re close. There’s a case here.”

Celia isn’t interested in convincing Fitzpatrick. Now that they have the photos it’s already moving forward. She pulls out the other picture of the girl found under the bridge in Seattle, still unidentified, with the defense wounds on her right hand. She was trying to block them as they came at her. Her tattoo was slashed, but it’s there. The same one.

“We don’t have a single name, though. Who are these people? You’re talking about a missing doctor and a guy who died in jail. No one’s going to believe they organized a national hunting league that starts on some tropical island.” Fitzpatrick’s voice fills the room. “You get me a—”

“Hold on, Ed,” Celia says as her cell starts to ring. Blocked number. It could be her.

Celia hits a few buttons and adds her to the line. “Lena?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“You’re on speaker. I’m here with an agent from Seattle—Agent D’Angelo. We have Fitzpatrick, an agent from New York, on the line, too. He was on the scene after they found Connor’s body.”

“We found him—we found Cal,” Lena says. “His real name is Theodore Cross.”

Celia sucks in a breath. “Where?”

“I have his address for you. Are you ready?”

“Ready.”

“Theodore Cross, Ninety-Eight Vestry Street, New York, New York. We found a ledger in his apartment. It has all the hunters’ names, addresses. Who they killed. Everything.”

“You were in his apartment?” Celia tries not to sound angry, but it’s embarrassing. No matter how desperate Lena is, she was supposed to wait for information from her, not the other way around. How are they supposed to use evidence she got by breaking into someone’s house?

“Don’t do anything else,” D’Angelo says. “We have to see what we can find on him. Something that doesn’t involve you stealing things from his apartment. That already discredits our case.”

“I’ll read you the names. Follow any of them, anywhere—they’re killing targets right now, in every city. In New York.”

Celia flips over one of the photos as Lena starts reciting
the names. She scribbles them as fast as she can, sometimes double-checking the spelling of addresses and names. It takes her almost ten minutes to get all of them down.

“Give us a few days,” Celia says when they’re done.

“We don’t have time for that.”

“I know.”

“There’s something else—we have his daughter. She was at his apartment when we went there and we took her with us.”

Fitzpatrick explodes on the other end of the line. “You kidnapped her? What the hell were you thinking?”

“We didn’t want him to run,” Lena says.

Celia rubs a hand over her face. “You’re handing them reasons to throw out the case. They’ll arrest you, and we both know AAE has resources inside.”

D’Angelo starts pacing the length of the conference room. She unbuttons the top of her dress shirt and airs it out.

“Rafe didn’t want to wait,” Lena explains.

Who the hell is Rafe?
Celia tries to keep her breaths even. “Don’t do anything. I’m coming to New York. Fitzpatrick and I will arrange for you to get her back to the family, maybe set up some sort of meeting where he has to show. Give us twenty-four hours to see if we can find one of these hunters, get something concrete. We just need to catch them doing something illegal. We can arrest them and see if they’ll turn over Cross.”

“Fine, twenty-four hours,” Lena says.

“I can be there by tomorrow afternoon. Hopefully by then I’ll have something and I can arrest him on the spot.”

“Hopefully.”

“Don’t do anything to her.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Do you have a phone now? I’ll text you a plan tomorrow. Promise you’ll wait to hear from me.”

“Promise.”

Celia takes down the number. She can hear a siren wail in the background of whatever street Lena’s on. “Tomorrow,” Celia repeats. “Don’t hurt her.”

“Stop, please. I won’t.” Then Lena hangs up.

D’Angelo is still pacing. “This doesn’t bode well for us,” she says. “I thought you said she was under control. That she was going to wait to hear from you.”

“This is bad, Alvarez,” Fitzpatrick says. “You’re asking me to have my men follow twenty different people? For who, this one girl? When she just kidnapped someone’s daughter?”

Celia feels her chest tighten. She should at least pretend to be angry, but she can’t. She looks up at D’Angelo, meeting her gaze. “All of them are after her. All of them want her dead—she doesn’t have much time. She’s desperate.”

“Damn right she is,” Fitzpatrick says.

Celia adjusts her uniform as she stands. “You’ll put some guys on it?”

Fitzpatrick lets out a long, heavy breath. “Yeah, I mean, we have names now. I’ll look into it.”

“Great,” Celia says. “We’ll get on the first plane.”

Fitzpatrick says something about logistics, complains for another two minutes, then hangs up. D’Angelo has already collected the photos and put them back in the folder. She presses her lips together in a thin line—it’s not a smile, but close. “I guess this is it,” she says. “I guess we’re going to New York.”

AS YOU DIAL,
your hands are shaking.

You know that the disposable phone can’t be traced, but even so, you keep scanning the perimeter of the park. It’s just after eight
A
.
M
. and the area is filled with people headed to work. Every stranger—every man in a suit, every person in a hat or sunglasses—seems like they could be watching you.

The phone rings twice before he picks it up. Alana gave you this cell number, so you know it’s him, but he doesn’t say anything. You listen to his shallow breaths. He’s waiting for you to speak first.

“Theodore Cross,” you say.

“Yes.”

“We have your daughter.”

“I know, Lena.”

Your name, spoken by him. You have a sick, sinking
feeling. It takes you a few seconds to respond. “We’ll meet you today in City Hall Park. You come, and she’s released. The police want to talk to you.”

“They can talk.”

“Ten o’clock.”

“Will you be there?” he asks. “You know, when I first saw you on the island, I didn’t expect much. I’ve been hunting there since the beginning. I’ve gotten good at estimating who will last and how long. No one bets against me.”

He’s trying to get to you, but you won’t let him. You stay silent.

“I never would’ve bet on you, on Blackbird. You’ve come after us, I respect that. It’s just . . . I wouldn’t have thought you could survive even a few days. Look at you now.”

“You were wrong.”

“They’ve told me you turned the Paxton boy. That you infiltrated the ceremony. That you’re responsible for the breach at the hospital. For Reynolds.”

“What happened to him?”

“He’s dead.” He says it in a cold, flat tone. No emotion. “He was a disturbed man. Under a lot of pressure at work, family stress. They found his body under the George Washington Bridge. He must’ve jumped. . . .”

Your jaw is set. “You show up today, and we won’t hurt her. She’ll be waiting for you on the south side of the park by the fountain. You have to answer for what you’ve done.”

“She’s my daughter. I’ll show up. But there’ll be no answers, only more questions.”

Then he hangs up. You turn back to the baseball fields, where you can make out Rafe and Devon behind the dugouts. They have the girl hidden in a public restroom that you’ve taped off with an
OUT OF SERVICE
sign. You start toward them, pulling up your hood to hide your face, feeling more uneasy than before.

Two hours later, you’ve met up with Celia and moved downtown to the meeting place. You’ve situated yourself on the roof of a nearby apartment building to watch the exchange. The building is only three stories high. From the eastern corner you have a good view of the girl sitting on a bench near the fountains. Celia sits beside her. You can see the flat blue top of her hat, the shock of Alana’s pink sweatshirt against the trees.

Rafe kneels by the edge of the roof, looking down at the park. “He’s not just going to get her and leave. He’s not going to stay and talk to the police. . . . He has to be planning something else.”

“But what? What is he going to do?” You look at the three cars stationed at the curb. Celia’s contacts are along the perimeter, waiting for Cross. Even if he was planning something else, he couldn’t get away with it. Not in public, with cops all around.

You can’t see Devon from the roof—he snuck into an office building across the street. He’s watching from one of the upper floors, at the other edge of the park, to alert you if Cross’s car approaches from another side. Ben took Salto to a construction site near the Brooklyn Bridge to set up camp. You gave him a hug good-bye and promised that you’d see him soon. While you had hoped they could be taken into police custody, Celia cautioned against it—after what happened to Goss, it’s clear AAE has people on the inside. You won’t be safe at the station until the cops have Cross with charges that will stick.

A black town car pulls up thirty feet from the fountain. Its flashers are on.

“This is it.”

The back door opens and a man with white-blond hair steps out. He’s wearing a tan coat, blue pants. He walks directly toward Alana and Celia. You can only see him from behind as he passes Celia some papers and waits.

A woman gets out of the town car. Stiff brown hair, a purple cardigan. Celia doesn’t follow Alana as she runs to her mother. She just says something and nods to the cars. Three other officers are getting out. They move in, and the man with the blond hair turns around.

You catch his profile. A long, narrow nose. Dark eyes. A thin hand that he holds out, offering it to one of the officers, shaking it in greeting.

“Alana didn’t acknowledge him,” you say. “Did you notice that?”

The woman brings Alana in for a hug. She smoothes her hair away from her cheeks and kisses her on the head. As the mother and daughter step into the town car the woman waves to the man by the fountain.

“What do you think?” Rafe watches Celia. The three officers surround her. The man with the blond hair is talking, gesturing with his hands. The car pulls away.

“I think she doesn’t know him,” you say. “No matter what she thought about that room or about what he did . . . she would be relieved to see her father. Wouldn’t she hug him or something? Isn’t it strange that she didn’t?”

“Unless it’s not him.”

“Exactly.”

You pull the phone from your pocket, flipping it open. You have to warn Celia.

You’re dialing when you hear the door somewhere behind you. The empty beer bottle you used to prop it open falls over, clattering against the metal. You look up, expecting to see Devon or Ben.

Three men are on the roof. Two wear sunglasses, the third in a hat, the brim pulled down to shield his eyes. Rafe reaches for his gun, but they already have theirs up, aimed at you. They fan out to surround you.

“Don’t try it,” one says.

They take a few more steps forward. You know you can disarm the one in front, but the other two have fallen back. Even if Rafe manages to fire off a few shots, the chances of them killing one of you is too high. You turn your head the slightest bit to the left, checking out the apartment entranceway below. There’s a metal awning out front, a long flat peninsula that juts out over the front doors. You could jump. You might be able to make it.

Rafe notices the escape route at the same time you do. He looks out over the buildings, waiting for you to go first, but you won’t. You can’t leave him here. If he makes it onto the awning you’ll jump seconds later. If they wanted you dead you’d be dead already.

When you speak you are focused on the man in front, staring at your reflection in the lenses of his sunglasses. But the words are only meant for Rafe.

“Go now.”

Rafe grabs the edge of the roof and turns, preparing to throw his legs over and jump down onto the awning. But before he can push off, a man rushes toward him, grabbing at his sweatshirt. Another pulls Rafe back onto the ground. He falls hard, his head hitting the roof.

You move toward them, but the first man steps in, pressing his gun to your neck. There’s no time to reach for the knife at your belt. He grabs your wrists and binds them with thick plastic ties.

Rafe is on his stomach, his cheek pressed to the ground. One of the men kneels on his back to tie his hands. He tries to look at you, but they yank a cloth bag over his head. A moment later, another comes down over your face.

Everything is dark.