Hicks had done too much in his life to think his prayers would be answered by any God, but he prayed the bastard would stay on the street. It would be easier for the Varsity to close in if things started popping.
Khan walked past the subway entrance and went straight out on to Forty-Second Street instead, heading west.
Again, Hicks jogged to keep pace, not wanting to lose sight of a small, dark-complexioned man in a city filled with small dark-complexioned men.
He spotted Khan in the crowd of pedestrians heading west toward Fifth Avenue. He could relax a bit now because the University was tracking his position and direction. If they didn’t already have a visual of them via satellite, they soon would. Even if Khan killed him, it would be tougher for the terrorist to escape their notice.
A man like Khan knew all about agencies like the University and their tactics, so Hicks figured he wasn’t planning on pulling an attack today. But Khan was still a target of opportunity – an opportunity Hicks had every intention of taking.
He followed Khan on a meandering path uptown. He walked north along Vanderbilt, then cut back east to that wide boulevard that was Park Avenue, teeming with office workers from banks and other kinds of financial institutions.
The terrorist walked past them all without even stopping. Hicks blended in with the crowd where he could and drifted toward buildings when the crowd thinned out. Whenever Khan looked behind him, it was never in Hicks’ direction.
They continued on Park until Fifty-Ninth Street when Khan headed west toward Central Park. Once again, Hicks jogged to keep pace with him as he turned the corner, but crossed the street instead, like any other New Yorker trying to catch the light before it changed. Trailing Khan from across the street would make him easier to spot, but Hicks had to take that chance. He could’ve spotted Hicks when he looked behind him on Park, so he needed to change up the angle a bit.
On their current course, Hicks knew they may wind up in Central Park. It would be impossible to tail him through the park without getting spotted. If Khan went into the park, that’s where Hicks would kill him.
He slowed down when Khan also jaywalked across to Hicks’ side of the street, dodging taxis and oncoming cars. Other than throwing a dirty look at a honking cabbie and a cursing bike messenger, Khan never looked back. He followed the terrorist as he crossed Madison, then Fifth; past a knot of tourists gathered at the entrance as he walked into Central Park.
That settled it. Hicks would kill him here.
He checked his phone. No word from the Varsity, so it was up to him. He subtly pulled the.22 from the holster on his belt and held the gun in his jacket pocket as he entered the park. A.22 wasn’t exactly a large caliber gun, but it was good enough to do the job in the hands of someone who knew how to use it. And James Hicks certainly knew how to use it.
Hicks focused less on stealth and more on distance now. The closer he got, the better chance he had of killing Khan quickly. Hicks spotted an ambulance without sirens or lights driving along a path closed to vehicular traffic. He knew there were usually several ambulances in the park at all times, but this one passed Khan and flashed its headlights at Hicks.
Varsity was on scene. Time for Khan to die.
Hicks didn’t think Khan had noticed the ambulance, but he had. He slowed his pace as he turned and saw the only other person on the path behind him.
Hicks.
Khan froze for an instant, just like he’d frozen that night when atop the wall.
By the time Khan reached under his t-shirt, Hicks fired a full clip into Khan’s chest. All six rounds struck in a tight pattern just left of center. The shots from the small gun echoed like firecrackers in the vast openness of the park.
As Khan fell back, Hicks realized there’d been no blood from exit wounds and knew the terrorist was wearing a bulletproof vest. The impact of six rounds to the chest would sting like hell, but the.22 lacked the power to punch through Kevlar.
When he reached Khan, the terrorist was flat on his back. His gun – a nine millimeter Glock – had skidded away from him as the bullets struck home; just as Hicks’ gun had done that night in Kandahar. Khan was reaching for the weapon when Hicks’ foot pinned his hand to the jogging path.
“I counted.” Khan sneered up at him. “You’re empty.”
Hicks ejected the spent clip, slapped in a new one and aimed it down at him. “Not anymore.”
The Varsity team had spilled out of the ambulance close behind him, dressed in regulation EMS gear. They’d even thought to wheel out a stretcher with them.
The team leader – a woman with blue eyes and blonde ponytail – said, “You were supposed to terminate him.”
“He’s wearing a vest. But now we can interrogate him. Don’t worry. The Dean will be pleased.” He smiled down at Khan. “But you won’t be.”
One of the techs patted Khan down; discovering another gun and a knife before zip tying his hands and feet. Khan squirmed like a fish as they slammed him onto the stretcher and buckled him in tight.
Khan struggled against his restraints to get a good look at Hicks as they wheeled him toward the stretcher. “You bastard! I should’ve killed you when I had the chance!”
Hicks smiled as he tucked his.22 away. “Yeah. You probably should have.”
The Varsity members closed the back doors of the ambulance and Hicks watched it drive away. Just another ambulance in a city full of ambulances. Only this one held one of the most dangerous men in the world.
Hicks knew he’d be in a hell of a lot of trouble from the Dean for not finishing Khan. He’d told him several times to carry a handgun with bigger kick, but he’d always refused. He hoped brining in one of the most wanted men in the world alive would count for something, but he doubted it. The Dean wasn’t a man who dealt with disappointment well.
It wouldn’t be the first reprimand he’d ever gotten and he doubted it would be the last. But he always got results and, in this game, that’s what counted.
Hicks checked his watch. He still had fifteen minutes to make his appointment with the future asset. Maybe he’d cancel. Maybe he wouldn’t. He’d already done enough good for one day.
He began walking south out of the park and blended back into the changing city where no one knew what he had just done for them. Nor did they care.
And thanks to people like James Hicks, they didn’t have to.
BIO:
Terrence P. McCauley is a crime fiction writer and the winner of the 2008 “Search for the Next Great Crime Writer” contest, sponsored by TruTV. His novel “Prohibition” was published in 2012 with interior artwork by the incredibly talented Rob Moran. Slow Burn was published in 2013, and Terrence has contributed stories to Thuglit issues 1 and 3, Action: Pulse Pounding Tales Vol 1; Atomic Noir: and Fight Card: Against The Ropes. A life-long New Yorker, McCauley is currently working on his next novel.
http://terrencemccauley.blogspot.com/
THE FIXER By Dean Breckenridge
WOLF SAID: “This chair makes my ass hurt. What the hell, Gordy?”
Gordy O’Rourke blew cigar smoke out one side of his mouth and grinned, showing yellow teeth, from across the small corner table.
“That’s the point,” he said. “Make somebody’s bum sore and they leave and let another customer have the table which means I make money. We get guys in here on game nights order one beer and a plate of wings and they sit for four hours watching a game and you know what? I hope their ass is killin’ ‘em the next day because of all that sittin’ cost me maybe $1000 somebody else would have spent who ordered more than one beer and a bunch more food. You can bet those clowns stiff the girls on tips, too.”