Chavez and Clark’s Acela Express beat the Northeast Regional train to Penn Station in Manhattan by twenty minutes. The rabbits stopped to eat some cheesecake at Junior’s off Times Square, then led the team on a merry walk around Central Park, then back to Midtown before boarding the N train to Canal Street.
“Are you running countersurveillance?” Clark asked.
“Nope,” Chavez said.
Chavez was no slouch when it came to his tactical background. He had eons of experience in the Army, as a protective officer in the CIA, and a team leader of the multinational Rainbow counterterrorism unit. He’d been there and done that all over the world. He had the T-shirt and the scars to prove it. But Clark was a legend in the intelligence community, which was saying something in a business where anonymity was the rule of the day. A former Navy SEAL and longtime operator for the CIA, the details of Clark’s past were fuzzy, if not altogether redacted. Few in the business knew exactly what he’d done, but they knew he’d done it. A lot of it. And knowing that was enough.
Since Clark also happened to be Ding’s father-in-law, this added a nuanced layer of stress — and trust — to every operation. They’d worked together long before Ding had met Patsy. John must have approved of the union, because Chavez was still standing upright. He and his father-in-law had gone on to spill blood and have plenty of their own blood spilt.
Clark glanced at his watch — a Victorinox analog, plain but hell for stout. Chavez took another drink of bubble tea. Funny how the boss looking at his watch could make even the most even-keeled person squirm. As assistant director of ops, Chavez was running point on more and more missions, allowing Clark to stand back and quietly observe — while he drank coffee and looked at his watch.
“Something bothering you, Mr. C?” Chavez asked.
It wasn’t like Clark to fidget. They’d been together all morning and Clark had just now suffered a tiny crack in his stony composure.
“I’m good,” he said, giving the slightest of shrugs as he aimed his thousand-yard stare down East Broadway. Chavez was surprised one of the passersby didn’t catch fire. “Just thinking.”
Midas spoke again, more urgently this time. “Guys, no kidding, white male just popped out from Mott on Canal behind the Asian couple. He’s juking back and forth, but moving after them with real intent.”
“I see him,” Ryan said.
“You’re serious?” Caruso said.
Odd, Chavez thought, that Dom would question intel from another member of the team.
“Dead serious,” Midas said. “This guy’s wearing a light jacket, khaki slacks. He moves like a cop. I think I caught a glimpse of handcuffs on his belt.”
Ding stood up straighter now.
“Our rabbits are crossing Canal,” Adara said. “Heading south on Elizabeth.”
“Okay,” Midas said. “The Asians and Khaki Slacks are continuing east. I don’t see any other coppers. I’m guessing this guy is off duty.”
“Or some kind of hit,” Jack Junior offered. “No kidding.”
“Out of role, Ding,” Adara said. “Out of role.”
Ding reached in his pocket and flipped the isolation switch on his radio so everyone could hear him. “Abort the scenario,” he said. “I say again, abort scenario. Keep your distance, but hang with the lone dude in khakis just in case. Who has eyes on the two white males you spotted? They are not mine.”
“Forget them,” Adara said. “Those two are a nonissue. A little game in order to win, Boss. We’ll explain later.”
“Yes, you will,” Chavez said. “Confirming, no one else in play besides two Asians and Khaki Pants.”
“That is correct,” Adara said.
Chavez bit back the urge to chide her. Instead, he coordinated team movement while Clark called Lanny’s cell and got the rabbits on the common frequency so they’d be in the loop.
“Everybody stay loose,” Ding said. “We don’t want to step in the middle of another agency’s op.”
Midas piped up. “Asian couple turning right on Bowery.”
“Okay,” Ding said. “Lanny and Dave, keep going south on Elizabeth. Midas, how about Khaki Pants?”
“Approaching Bayard,” Midas said. “He’s locked on. If he had a team, somebody else would be taking over the eyeball about now. I’m thinking he’s alone.” There was a pause, like Midas was trying to get a better look at something. “The Asian male has a pistol in his waistband.”
“John and I are coming off the bridge,” Ding said, picturing the map in his head as he ran. “We’ll cut behind Confucius Plaza to stay ahead of you. Dom, hang a left at your next cross street. Hustle over to Canal so you guys can leapfrog with Midas if need be.”
“Adara and I are east on Bayard,” Dom said.
Jack Junior spoke next. “Coming down Bowery—”
The radio bonked, meaning two people attempted to speak at the same moment, leaving both transmissions garbled.
Dom came over the net, breathless.
“I know this guy,” he said. The jostling in his voice suggested he was jogging. “He’s FBI. His name’s Nick Sutton.”
“The Asian couple just turned right,” Midas said. “The next street past Bayard. Sutton’s still on them. I’ve lost the eye.”
“I’ll move closer,” Dom said. “See if I can catch his attention—”
The radio fell silent. Seconds later, Dom came back, breathless, running.
“Man… down,” he said.
3
Caruso swept aside the tail of his jacket to draw his Glock. His eyes were up, scanning. Nick Sutton lay slumped in the grimy concrete stairwell leading below street level next to the entrance of a nail salon. The steel door to the basement behind him was closed, forming a concrete pit at the bottom of the steps. It would have been an easy matter to hide and ambush the agent when he came by. Caruso had heard no shots. The half-dozen pedestrians coming and going down Doyers either hadn’t seen anything or had simply ignored what they saw.
“It’s Dom,” Caruso said, stepping around Sutton in the cramped space and trying the door while Adara assessed the agent’s wounds. “We’re here for you, bud.” He wanted to drop to his knees and help, but neither he nor Adara would be any help if they got shot.