For Everything a Reason (23 page)

Chapter
Forty-Five

The crowd seemed to contract around Joseph. He became
dizzy, and for one terrible moment thought he was about to suffer a third
attack. He staggered forward slightly. The commuters nearest to him
unconsciously stepped away, primeval instincts putting them out of reach of
trouble, before minds full of present-day thoughts sent them on their way.

Joseph filled his lungs to
capacity, breathing in deeply, waiting for the bout of dizziness to pass. It
did, and the walls of the foyer retracted back into place.

Now, he took a minute to
examine his surroundings in more detail. Directly before him stood a small
information desk, circular in shape so that it could be approached from every
angle. Two young ladies, both wearing heavy makeup, their faces tanned to a
bright orange even in this cold month, stood in the centre of the commuters,
offering a wealth of information.

Joseph turned his attention
away from the helpdesk and towards a newsstand that was wedged into one corner
of the foyer. The stand was barely larger than a puppet booth, something he’d
seen as a child. Two employees were playing out the roles of Punch and Judy.
One, a woman, was busying herself with selling her assortment of candy and
editorials; the other, a man, stood rigid, his eyes pinned to Joseph.
Instantly, Joseph realised just how out-of-place the guy looked.      

Joseph tried to focus on the
guy’s face. He was clean-shaven, handsome and muscular – and way too big to be
stuffed behind the counter.

The tiny kiosk was meant for
just one person, not two.

Was he one of the FBI agents?

The guy held Joseph’s gaze for
a second longer and then made a show of straightening out a row of magazines
that were already neatly arranged.

A small coffee house pulled
Joseph’s attention away from the kiosk. Steel tables and chairs were occupied
by commuters, either engrossed in morning newspapers or chatting animatedly to
friends or colleagues. Joseph flipped from one face to the next. Most were
wearing identical business suits: matching dark blue jackets and pants, or
straight skirts, which stopped just below the knees, and an assortment of
different coloured ties, some sombre – blues, blacks, greys – others bright
reds and greens, which gave those who wore them puffed out chests, like those
of exotic birds.

Only one guy stood out. He wore
casual slacks and a baseball cap. Nothing unusual in that, but he held a
financial supplement in his hands, and the rest of the newspaper could not be
seen – nor was there a cup of coffee or other choice of beverage before him.

Another agent?

Joseph spun full circle, seeing
faces that could be either innocent or full of intent. He looked again at the
large clock. 9:02AM. Had the killer spotted something that had unnerved him?
Just as Joseph was about to head towards the entrance, a figure caught the
corner of his eye. The figure cut through the crowd and headed directly towards
him. Joseph tensed, his instincts telling him that this was it – the defining
moment.

Joseph was joined by his
nemesis. Now two people shared the open space that had formed around them.

“Big Bear…” Yurius greeted, his
lips stretching out over bright white teeth in a smile.

Joseph turned towards Jake’s
kidnapper. “Where’s my son?” he demanded.

“Safe,” Yurius replied. “Come.”

Yurius turned his back on
Joseph, casually, confidently, and started to make his way towards the
entrance. Joseph followed obediently, doing as Carter had instructed. As he
trailed behind, he felt – sensed – that someone had taken up position behind
him. He dared not look that way, in fear of seeing another face – another
gun-wielding maniac who wouldn’t rest until Joseph had been erased.

He did chance a look to his
left and right, to see if either the café occupant or the newsagent had made a
move to follow. Both stayed where they were.

Get up!
screamed Joseph
silently.

Neither paid any attention.

Yurius stopped just a few yards
inside the lobby. “Wait here,” he ordered, glancing over his shoulder. He left
Joseph standing alone. The sensation of being watched almost pulled him around.
Somehow, he managed to remain focused on the busy sidewalk just beyond his
position.

A steady stream of commuters
continued to mill through the entrance, some hurrying to catch trains, others
saddled with backpacks that looked fit to burst, ready to start early
vacations. Just a few appeared as if brought here by the flow of people, caught
on the moving wave of flesh, with no real destination in mind.   

One such character caught
Joseph’s eye. He was a large fellow, ruddy-faced, who wore tight-fitting sweat
pants and jacket. A small sports bag hung by a strap from his shoulder. He
seemed pleased with himself, a large colourful smile playing across face.

The guy headed straight for
Joseph. Joseph looked at him expectantly. Was this another accomplice? The guy
nodded in his direction.

Joseph nodded back, only to
realise at the last moment that the guy had actually been acknowledging someone
standing directly behind him. The guy brushed past him, his sports bag nudging
Joseph’s elbow as he did so.

Joseph heard a single sentence
come from behind, and then the general clamour drowned out the conversation.

“I got Viktor’s money…” the guy
said.

***

Carter felt trapped – unable to breath. Indecision,
loyalty and inner turmoil fought against each other. Should he get out and
follow Perkins? His need for revenge demanded it. Get out now and cut Perkins
down, no matter what the consequences were. Loyalty towards his profession and
Joseph Ruebins screamed for him to stay put and see what the kidnapper had to
offer. Nevertheless, this loyalty was a double-edged sword. The devotion to his
son, Billy, cried out for him to avenge his death. Carter’s understanding of
what was right and wrong thrashed it out in the pit of his stomach.

Why was Perkins here, of all
places?

Was he finally ready to flee
the city?

Carter needed to know. He
couldn’t just let Perkins get away scot free, never to pay the price for his
terrible actions. Without thinking, Carter opened the door and then stepped out
into the windswept street. Absentmindedly, he patted his jacket, feeling the
small revolver that rested there. Then, ignoring the voice of Tyler, now clear
and present, he started to make his way over to the busy entrance.

***

Joseph became rooted to the spot. The sudden arrival of
this newcomer had thrown off what senses he had remaining. Immobility had
struck him down.

Just as he was about to turn,
Yurius reappeared. The kidnapper spoke in Russian to the guy behind Joseph. A
similar reply came. Yurius nodded, and then focused his attention on Joseph.

“Follow me,” he ordered, and
again retreated through the entrance.

Joseph duly followed the order.
He sidestepped an elderly couple and then, unexpectedly, came face-to-face with
Detective Carter.

“What..?” Joseph gawped.
“What’s going on?”

Carter seemed to blank Joseph
completely. He failed to make eye contact; instead, his attention was riveted
to something else. Like a man caught in the spell of sleepwalking, Carter moved
beyond Joseph and continued to draw away.

Joseph reached out, ready to
take Carter’s arm, but Yurius had already disappeared from sight. With no other
option, he let the detective pass by and quickly stepped out onto the sidewalk.

The Russian was just yards
away, talking casually into a cellular. He raised a hand to stop Joseph short.
Words that Joseph had no comprehension of fell from the Russian’s lips. They
seemed to go on for an eternity, which in reality lasted for no more than a
minute.

Desperate now, Joseph took a
single step closer. He was halted by the thunderous blast of gunfire.

Yurius stopped talking. A wave
of people rolled out of the lobby, screaming and fear stretching their faces into
ghastly masks of terror. More gunfire sounded, amplified by the resonance of
the foyer.

The killer’s confidence
appeared to evaporate instantly. He cursed in his own language and then took
off down West 14
^th
Street.

“Yurius!” Joseph cried.

The man didn’t stop.

Summoning every ounce of his
strength, Joseph gave chase.

Chapter
Forty-Six

Presley Perkins smiled to himself. The train station
appeared to have more people in it than The Rangers Stadium. People branched
off in many different directions, disappearing into tunnels and stairways,
eagerly going about their business. He couldn’t think of a safer place to hand
over Viktor’s money and collect his bus ticket and falsified documents.

For a second he questioned his
choice of transport. Now that he was here, should he have asked for train
tickets instead? For one, the journey time would be cut by more than half. No,
Presley thought, the trains running into Mexico underwent far more stringent
checks on passports and papers, whereas a bus ride would be considered a simple
daytrip, a tourist sampling what this neighbouring country had to offer. He’d
still be expected to reveal his passport, but with the promise of return,
border control would be less rigorous.

Anyway, Presley thought, the
checkpoints were more to keep the Hispanics out, rather than stopping Americans
going the other way.

He moved deeper into the crowd.
Then he spotted one of Viktor’s men: the Georgian, Pyotr Krylov.

Krylov waved Presley over. He
passed a towering black man, someone Presley thought he recognised from
somewhere, but in the next instant he reached the Georgian.

“I got Viktor’s money,” he
announced.

The sports bag on Presley’s
shoulder drew Krylov’s attention. “All of it?”

“Yeah – the whole shebang.”

Krylov reached inside his jacket.
“I have your papers here,” he said, withdrawing a small brown envelope.

Perkins looked at the package
with something close to desperation. “They all there?”

“Yes. Passport, driving licence
and ticket to Mexico.”

Presley grinned slyly. “No need
for the return – hey?”

The sly grin was mirrored on
the Russian’s face. Little did Presley Perkins know that a tip-off to border
control would see him dragged from the bus and taken into custody. A simple and
relatively small sum of money had bought this guarantee, and a second amount,
paid to one of Viktor’s Mexican contacts, would see that Perkins never left the
holding pen alive.

“Drop the bag,” Krylov ordered,
now staring back coldly.

Presley did as he was told. He
placed the bag at the Georgian’s feet. Krylov dropped to one knee. He unzipped
the bag and opened it out. A bundle of green bills filled the bottom. He closed
it and then stood.

Presley licked his lips. “The
envelope?” he asked.

The Russian made as if to give
Presley the small package but, at the last moment, he tossed it into a nearby
bin.

A hysterical whine burst from
Presley’s lips. He dived into the bin, scattering litter in all directions,
digging to find his one chance at freedom. The envelope appeared amongst a pile
of empty food cartons. He snatched it up, holding it protectively against his
chest. He noticed then that Krylov and the bag of cash had simply disappeared.

No matter. He had what he’d
come for.

His antics had attracted a
small measure of attention. Most people looked quickly away as he turned from
one face to the next. Only one held his gaze, and this person’s eyes were full
of hatred.

“No…” Presley breathed.

Detective Thomas Carter stared
back.

A terrible moment of déjà vu
passed. Perkins and Carter had squared off like this recently. Only now,
William Carter’s father had all the advantage. His weapon was drawn, held
steady at his side.

“No…” Perkins said again, in
total disbelief.

Carter tapped the weapon
against his thigh, making sure its presence was well noted. Presley’s eyes
widened slightly when he recognised which weapon the detective held.

“No… No… No…”
he chanted
foolishly. “This can’t be.”

The detective took a step
closer, making sure his words could be heard clearly over the general noise.

“You’re coming with me – now.”

“No,” Presley said, taking a
step back.

“You’ve two choices,” Carter
said. “You can either live or die.”

***

Pyotr Krylov snatched the bag and then turned his back on
Perkins. He heard a whine of desperation and grinned maliciously: Perkins
seemed to be in a rush to reach his journey’s end – a crude shank in the ribs,
no doubt.

The Russian threw the bag over
his shoulder and quickly headed for the exit. He’d taken only a few steps when
two figures appeared to flank him on either side. He halted then, wondering if
there had indeed been a cop presence within the station. A long examination
earlier had revealed nothing. Now, though, his calculating brain quickly
processed a sudden change within the internal layout.

The café front appeared to have
one chair empty, while the newsstand was occupied by just the woman. Krylov
chanced a glance to either side. No mistaking it, the guy from the café and the
one previously busying himself with magazines had taken up position on either
side of him.

FBI?

Thinking quickly, Krylov made a
show of exasperation, as if he’d just remembered leaving something behind. He
spun on his heel and headed back the way he had just come. Momentarily
confused, the two pursuers appeared to lose sight of their target.

Krylov was making his way
towards one of the platforms. He reached the first step to one and looked up to
check if the path was clear. Most of the human traffic was heading in the same
direction as he was, hurriedly climbing the steps towards an arriving train. In
opposition, two men, broad shouldered and broad faced, were descending quickly
towards him.

Krylov stopped with his foot an
inch from the second step. Both men had weapons drawn. Compact pistols were
pressed tightly at the hip, hidden from the unsuspecting eye, but not to a man
of Krylov’s disposition.

This was not standard FBI
procedure.

The Russian felt a spasm of
fear. What did these guys want? They were coming fast now. Krylov held their
gaze for a moment longer, and then twisted around, ready to head back the other
way. The two men that had originally flanked him had closed off his escape.
Krylov looked from one to the other. Both had cold expressions on their faces.
One, a handsome individual of impressive size, held Krylov’s stare with
vehement attachment.

Krylov caught his breath. He
knew this guy. Yes, the slight scar that ran from his nose to the side of his
upper lip was unmistakable: a telltale sign of a corrective procedure for a
harelip.

Although the two were at a
distance, the guy with the scar spoke loud enough to be heard.

Krylov’s blood turned cold.
This was not a linguistically trained FBI agent speaking to him in his native
tongue. No, the words had been spoken with a distinctly native Slavic
enunciation. The guy was of Muscovite ancestry through and through.     

Pyotr Krylov understood without
question that these men were here for just one thing: his blood. His hand moved
towards the weapon at his side. The guy with the scar mirrored his movements as
he too went for his weapon.

A fifth figure appeared,
directly between Krylov and the armed men. She was of slight build with cropped
brown hair. Her gun was already drawn and aimed towards the Russian’s head.
Krylov took his eyes off the two men for an instant, to gauge the woman’s
intentions. When he looked back over her shoulder an instant later, the two men
had gone, simply disappearing in the throng of moving commuters.

***

“Freeze!” Tyler ordered, her weapon drawn.

Krylov did just that.

“Put the bag down, and turn
around,” Tyler instructed.

A string of foreign words came
from the Russian’s mouth.

It was enough to knock Tyler
out of her rhythm. Did this guy understand English? She pointed to the bag.
“Down,” she said, now pointing to the floor.

The guy made a show of lowering
the bag to the floor, twisting slightly to one side, as if it weighed much more
than expected.

Tyler missed the man’s
intention. He used his bent frame to conceal his free hand. It was then she
became aware of his objective.

Too late.

The guy’s weapon appeared – a
large oily-looking monstrosity – with a long barrel and elongated handgrip. It
took just a millisecond for Tyler to see that the firearm had been modified to
hold a larger clip of ammunition – possibly converted to be fully automatic,
too.

Her inexperience and the fear
of injury to nearby commuters made Tyler freeze for just the briefest of
moments. It was more than enough.

The gun continued to rise.

A brilliant flash of gunfire
blinded her and, in the next second, she felt herself crash heavily to the
ground – her breath knocked out of her and her chest agonisingly tight.

Tyler found someone lying on
top of her. She gasped, in an attempt to fill her lungs. She struggled
awkwardly, and the unexpected face of the gun-bearer came into view. His mouth
was open, eyes staring straight ahead, and a thin trickle of blood dripped from
one ear. She pushed against him, pulling herself free. In the next instant,
Detective Carter was by her side.

“You okay?” Carter asked,
holding out his hand.

Tyler placed her hand to her
chest. No warm sensation of running blood, or the numbness of a body in shock.
She allowed Carter to drag her to her feet.

A small revolver hung at the
detective’s side, a wisp of gunsmoke snaking slowly from its barrel. “Close
call.”

Tyler turned to the body at her
feet. Now that she was standing she could see the gunshot wound – a small hole
just to the right of his earlobe – which leaked surprisingly little blood. A
thick pool of crimson was rapidly spreading from the other side of his head.
The bullet had travelled clean through, killing him instantly.

What remained of the crowd had
now pushed themselves back against the foyer walls, cowering away from the
bloody violence, leaving just the two detectives in an open arena.

“What are you doing here?” Tyler
asked.

Carter looked pained.

“What is it?”

“My son’s killer, he’s here,”
he said.

“What? Where?”

“Here.”

Tyler spun full circle. Nobody
moved. She searched each face available, finding none that fit the description
of William Carter’s killer.

“I don’t see him,” she said.

“He’s gone, in the confusion.”

“Wait,” Tyler said, now
uncertain. “Where the hell is Joseph?”

Carter’s mouth opened, but no
words formed.

“Where is he?”

“I–I’m not sure,” he admitted,
shaking his head.

A little voice spoke, just to
the side of them. The detectives turned to the speaker. A toddler, a
blond-haired girl with pigtails, holding onto a teddy bear, had stepped
forward, away from the cowering commuters. The child’s mother rushed forward,
quickly scooping her up, and the small teddy bear fell from her grasp. The
mother looked terrified, and the child reached out in an attempt to retrieve
the stuffed toy.

Tyler flashed the mother her
shield. “I’m a detective,” she said simply, and then turned to the child to
ask, “What did you say, honey?”

“Mr. Tickles,” the girl said.

“What?”

“Mr. Tickles,” the child said
again, jabbing her short arms towards the floor.

Tyler reached down to grab the
bear. She handed it over. “What did you say, honey?” she asked again.

“The big black giant and the fat
man,” said the girl.

The woman gasped in shock and
embarrassment at her child’s political incorrectness.

“Ella – don’t speak so rudely,”
she chastised.

Tyler ignored the woman. This
was the type of witness that all cops preferred: Tell it straight. “Which black
giant and fat man?”

Ella used her stubby arm to
point first to the foyer’s entrance and then towards one of the passageways,
which led to a nearby platform.

“The black giant went that
way,” she said, pointing back to the foyer. “And Mr. Tickles saw the fat man go
that way,” she finished, using the bear’s arm to indicate Platform 7.

Carter almost fell over himself
to get past Tyler. The young detective stopped him short.

“No,” she said, seeing his
murderous intentions. “Go get Joseph and Jake. I’ll deal with Perkins.”

Carter hesitated for just a
moment and then nodded. What the hell had he been thinking? He leaned forwards,
patting the toddler’s head, and then took off in the opposite direction.

Tyler quickly stepped back to
the dead Russian, took his discarded weapon, and then raced towards Platform 7.