Half-Past Dawn (30 page)

And despite the fact that he knew he would be facing the hell of a disciplinary hearing and probable removal from the force, he hit the door release.

FRIDAY
, 9:10
P.M
.

J
ACK BURST OUT OF
the front of the Tombs and sprinted up the sidewalk. Seconds later, Josh dove out the door in pursuit, his arms pumping, his pistol clutched in his hand.

And then the black Suburban came tearing around the corner, its wheels screaming in protest as the SUV dug in and raced toward Jack, the roar of its redlined engine bellowing in the concrete caverns of Lower Manhattan. Jack ran, pushing himself to the limit, but knew there was no way he could outrun the SUV. There were no alleys to duck into, no open buildings on a Friday night, no savior to pluck him from certain death.

The downtown sidewalks were empty, devoid of people for the weekend except for those cutting through to some other destination. It was just Jack and the lone black vehicle that hunted him like a wounded animal. He held tight to the strap on his shoulder, the black bag that held the case, a prize that was only leaving death in its wake.

The SUV was less than fifty yards back, bearing down on him. It
would be only seconds before they ran him down, for Jack knew they had no intention of letting him live.

And as the SUV cut the distance in half, only seconds away, a Jeep mounted the curb and skidded to a stop, nearly hitting Jack. The door flew open, and Jack stared into Frank’s eyes.

“Let’s go!”

W
ITH ITS GRILLE LIGHTS
flashing and siren wailing, the Jeep entered the FDR Drive, the East River whipping by.

“Do you want to tell me what the hell is going on?” Frank said as he white-knuckled the wheel. “You disappear from your house, I think the worst, and then I hear on the radio about an emergency lockdown of the Tombs.”

Jack said nothing.

“Are you out of your frickin’ mind? I waited and waited until I realized where you were probably headed. What were you thinking? The whole world is going to be looking for you now.”

Jack said nothing as he kept looking back at the SUV, which was cutting the distance by the second.

“Do you want to tell me what’s in that thing?” Frank pointed at the case protruding from the bag on Jack’s lap.

“Just get us the hell away from that guy.”

Frank didn’t say another word as the Jeep rocketed up the FDR, swerving in and out of traffic, braking and accelerating as he barely eluded the black SUV.

As Jack looked over his shoulder and saw the approaching Suburban barreling their way, it reminded him that just twenty-four hours ago, the same black vehicle had raced up behind him on Route 22. Although last night he was unaware of what the black car would unleash on his world, this time Jack was well aware that it would deliever only death.

The Suburban’s oversized eight-cylinder engine was far more powerful than that of Frank’s Jeep, but power and size were not always an advantage. As Frank approached 42nd Street, with the SUV coming up on his right side, he turned hard left, taking the exit at the very last second. The SUV’s weight and size made it too difficult to stop and turn in time, and it blew right past the exit.

Frank blasted down 42nd Street, his lights flashing, his siren screaming, as pedestrians and cars alike made way for his approach. The closer he got to Midtown, the more he was forced to slow, to steer around traffic hung up at stoplights.

He took a hard right on Sixth Avenue, momentarily relaxing as he headed uptown. With no sign of the SUV, he exhaled, turning to Jack, who sat clutching the case to his chest. But then he saw the Suburban, turning onto the avenue from 42nd Street, rapidly coming up behind them.

Frank stomped the accelerator to the floor, blowing through lights, crosstown traffic screeching to a halt to avoid him.

Then the SUV was there, weaving in and out of traffic, desperately trying to gain ground.

The side windows rolled down, and a disembodied arm emerged, pistol in hand, and began firing at the Jeep’s tires. Frank threw the wheel hard to the right, but the SUV matched his move, still rapid-firing, as bullets danced and skittered along the road, sending the nighttime strollers scrambling for cover. People whipped out cell phones, and multiple 911 calls reported the two involved vehicles. Frank hit the brakes and then immediately accelerated, trying desperately to lose Cristos and the ever-firing weapon. And then, suddenly, the left tire exploded, shredding in seconds, the car pulling hard left on only the aluminum rim, skidding across the avenue, sparks flying from the exposed wheel.

Frank came to a sudden stop.

“Run! don’t look back!” Frank shouted as he reached for his gun to give Jack cover.

And without hesitation, Jack leaped from the vehicle.

• • •

J
ACK RAN DOWN
48th Street toward Broadway, toward the crowds, where he could get lost, while the SUV raced onto the block behind him. Simultaneously, two cop cars tore into the street ahead of him, blocking all traffic. Four cops leaped out, charging toward Jack.

Jack turned, spinning in place, looking around. There were no open stores, no subway entrances to duck into. And then he saw it. He looked up, the shadow of a new building blotting a sliver out of the night sky, surrounded by a ten-foot chain-link fence. Jack could see no security. They were probably asleep in the construction trailer and would only emerge if the matter was life-and-death.

Jack ran across the street and climbed the ten feet of chain link, hurdling the top and landing with a bone-jarring thud. He cut through the dirt and gravel courtyard and into the unfinished high-ceilinged lobby of the new addition to the New York skyline. Work lights dangled from the ceiling, piles of custom dark wood cabinetry and shelving lined the walls, ladders and scaffold abounded. Jack looked around for a place to hide, only to see Cristos on the fence not forty yards behind him. Jack quickly chose the open stairwell. He ran into the concrete shaftway and began his ascent. Five floors, ten floors—his body screamed as his lungs fought for breath. He could hear Cristos’s pounding footfalls coming up behind him but didn’t dare look for fear of slowing his flight.

Jack raced up the stairs, two at a time, his legs on fire as lactic acid poured through his muscles. By floor twenty, he thought his heart would either collapse or explode out of his chest. At floor thirty, he finally looked down and saw Cristos only two floors below and coming up hard. At floor forty, Jack came upon a wide-open floor, no walls, still under construction, and raced through the construction debris, past the idle tools and wallboard
to the north-side stairs, where an open second route continued the ascent.

Up the stairs Jack ran, finally coming to a bulkhead, and he rammed through a steel fire door onto a wide-open roof deck. It was littered with gang boxes, storage sheds, portable toilets, empty beer bottles, and cigarette butts. This was the haven of the construction workers, where they escaped from the toils of their day to sit above the city that they and their brethren had built over the years.

Jack realized that he had boxed himself into a corner and had nowhere else to go. It would be a standoff unless he could figure a way out or down.

He walked to the edge, staring down on the neon lights that painted Times Square in an iridescent rainbow of colors. The sidewalks were awash in hordes of insect-sized people as the sounds of the night wafted up around him. He had escaped the Tombs, eluded his pursuers through the streets of the city, only to end up there, alone, with the one person who held Mia’s life in his hands only seconds behind.

“So, what are you going to do? Jump?” Cristos said as he stepped through the bulkhead. He slowly walked toward Jack, his gun aimed directly at Jack’s head.

Jack looked down over the city as he clutched the case tightly.

“You go through all of that effort only to commit suicide?”

Jack didn’t turn, continuing to look out over the city, at the masses who walked around enjoying their Friday night, unaware of what was happening above their heads.

“Give me the case, and I’ll let Mia go. I promise.”

“That means nothing.” Jack finally turned around and pointed his gun at Cristos.

The two held tightly to their weapons.

“You realize, if you kill me, your wife will have no chance? I’m the only link to finding her.”

“You sure about that?” Jack said.

“Quite sure. Which leaves you with not a lot of choice,” Cristos said. “You jump with the box, and I promise you, Mia will be five minutes behind you in death … and where would that leave your girls?”

Jack looked up in shock. “You stay away from them!” he snapped.

“I don’t play with the innocent lives of children,” Cristos said. “But you would be. They’ll grow up as orphans under the cloud of a father who went insane and didn’t try to save his wife.”

“What?”

“How else will it be explained that you broke into the evidence room, killed all those people, stole an evidence case?”

Jack clutched the box closer as he continued pointing the gun at Cristos. “That was your hand, not mine.”

“I’m dead, remember? That’s a pretty far-fetched story for a dead man. You, on the other hand, stealing an evidence case filled with nothing but trinkets.”

Jack stared at the box.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t look inside?” Cristos laughed. “You don’t even know what you hold in your hand, what you’re about to give your life for?”

“What?”

“That box holds the future, the answer to questions you couldn’t imagine, secrets that the world isn’t ready for. It holds mysteries and miracles. It holds the truth about certain people who are beyond desperate to ensure that the truth doesn’t come out. Why do you think your wife hid it away?”

The north bulkhead exploded open, and four cops rolled out onto the rooftop, guns drawn. Their eyes filled with caution as they saw the two armed men facing off on the edge of the building.

“Drop your weapons!” the lead cop screamed.

Jack and Cristos ignored them.

“The contents of that box are rightfully mine,” Cristos continued.

“That’s bullshit—”

“No.” Cristos cut him off. “The man who was murdered, the man who possessed the objects in that box, was my father.”

“The priest?” Jack said with shock. “Did you kill him?”

“That is between me and my father. How are things with your dad?”

Jack was shocked and offended at the question, at the intimacy this man invaded.

“Give me the box.”

Jack looked at the four cops, their guns trained on them.

Jack stepped away from the ledge. He didn’t lower his gun as he spun left toward the north bulkhead. Cristos moved in sync with him, turning as he turned, stepping as he stepped. Jack looked toward the cops. He couldn’t allow the case to fall into their hands, either. The FBI was after it, Cristos was after it, and who knew how many others were under its spell trying to get hold of it.

“Will you release her?” Jack asked. “Let her go unharmed?”

Cristos stared at the box. “I give you my word, I’ll let her go.”

Jack looked into his eyes. He wasn’t sure if he saw a moment of honesty or the shadow of a lie. But he realized that with the cops closing in, his choices were limited.

Jack laid the box down next to the open bulkhead door, his eyes filled with defeat. Cristos kept his gun trained on Jack as he reached down, collecting his prize.

Jack watched as Cristos disappeared down the stairs, clutching the case under his arm. Two of the cops raced after him, but Jack knew they would never catch him and live.

The two remaining cops approached Jack, their guns aimed high.

“Drop your weapon!” the lead cop screamed.

“Now!” the young rookie shouted.

Jack released the pistol and watched it clatter to the roof deck.

And the two cops were on him, grabbing him by the shoulders, pulling his arms behind his back, and throwing him violently to the ground. Jack’s knees hit first, but with his hands behind his back and nothing to brace his continuing fall, his head hit the surface with a violent snap.

His vision filled with blackness as the sounds of the city disappeared and he was enveloped in an unconscious nightmare.

FRIDAY
, 11:05
P.M
.

J
ACK LOOKED AROUND, LOST
, confused. He lay in a strange bed. A man stood over him, tall and broad. A scar wiggled its way down the left side of his neck; he had the countenance of someone who had seen battle on more than one occasion. But despite the rough exterior, there was a sadness in his eyes.

“Jack?” the man whispered.

“Who are you? Where am I?”

The man placed his finger to his lips. “Not too loud. Listen very carefully to me. I’ve got only a moment.” The man paused. “Hold on to your mind, or you won’t be able to save Mia.”

J
ACK AWOKE WITH
a start and stared around the room. The white walls were cushioned, and there wasn’t a single corner or sharp angle in the ten-by-twenty space.

A tube ran into his left arm, the IV drip infusing him with a tired warmth. His chest and arms were wired up, although the monitors
were nowhere in sight. A curtain was drawn across what he imagined was a large window to the outside world.

A large leather strap wrapped his chest, not enough to constrict his breath but enough to constrict his escape. Smaller, equally constraining bands wrapped his wrists.

The mental ward of the Tombs occupied the entire fifth floor of the west wing, isolated and unknown to most. Used for the insane, the mentally disturbed, sometimes the perfect place to tuck a VIP, isolating him from scrutiny while
matters
were sorted out, it was also the facility for evaluations by court-appointed psychiatrists. It was a place far worse than any cell, as not only were you locked up and tethered to your bed, but your release depended on both the judicial system and the far more subjective medical community, where the inexact science of psychiatry could condemn you for life.