They started down the hall. Cain’s senses were acute. He was aware of sights and sounds and smells he normally would have ignored. Later, as always, he’d be able to describe-in detail-exactly how the job went down.
They stopped at the door at the end of the hall. Cain withdrew his gun, took a step back. There was a silence while he and his men stood looking at one another. Then Cain nodded at the taller of the two men and winced as the door was kicked open.
They rushed inside, ready for anything.
But the room was empty.
Incredulous, Cain stood in the middle of the small living space. As the driving beat of the hard rock music enveloped him, he saw on a side table the sack of groceries Archer had with him on the street and knew that he’d been here.
He looked around the room. How did Archer leave when all three exits were covered? Was he still in here, hiding?
Cain threw open a closet door, shoved aside a rack of clothes. Nothing. His gaze swept the room. Boxes filled with Archer’s belongings cluttered a floor that was scarred with a million heel marks. Sunlight from an open window played across a bed that had been slept in. A pair of torn, faded curtains moved in the breeze.
And then Cain knew. Knew.
He went to the window and looked out. Archer was hurrying down the fire escape, rapidly approaching street-level, his footsteps deadened by the music thundering from the hallway.
Somehow, he had seen them. Cain raised his gun, had an impulse to shoot, but stilled it. There were too many people on the street. He would have to take Archer another way.
He fled the apartment with his men.
The streets were thronged with people. Michael pushed his way through them, shot through traffic, got nudged in the hip by a moving car and kept running. Not once did he look behind him until he reached the corner of East Houston. And there they were, closing in, hands in outsized pockets, unseen weapons gripped-just as he had feared.
He ran faster.
Since his dog's death, he had taken precautions. He knew his father was correct. No matter what Santiago promised, the man couldn’t be trusted. And so, whether leaving his apartment-or returning to it-Michael always found an excuse to stop and glance around.
Today, the excuse was saying hello to the elderly woman with the rusty shopping cart. If he hadn’t stopped to say hello to her, he never would have seen the three men watching him from the Mercedes. And if he hadn’t rushed up the steps to his apartment and looked out his only window, he wouldn’t have seen those men leaving the Mercedes to cross the street.
He turned up First Avenue, looked over his shoulder. The men were still there, closer than before, threading their way through the crowds on the sidewalk. Michael knew that as long as they kept him in sight, they could force him to keep running blindly, not knowing which street or alley he took might lead to a dead end where he could no longer run.
He felt a sudden, overwhelming sense of rage. They had killed his dog. Did they think they could kill him, too? Right here in the open?
And then he thought of the woman who was shot dead outside his apartment. Of course they could kill him here. In these crowds, they could fire three or four muted gunshots at close range and escape in the resulting chaos.
He was moving faster, his mind racing. Why were they here? He still had a week to come up with the money. He didn’t think they wanted to kill him, but he was certain they wanted to hurt him.
He was running so quickly now, the people on the street gave him looks ranging from annoyance to indifference to surprise and even a sense of fear. Lower First Avenue was a mecca of stores and shops. If he could somehow slip unnoticed into one of the shops, he could wait a few minutes and then leave for a place where he knew he would be reasonably safe-Leana Redman’s apartment.
But he cast it idea aside. The moment they couldn’t see him was the moment they'd start searching each shop for him.
The men were fifty feet behind him. Desperation rose in him. Michael’s legs were beginning to cramp. He bumped into a woman stepping out of a Laundromat and sent her clean clothes flying-a rainbow of color was tossed into the air. He stumbled, righted himself and began wondering if this was worth it. Why run? he thought. Sooner or later, they’ll find me.
But he wouldn’t give up.
An intersection was approaching. The light was red and cars were racing by. He couldn’t cross. He looked left, then right…and was surprised to see a van rounding the corner and screeching to a stop in front of him.
Car horns blared and there was the sudden stench of burnt rubber in the air. Then the van’s passenger door shot open. Michael recognized the driver instantly.
“Get in!” Vincent Spocatti shouted.
Michael did as he was told and the van shot forward
He tried to catch his breath. The muscles in his legs and lower back ached. He looked at Spocatti, saw him glancing in the rearview mirror, saw the determined set of his jaw and knew it wasn’t over.
“They’re following us, aren’t they?”
Spocatti didn’t answer. He jerked the van to the left.
Michael looked out the rear window. A cab was following them at a dangerously close distance. He turned back to Spocatti. “Can you lose them?”
“The driver probably has a gun to his head. Shut up and let me concentrate.”
“Just one question.”
Spocatti gritted his teeth.
“You were following me. You must have been. Why?”
“Your father told me to.”
“Why?”
“That’s two questions,” Spocatti said. “If you ask one more, I’m throwing your ass out of here.”
They hurtled across 21st Street. Traffic was dangerously light.
Michael looked out the rear window, saw the cab trying to pull alongside them and was about to speak when Spocatti spun the wheel to the right. There was a sudden scraping of metal against metal, the blaring of a car horn and the cab was behind them again, front end dented.
Tires screaming, they turned onto Second Avenue. Although traffic was heavier here, the cab was able to pull alongside them. Michael looked down at the cab. At the same moment he saw a glint of steel from the cab’s rear side window, Spocatti darted right, busted a red light and swung onto 19th Street, leaving a traffic cop blowing her whistle.
The cab followed.
“We’re not going to lose them,” Spocatti said. “The driver is too skilled. To stay alive, he’ll do anything those men tell him to do. I won’t be able to lose them unless you listen very closely to me and do exactly as I say.”
Michael was surprised by how calm Spocatti sounded-how measured and precise his words were. “What do you want me to do?”
Vincent told him what he wanted him to do.
Michael told him he’d be shot.
“No, you won’t. If those men wanted you dead, they would have killed you earlier. Now, move.”
Michael moved to the back of the van, pushing his way through a sea of large cardboard boxes. He looked out the front window. They were rapidly approaching Third Avenue. Traffic was backed up 19th Street and the light at the end was red. If it didn’t turn green soon, there would be no escape-no matter how well Spocatti drove, no matter how well Michael did as he was told.
Michael braced himself by gripping a rusty steel rod bolted to the metal wall behind him. He waited, adrenaline pumping. Never in his life had he been filled with so much hatred or fear-hate for his father, hate for Santiago, hate for these men chasing them, fear for his life.
He remembered his dog’s brutal death and the fear turned to rage.
The light at the end of the street turned green, traffic lurched forward and Spocatti said, “Do it now, Michael.”