Still, I push it for all it’s worth, turning off the side street and heading uptown. Sixth Avenue, just like every other major throughway in Manhattan during rush hour, is clogged with cars. I weave in and out of as many as I can, keeping my focus on the street ahead while also glancing back over my shoulder every couple of seconds to check how far back the sedan is.
It’s about a block back, which isn’t too bad, but it’s gaining quickly, helped by the fact that it’s a fucking undercover police car-those hidden strobes flashing in the headlights and on the dash. Whether or not the driver inside is really a cop is beside the point. It’s one thing to flee from some crazy asshole-that can bring sympathy-but it’s an entirely different thing when it appears you’re running from the police.
Most of the cars behind me make a path for the sedan, but there are still other cars, mostly taxis, jostling for position. I have to keep my main focus on the street up ahead, because any false move could kill me. I’ve been doored a bunch of times, and it fucking hurts, but being doored is nothing compared to getting hit by a car or, worse, bus. I’ve gotten hit before, but the car wasn’t going more than twenty miles per hour, and I saw it coming and tried to swerve out of the way. It’s when you don’t see it coming, when God snaps his celestial fingers and out of nowhere a ton of metal smashes into you, that you have to worry about. Oh, and the crazy assholes acting like cops chasing you down because they want to kill you. Can’t forget those.
I lead the sedan up one block, up another. At one point I’m forced to hop up onto the sidewalk, and as you can imagine, that doesn’t go over well with the business people and tourists and general city dwellers. People shout, curse, one even throws his bottle of water at me. I’m half tempted to try to grab it, because I’m dying of thirst, but instead I push myself toward the corner, hesitating because of the large group waiting for the light to change, and then I head east toward Seventh Avenue.
Seventh Avenue, you see, is a one-way street running south. Which means it’s going to be next to impossible for the asshole to keep up with me, even with his flashing lights. It also means there’s more chance of me running straight into one of those speeding tons of metal I mentioned, but there’s only so much you can worry about at any given moment.
Fortunately, I’ve got three lanes to work with, so I’m not too overly concerned. I just try to stay focused. I try not to think about how less than an hour ago I was minding my own business at the bookstore, paging through a book on Aztec and Mayan culture, while the Duke Ellington record spun and spun. I try not to think about how someone threatened to kill me. I try not to think about how my father is somehow still alive, despite the fact he had supposedly blown his brains out last week. I also try not to think about how there are people who are trying to kill my father, not to mention, well, me. But actually, no, I do have to think about those things, because otherwise what’s the point in running?
The majority of the drivers headed my way think I’m an idiot. At least, that’s the impression I get from all the horns blasting the air. I check back over my shoulder, see that the sedan’s driver is crazier than I thought. He’s right behind me, still about a block back, his lights still flashing, swerving from one lane to another to avoid the oncoming traffic.
I go up one more block and then take a left onto Bleecker, which is another one-way street. It’s also only one lane, which means this fucker doesn’t stand a chance.
That doesn’t mean he doesn’t try. He does-taking the corner hard enough that I can hear his tires squealing-but the cars here don’t have much room. I hop onto the sidewalk and pedal as hard as I can. I reach the next block up when I hear the sudden and deafening smack of metal rending metal.
I pause just long enough to check back over my shoulder.
The sedan, half up on the curb, lost to the front end of a UPS truck.
I don’t stick around to see what happens next. I turn the corner and ride up two more blocks, then over one block, then up another block. I keep in mind that there are traffic cameras everywhere. Whoever these people are, they seem to have a lot of power, the kind that can easily tap into these cameras to find my location.
Conscious of this, I duck into the nearest alleyway. I ditch the bike behind a dumpster. I feel bad doing it-I know just how much my bike means to me, especially as it’s part of my job-but there’s no way I’ll be able to return it to the delivery guy.
There’s a door propped open back here. It leads into the kitchen of some restaurant. I walk inside like I’m supposed to be there. A few of the workers give me a look. Only one stops me, a big guy who is clearly the chef.
“Who are you?”
“New busboy.”
“I didn’t hear about any new busboy.”
“I just got hired yesterday.”
The chef’s eye twitches as he frowns. “That’s what you’re wearing?”
“I have work clothes in my locker.”
“We don’t have lockers.”
“You know what,” I say, hurrying toward the front, “I don’t think I want the job anymore.”
Pushing through the kitchen door, I enter the dining room. It’s mostly packed. Servers hustle here and there. I hurry toward the front, pulling my cell phone from my pocket. I dial Duncan’s number. It rings and rings, and as I step outside, I realize he’s dead. The people who are doing this entered the apartment while he was stoned or playing video games or stoned playing video games, and they’ve murdered him. All because he happened to be associated with me. And it isn’t even like we’re friends.
But then he answers.
“Yo, man, what’s up? Some people stopped by here earlier-I think they were reporters. The chick was really hot. They find you?”
I pause, looking up and down the street, not sure what I’m looking for. “Yes, they did. What are you up to now?”
“Not much. Just sitting here vegging.”
I look toward the sky. Could these people have satellites watching me? Drones? Invisible cloud spying machines?
“John”-Duncan’s voice goes all at once serious-“you okay, man? You, like, never call me about anything.”
I take a deep breath. The last thing I want to do is drag Duncan into this, but right now I don’t have much choice. I just have to hope that wherever Eli and Ashley are, they’re safe.
Then I realize something: my phone. These people could be tracking me via my cell phone. Or at the very least they could be listening in. Which means I need to dump this thing as soon as possible. Which also means I’ll need to be vague with Duncan and hope he figures it out.
“Duncan, I need your help.”
twenty-eight
They had gone only two blocks when he asked, “Do you have any cash?”
The question gave Ashley pause. First, after everything that just happened, this man was asking her for money? Second, she realized she didn’t have her purse. When she had lost it, she wasn’t sure-probably when running through the fire, though that was just a guess-but without her purse, it meant she didn’t have her cell phone or her wallet or anything.
“Well?” he prompted, and she gave him a blank look, not sure what to say, all at once feeling small and cold and alone. Her body was still shaking, though not as much as before. It was the after effect, she figured, that buzz you get right after you almost die. She remembered feeling something quite similar after almost walking in front of a bus, too focused on her phone conversation to pay attention. If someone hadn’t pulled her out of the way, she would have been flattened. She’d felt that buzz for at least an hour afterward.
Melissa’s father stared at her for several long seconds, then turned away and continued up the block. They were on the sidewalk, several blocks away from the coffee shop. So far, nobody had followed them-at least, Ashley didn’t think so. She had to keep reminding herself she was way out of her element here; she was an entertainment reporter-a gossip columnist, essentially-not a … what exactly was this?