Exposed - A Thriller Novella (Chandler Series) by J.A. Konrath & Ann Voss Peterson (8 page)

I squinted into the distance, breaking into a
jog. The limo was still in sight—thank you bumper-to-bumper—but
getting further away. As I ran, I fished the business card out of
my knife holster.

No name on the card. No phone number either.
Just a generic Hotmail address.

I took another scan of the roundabout,
searching for a vacancy light in the flood of cabs. A green SUV
caught my attention. Rental plates. Five men inside. Not South
American, maybe of Middle Eastern origin. But it wasn’t the vehicle
or their ethnicity that caught me. It was the intensity behind
their eyes, the way they assessed the crowd … just the way I would
if I were searching for someone.

Maybe I was being paranoid, but I doubted
it.

Keeping my expression neutral, I glanced at
the cars beyond, not letting on I’d made them.

“Got a match,” Jacob said after only thirty
seconds. Jonathan Kirk. Former special forces. He fell off our
radar about a year ago. Apparently he’s been operating without a
leash.”

“Merc?” I eyed Broadway, but I’d lost the
car.

“Yeah.” Jacob paused, but I could feel what
was coming next. “Most recently, he’s been doing wet work.”

“
No matter how well you’ve prepared or how
thorough you are, sometimes you will make mistakes,” The Instructor
said. “The important thing is that you identify the mistake
immediately and take steps to salvage the mission. Stay aware, use
your brain, your handler, and anything around you to set the
operation right. If repair is impossible, cover up your involvement
and get out of there.”

I ran, picking and dodging between people on
the sidewalk, the phone still pressed to my ear.

“Was Morrissey part of the package?” I
asked.

“Yes. Came with the deal.”

A hum rose in my ears. I’d invested myself in
protecting Julie, not just because it was my assignment, but
because I’d started to care. The possibility that I might have been
set up from the beginning to deliver the girl to her death made me
grind my teeth.

“Jacob? Are we being used here? Who’s the
VIP?”

“You’re thinking Kirk was brought in on
purpose?”

“It occurred to me.”

“We don’t have any evidence that Kirk’s
working for the VIP. A third party could have intercepted Morrissey
before our agency was brought in.”

Of course, Jacob was right. But often playing
devil’s advocate could help sort through confusing or complicated
situations like this one. I was hoping that strategy would work
now, because I was confused as hell.

I kept moving, rimming Columbus Circle, my
mind racing as fast as my feet.

“Or Kirk could have taken out Morrissey
himself, maybe with the VIP’s blessing.”

When we’d been in the limo, Kirk had a chance
to kill Julie and me. But that would have been a mistake. First of
all, driving around with two dead chicks in your car wasn’t safe.
Second, killing me would have brought a shit storm down on him and
whoever controlled him. Better to wait until the heat died down and
let me deliver her, thinking the op had ended there.

“He must need her alive,” I said.

“Agreed. Kirk has had sniper training. He
could have taken her out without involving you at all. Or you could
have been ordered to do it.”

I hesitated. Could I have killed Julie if
that was my assignment? Probably not. But there were other female
assassins they could have assigned in my place, women who didn’t
have a history similar to Julie’s and wouldn’t hesitate to complete
the job.

“So why lie to us about the father?”

“It’s the government, Chandler. I think lying
is merely the default setting.”

“I don’t like being lied to. Or used.”

Jacob paused for a beat before replying. “I
do have one thing. The assignment was routed through the defense
department.”

“So the VIP is someone in the Pentagon? Or is
it the Pentagon itself?”

“Don’t know. I’m trying to find more.”

And maybe, if I could catch up with Kirk, I
could do the same from my end. “Thanks, Jacob.”

“Good luck.”

I stuffed the phone back in my pocket and
eyed the streets leading off the circle.

I wanted answers.

I also wanted to make sure Julie was
safe.

But apparently I wasn’t the only one looking
for her.

The SUV holding the men I’d noticed earlier
was just inching onto Broadway.

Cabs clogged the flow of traffic like
cholesterol in a fat guy’s bloodstream, but not one had its light
on indicating it was for hire. Even if I could flag down a ride,
traffic was moving so slowly, I’d never catch the men I’d pegged as
Middle Eastern operatives, let alone Kirk. He’d be long gone and so
would Julie.

I needed to find another way, and running
wasn’t cutting it.

The jingle of a bell caught my ear, followed
by a voice speaking heavily accented English.

“Out of the way. Move!”

I spun around just as a bike/cart combination
drew even with me, one of the pedicab drivers I’d noticed earlier
taking a couple of tourists into the park. I shot out a hand and
grabbed the handlebars, wresting the vehicle to a halt.

“Get off,” I said evenly.

He stared at me as if I’d lost my mind.

“Get off. Now.”

I grabbed his left hand and jammed his wrist
backward. Using the leverage, I twisted his arm and his whole body
moved to the side and off the seat.

“Okay, okay, take it,” he said.

He also held up his wallet. Only in New
York.

I released him, climbing onto the seat.

“Hey, you can’t do that, lady!”

The couple in the cart. I’d almost forgotten
them.

I shot the man a hard look. He was in his
fifties, soft around the middle, with a bulbous nose, sitting next
to a woman who had the exact same face, only twenty years
older.

“You and your mom get out,” I said. “This is
your only warning.”

“You’re stealing this man’s bike! I’m calling
the cops!”

“Call them, Walter!” Mom chimed in. “And make
a citizen’s arrest!”

Neither got out.

“Your choice.”

I drove the balls of my feet down on the
pedals. Pedestrians in the crosswalk scurrying out of the way, I
cut across Central Park West and skirted the edge of the circle and
onto Broadway.

“Stop!” Walter yelled. “You’re under
arrest!”

North of Columbus Circle, Broadway turned
into a boulevard, traffic flowing both up and down town. The faux
Morrissey had headed uptown, I suspected on his way to the
expressway and maybe the Bronx or New Jersey.

I couldn’t let him make it out of
Manhattan.

“Tell her to stop, Walter!”

“Stop!”

“Tell her again!”

“Stop!”

“She didn’t hear you! Tell her again!”

“I said stop!”

“My son said stop!”

Ahead, vehicles choked the street, barely
moving. Brake lights flared red. I cranked the bike to the right
and jumped the curb onto the sidewalk. The bike’s front tire
shuddered, and it was all I could do to keep the handle bars
steady. The back cart followed, jolting, and the couple let out
squawks of surprise.

“She won’t stop, Ma! I told her to stop, but
she won’t stop!”

Forcing pedestrians to dive out of the way, I
skirted two food carts and bounced off the edge of a trash can.

I regained my balance and thrust down on the
pedals with all my strength, gaining speed. The cart rattled behind
me. People shouted obscenities and threats in my wake. Heat poured
off the concrete in waves, and sweat soon slicked my back and stung
the corners of my eyes. My breathing settled into a rhythm, in and
out, in and out, in time with the pump of my legs.

“She’s going faster, Walter! Tell her to stop
going faster!”

“Stop going faster!”

“Walter!”

“Stop going faster!”

I went faster.

Trump International Hotel and Tower flashed
by on my right, the SUV I’d noticed earlier on my left, screaming
from the cart behind me. I’d been trained to pick out details,
focus on them, isolate them, and as I whipped past the SUV, I could
hear the men inside exclaiming excitedly in a language that sounded
like Farsi.

They were Iranian? That conjured up all sorts
of new questions.

“Tell her again!”

“Stop going faster!”

“Tell her again!”

“Stop going faster! Ma! She’s still going
faster!”

“Walter, I’m getting sick!”

“My mother is getting sick!”

I heard the sound of Walter’s mother getting
sick.

“My mother got sick all over me!”

I bet those two were a real hoot at home.

A bus shelter loomed ahead. I swerved to the
right.

A group of slow walkers blocked the
sidewalk.

“Move!” I ordered, but they ambled on,
oblivious to the world around them.

Walter’s mother got sick again. From the
sounds of it, she’d had a big lunch.

“Please stop! My mother got sick again!”

“On my new outfit!” Walter’s mother
wailed.

“She got sick on her new outfit!”

I cut back toward the street. A phone booth
came up fast at the edge of the curb.

A phone booth? Who uses phone booths
anymore?

I veered hard to the left. Not fast enough.
The cart hit the corner and bounced to one side. We careened off
the sidewalk and into the street. Car tires squealed. I counter
steered. The cart whipped around and sideswiped a tow truck.
Drivers shouted through open windows. Something that sounded like
weeping came from behind me, and the odor of Walter’s mother’s
lunch mixed with the scents of exhaust and hot pavement.

Regaining control of the pedicab, I swung
back in the direction of the sidewalk and again jumped back onto
the curb. It seemed safer.

A whimper came from the back seat. “Please
let us out!”

“I tried.” I barely avoided a line of
newspaper boxes.

“I’ll pay you!”

“Walter, I’m going to wet myself!”

“My mother is going to wet herself!”

“Walter, I just wet myself!”

“My mother just wet herself!”

“Walter, I’m going to be sick again!”

“My mother is going to be sick again!”

Walter’s mother got sick again.

“You have to turn around! My mother got sick
and lost her dentures!”

I considered pulling my Ruger and killing
them both, but lucky for them my purse was out of reach.

I streaked past an electronics store and two
outdoor cafes. I couldn’t pick out the Town Car yet, but I had to
be gaining on it. Traffic crawled, traffic stopped, traffic crawled
again.

There it was.

With all the identical cars clogging the
street, I didn’t know why I was so certain this was the one. But my
gut reaction had been right so far. It was time I listened.

I stood on the brakes, leaping off the bike
and breaking into a sprint, listening to Walter yell behind me,
“She stopped, Ma! I made her stop!”

I wove between cars. He probably wasn’t
expecting me, and surprise was my best weapon. I ducked behind a
produce delivery truck and, grabbing the back door handle, rode its
bumper until it halted at the next light.

Then I made my move.

Circling the truck, I stayed in its lee as
long as I could. I only had seconds once I emerged. The man I’d
known as Morrissey was sharp. Even though I doubted he’d be looking
for me, he would be alert, and since I had no weapon beyond
surprise, I had to make this count. I needed to get inside that
car, and the best way to do that was to make sure his attention was
focused front.

The light changed. The truck started inching
forward.

Now.

I swung around the truck and landed on
pavement, knees flexed, legs already moving. It only took seconds
for me to make it to the driver’s door, and I pulled out my phone
as I ran.

My phone had been designed for a multitude of
functions, and on one corner, the titanium casing tapered to a
conical, seemingly harmless nub. Reaching the car, I rapped that
nub against the driver’s window, the full force of my blow
concentrated on that small point.

The glass shattered, showering tiny
pebbles.

His eyes met mine, the first time I’d seen
him anything but calm.

I thrust my arm inside to the shoulder, going
for his gun.

He grabbed my arm and held. The cars started
to move, and he hit the gas.

I scrambled to stay on my feet, trying to
keep up, retain my balance, but it moved too fast. I stumbled and
fell, my gym shoes dragging along the pavement, their rubber soles
getting rapidly eaten away. The edge of the door pressed into my
side, making it hard to breathe.

I caught a foothold for just a second and
surged forward, smacking him in the nose with a head butt.

He grunted and his grip loosened
slightly.

I reached, my fingers hitting Kirk’s left
leg, his holster.

I acted quickly, making a grab for the gun,
but his recovery was equally fast. His hand closed over mine,
wrestling, hitting, prying at my fingers.

I sensed we would hit the car ahead a split
second before impact.

The crunch of steel shuddered through my
spine. The car jolted to a dead stop. I hit the hot pavement in a
roll, breath exploding from my lungs, head smacking hard. My vision
exploded in stars. Tires screeched. I heard the Glock skitter, but
where it ended up, I couldn’t guess.

A heartbeat and the car door opened, and Kirk
came down on top of me.

I struggled for breath.

Kirk’s hands found my neck, my throat. He had
my arms pinned under his knees, so I couldn’t reach either of my
weapons. Heat enveloped me. His grip was strong, squeezing, closing
off my trachea, stopping the flow of blood to my brain, making my
vision dim, go dark.