It only took seconds for Heat to rush onto the driveway, but by then Kaye had already climbed out the broken windshield. Nikki searched the block and spotted her jogging away with a limp down Fulton Street. Heat knew she could take her down at that distance, but she wouldn’t put bystanders at risk to prove it.
“Pearl Street. I’ve got her,” said Heat, running past Rook as he got out of her Crown Vic.
He called out, “Hey! I stayed with the car!” Rook couldn’t be sure she heard him. Nikki had already rounded the corner. Improvising his own tactics, Rook briefed the rent-a-car manager to tell the backup which way Heat had gone, and then he ran off to take Cliff Street, the road that ran parallel to Nikki’s.
“Vehicles, two minutes away,” said Callan to Heat. “You should be hearing the chopper any second.”
“I’ve lost her,” she said into her cell phone. “How the hell could I have lost her in fifteen seconds?” She gave the DHS agent Salena Kaye’s clothing description and pinpointed her position on Pearl Street, scanning storefronts and nail salons, as she walked and talked. “Just get here. Get here with everything now.” Then she hung up.
Rook knew the neighborhood, and his plan was to follow Cliff until it intersected with John Street, where he would, theoretically, complete a pincer movement and meet up with Nikki in the middle of the block, closing off Kaye’s escape. But before he reached John Street, he glanced inside a deli window and saw her-saw Salena Kaye at the steam table trying to blend in with the crowd.
And Salena saw him clock her. She started reaching inside her jacket.
“Bomb!” shouted Rook as he rushed in. “Everybody out, now!”
Amid the screams of panic and the stampede that jostled Salena Kaye, her draw got slowed enough for him to lunge for her. Rook’s momentum slammed them into the steam table and her Glock came loose, sliding across the linoleum toward the back of the deli.
Rook was more a boxer than a combat fighter, and she easily broke free of his clinch, shoved him onto the floor, and started for her weapon. But as a proud college slacker, Rook possessed a talent more formidable than jujitsu: Frisbee. From a one-kneed kneel, he picked up a plastic dinner plate and executed a perfectly flung scoober that caught Kaye behind the ear. She didn’t go down, but the plate edge stunned her enough to slow her.
She turned in disbelief only to be met by a barrage of salad-bar ice he shoveled at her frantically with both hands. Salena gave him a dismissive look, turned to get her gun, but her feet shot out from under her, slipping on the ice cubes. She landed hard. With no time to run to her, Rook hurled himself on his chest, slid across the floor on a bed of cubes, grabbed her gun, and stood, holding it on her. “Citizen’s arrest,” he said.
Heat appeared, making her way through the crowd outside, and stood in the front doorway. “Hey, Detective,” he said. “Look what I caught.”
As he finished the words, Salena Kaye yanked the legs out from under him by the pant cuffs, and he toppled backward onto the floor. In a flash, she scrambled through the vertical strips of hanging vinyl leading to the kitchen. Once more, Heat couldn’t chance a shot that might take out a cook or a clerk. Slowly, she picked her way through the ice cubes and followed into the kitchen. The back door stood open. Nikki brought her gun up and rolled out into the alley-and found it empty.
Heat sprinted to the end of the passage where it opened onto Pearl Street and looked both ways. She even looked up. How did that happen?
Salena Kaye had simply vanished.
Fulton Street had become a shining river of black vehicles when Heat and Rook walked back to Surety Rent-a-Car. SUVs and sedans with muscular engines and white US government plates filled the block, which had been sealed off. Air support and TV news copters circled overhead. Forensics technicians in coveralls dusted the mangled Nissan and took photos from all angles. More of the same went on one garage level below, with the added feature of the NYPD shooting team down there to rule on Heat’s judgment under fire.
Heat and Rook found Agent Callan sitting in the backseat of his Suburban with the door open and his feet on the outside running boards, talking on a secure sat-phone. The boyish quarterback look seemed to have gained some weathering. He flicked a brow greeting to them, but pulled the door closed to finish his call.
A minute later, he stepped out, pocketing his phone. “Detective Heat, we have just kicked into a new era of heartache.”
Heat shook her head. “How could she have vanished off the sidewalk? I was right behind her. There’s no way she could have disappeared into thin air like that.”
“Yeah, well a bigger whale just hit the fry pan. I’m sure you’ve been kind of busy the last half hour, but have you done any of the math on this?”
“Sure I have,” Nikki said.
“Come on, Callan, we all have.” Rook made a perimeter check to make sure they were out of earshot of press or civilians. “Salena Kaye’s part of a bioterror plot, and she comes to rent a truck.”
“We can all reach the same bottom line on that,” said Heat.
“Well now we have a new figure to add to the equation.” The agent side-nodded to the rental office. “Manager says she wanted to rent an E-350 cargo truck for this weekend.” Nikki felt herself go weak. Rook let out a low whistle. Callan continued, “That’s right. I just briefed the president’s national security advisor that we have a high probability of a bioterror attack in New York City. And it’s as soon as three or four days away.”
THIRTEEN
Special Agent in Charge Callan didn’t make it optional for Heat to join him in the Homeland Situation Room for a meeting of his Bioterror Task Force. He drew her away from Rook and said, “Listen, you will be there. And if there’s some personality conflict between you and Agent Bell-”
“I think you know I’m more professional than that,” she said, interrupting him. “I know what’s at stake, and I would never let personal feelings interfere.” And then, for his benefit, she added, “Personal feelings on any level, about anyone.”
A hint of a smile, the first lightness Nikki had seen in him since his arrival on-scene, creased the corners of his mouth. “Guess we’re all pros here, then.”
“And given the very big clock that’s counting down, I need to put my energy where it can do its best: working the street. Do I have time to button up my loose ends here?”
Callan slid the cuff off his aviator-style watch as he led her back to his Suburban. “I’m jumping on this now, but if you think you can make better use of time in the field, do it. I’ve got people en route from the Pentagon and CDC, and they’ll be joining the meeting in-progress, also.”
Rook heard that and cleared his throat. Nikki said, “He can come, right?”
“I’m her wall. She bounces things off me.” He raised his hand in oath. “And it’s all off the record.”
The agent scrutinized him. “Yes, Mr. Rook can join us, if that means you’ll actually show up, Detective Heat.”
“Oh, we will,” said Rook.
“Parting orders?” said Agent Callan as he got in his vehicle. “Not a word about this. Not just press, Rook.” He addressed them both. “Not to anyone. No mentions to sweethearts, family, friends, anybody. In this era of social media, we don’t want word to spread and start a panic.”
“Right,” said Rook. “Who needs a viral threat to go, well, viral?”
“On second thought, Heat, leave him in the car.” He slammed the door and roared off to Varick Street with the hidden emergency lights strobing in the grill of his SUV.
“You look just like on TV,” said Alan Lew, manager of the Surety Rent-a-Car location. “Nothing like a police officer. You’re beautiful like a model. Or Bond girl.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lew. And thank you for calling in your tip. It was brave and extremely helpful.”