Terry had parked his butt at the outermost table of the seating area, facing the train station doors. From his position the overhead ramp obscured some of his view east, but he could still see the towering Grand Hyatt Hotel, its black tinted windows glistening like wet coal under the bright sunlight. If he craned his neck he could see part of the world famous Chrysler Building, but that would mean taking his eyes off the doors he was watching.
He didn’t care about the sights; he was there for one thing only. Correction: one person only. No way was he going to miss his mark this time. He placed down his beer and fed a hand into his jacket pocket, checking – for the thousandth time – that the six inches of pointed steel was where it should be. He ran his fingers up and down its cold length, feeling again the thrill of anticipation and wondering if this time he’d have the nerve to do it. He’d followed his target through three U.S. cities already, and on each occasion had chickened out at the last second. Not this time, though. This time he was determined to succeed.
He could remember last time he was here. Not at the eatery, but outside Grand Central Terminal. Twenty odd years ago, it was. Back then the place was a shit hole. Vagrants literally lived and slept in the phone booths, and it was a struggle getting inside the hub without losing your billfold to the pickpockets and muggers. Now the place had been gentrified. It had become a “tourist destination” and “must-do mecca” for shoppers. Terry had done a walk through of the station earlier and was surprised to find a proliferation of high-end shops, an entire level given over to eateries on the lower floor, and even an upmarket restaurant called Cipriani Dolci, full to the brim with wealthy looking men and women in business suits eating lobster and other rich crap. He’d gawped at the grandeur of the Main Concourse, recalling how last time he’d been there he’d barely noticed any of the architecture as he’d been scurrying to avoid some young hoods who had targeted him as an out-of-towner. On that occasion, young and frightened and overwhelmed by his unfamiliar surroundings, he’d made it on to one of the Metro-North trains with his hide intact. He’d avoided his hunters in a way he hoped his quarry wouldn’t escape him today.
No. It wasn’t going to happen. This time he wouldn’t fail.
Customers at the table next to his vacated their places. Waiting to be seated were a big, square-bodied Englishman with a GI cut, and judging by her unfamiliar mode of dress, with his wife in tow. They were accompanied by a couple of locals, or Americans at least: a red-haired gal who spoke with the rat-a-tat delivery of a 1940s femme fatale and her more reserved husband who looked like an academic, maybe a high-school teacher or a professor. They were an odd grouping, and Terry gained the impression they had only recently gotten acquainted judging by the exploratory nature of their chatter as they sat at the adjacent table. They were talking books and writing. Terry wasn’t surprised; there was a huge convention of thriller writers taking place in the nearby Hyatt. Terry looked them over, wondering if any of them was famous. He checked out the professor, but was surprised to learn moments later that it was the Brit who was the author, the Americans fans.
Terry squinted at the Brit, trying to make out the name on a lanyard round his thick neck. Never heard of him, but maybe the guy was an up-and-comer. The Brit was soft-spoken, genial, and prone to self-deprecating laughter. But Terry recognized the front: the dude was built like a weightlifter, maybe a fighter gone slightly to seed. Crows feet at the corners of his eyes were the only marks he carried on his face, so Terry suspected he was an accomplished brawler. Terry just bet he was a tough son of a bitch, something that he carried over into his writing. He’d be a good test for Terry. He wondered if he should do him right now, and went as far as feeding his hand into his jacket pocket again and fixing his fingers around the tapering length of steel. It would be good practice. He’d know for sure if he finally had the nerve to get his man: if he could do this Brit in plain sight, in front of all these witnesses, then he’d be able to do his target.
But what if he missed the man he was waiting for, for the sake of this nobody?
He took his hand from his pocket and gripped the neck of his Corona. The bottle was half empty. He took a swig, taking one last glance at the Brit before ignoring him and concentrating on watching the sidewalk outside the terminal. He also ignored the banter and laughter of the group at the next table, zoning it and the street noise out.
There was a gathering of pedestrians on both sides of 42nd Street. Waiting for the lights to change so they could cross. His view was momentarily obscured and he rose out of his chair, watching keenly over the bobbing heads. Traffic drew to a halt and the throngs moved quickly, weaving past each other from both sides of the street. Then the traffic was moving again and one of the open-top tour buses now blocked his view as it crawled toward a scheduled stop. Terry shook his head in disgust, downed the remainder of his beer then tossed dollars on the table. He didn’t add a tip; let the waiter eat the damn pot pie if he was that desperate. He squeezed out past the red-haired gal, without any of the quartet giving him as much as a second’s notice. He backed out of the eating area, craning all the time for fear he missed his target. The bus was now clear, but Terry rushed for the street and leaned on the steel bollards erected to form a walkway between Pershing Square and the busy street. Pedestrians bumped and nudged him as they squeezed by with not even a hint of apology. But why should he be surprised? This was New York, after all.
He knew he dared not cross to the other side. There were hundreds of people on the sidewalk, and there was too much of an opportunity for his target to scoot by unseen while Terry was hemmed in by the crowds. He stayed put, watching keenly for the tall man he’d shadowed all the way from Los Angeles. He was jittery. Nervous as hell, but this was it. This was his chance and he wasn’t going to blow it again.
His breath caught in his chest.
There he was.
The one Terry had followed from L.A. to Dallas to Chicago and finally here to the heart of Manhattan. He knew from his research that his target would be leaving the U.S. this very afternoon for a trip to Europe. If he didn’t get him now, then his chance would be lost.
His target was tall and slim, fair-haired, square-jawed, and kind of distinguished looking, an English public schoolboy now grown to adulthood. He was dressed modestly in a navy blazer over an open neck shirt, jeans and slip-on loafers. Who would guess the nature of the innocuous looking man, who could ever tell he was a master of death and destruction? Who’d have believed that someone like Terry Bishop would have been able to get him right there inside one of the busiest train stations in the world?
Despite being tuned to his surroundings, for spotting anyone creeping up on him, Terry’s target missed the shabby guy in the John Deere ball cap and leather jacket crossing the street. The man paused momentarily outside a Capitol One bank, perhaps considering drawing money from the automatic teller machine for his anticipated journey. He must have decided against it; he was too compromised if he went into the narrow hall where the cash machines were, and could be cornered too easily. He moved on, using the cover of the crowd to remain anonymous. He glanced once at a transit cop standing in a doorway of the station but didn’t as much as notice Terry as he fell into step a few yards back.
Terry’s mouth was dry. The Corona hadn’t helped. His heart was beating, and he was sweating from under his cap. His shirt was also damp beneath his jacket, and it had little to do with the hot spell bleaching the colors from the city. He fed his hands into his jacket pockets. His palms were slick. He couldn’t afford to lose his grip. He had to be firm, strike as soon as he had the opportunity. He scrubbed his palms on the lining of his pockets then took the tapering steel in his right hand.