They were heading right for ground zero.
CHAPTER 56
NEW YORK CITY
Joseph Ruggeri counted himself a fortunate man, despite being in desperate need of a shower and a month’s worth of sleep, and for one simple reason: he was one of the very few cops in the five boroughs with the rest of the day off. The twenty-six-year-old Ruggeri had just come off a twelve-hour desk shift at the precinct on the corner of West Fifty-fourth and Eighth, the home of the Patrol Borough Manhattan South, and was looking forward to a good meal and a warm bed, preferably his girlfriend’s. The bed would have to wait a little bit longer, but he knew where the meal was coming from, as his uncle co-owned the Stage Deli and Restaurant on Fifty-fourth and Seventh.
He had changed into street clothes before leaving the precinct: a white T-shirt under a brown canvas jacket, worn Levis, and running shoes. His service weapon, a Smith & Wesson Model 5946, was holstered on his right hip, but he hardly noticed it; he carried the gun almost everywhere and was used to its comforting weight.
Ruggeri had been on the force for just over four and a half years. Like many men in his age group, he’d felt the need to serve his country following the events of September 11th, 2001, and as with most of his like-minded peers, that meant one of two things: the military or law enforcement. Ruggeri was Brooklyn born and raised; his parents still lived in the same house he’d grown up in, and his six siblings all lived within the five boroughs, except for one sister who’d strayed to Trenton, of all places. Leaving them behind to go to Afghanistan or some other godforsaken place was simply not an option. The idea of crossing the Jersey line filled him with a distinct sense of unease; Afghanistan might as well have been on a different planet. So it was the NYPD, and he’d never regretted it. He enjoyed the work, he loved being able to get a home-cooked meal any day of the week, and he especially loved the nice little jump he had just received on his last paycheck.
He crossed Fifty-fourth heading south, the colorful façade of the Stage Deli coming up on his right. Just as he started to open the door, a distant popping noise caused him to turn left instead.
After twenty-six years in the city and four and a half on the force, he recognized the sound of gunfire instantly. His hand dropped and slipped under his jacket, finding the butt of his weapon, but his eyes were locked on the scene in the near distance. He had a bad angle — no sign of the shooter — but as he watched in disbelief, a white box truck swung hard to the right on Seventh Avenue, then started to tip.
Drawing his weapon, he instantly ran forward, doing his best to cover the next seven blocks in the least time possible. At the same time, his left hand dipped into his jacket and found his cell phone. The precinct was on his speed dial, so he hit the number and kept running hard.
At the intersection of Forty-eighth and Seventh, Kealey was firing as fast as he could into the windshield of the Isuzu, which was still moving toward him. He saw his first shot crater the glass just left of the driver’s head, then adjusted the next three and saw the intended effect. The driver seemed to jerk spasmodically behind the wheel, inadvertently pulling it hard to the right. He fired another three shots as the truck veered sharply toward him. He dived out of the way but wasn’t quite fast enough; the grill caught his left ankle, spinning him around in midair, and he hit the pavement hard, ending up in the next lane. A southbound Lincoln Navigator screeched to a halt, tires smoking, the front wheel less than 3 feet from his head. He had no time to consider this further; behind him, he heard a strange, anticipatory silence, then a loud crunch, glass shattering, the scream of metal sliding across the road.
He got to his feet, ignoring the crushing pain in his ankle, and turned to see something that chilled his blood: the truck was on its side, sliding across the pavement, throwing up a shower of sparks. Kealey felt everything stop inside his head. He waited for the bright flash, knowing it would be the last thing he’d see in his life, but it never came. As the truck finally came to a halt, everything started to move again, like a tape coming out of slow motion. People were screaming, running north and south on Seventh, and he was aware of distant sirens. But the cops wouldn’t get there in time, and he had to be sure.
Kealey ran forward, his ankle delivering shivers of pain with every step. His attention was completely focused on the roof of the cab, which was facing back toward the Renaissance Hotel.
He lifted the Beretta again, silently adding up the shots in his head. He knew he’d fired at least seven, which left him with more than enough to make sure the driver was dead. Just as he was about to fire through the roof, though, he felt someone hit him hard from behind. His lower back arched painfully, his head whipping back as he pitched forward onto the pavement, the gun coming loose. The crushing blow nearly left him unconscious, and his back felt as if it had snapped in half. He did his best to sit up, trying to figure out what had happened.
Looking back, he half expected to see Will Vanderveen, but it was just some guy he’d never seen before, a heavyset man with a thick beard and a look of determination on his face. He wasn’t a cop, Kealey knew, or he would have said something to that effect. And then it hit him; his assailant was just a bystander who didn’t know any better. Kealey briefly considered explaining it to him, but there wasn’t time. Instead, he simply slammed a fist into the man’s throat. The bearded man rolled away instantly, his hands shooting up to his throat, a strangled noise coming out of his mouth. Kealey turned painfully back to the truck and reached for his Beretta.
In the driver’s seat, Amir Nazeri was hanging on to life by a thread. One of Kealey’s bullets had creased the left side of his skull; another had torn into his chest, just beneath his clavicle; and a third had pierced his face, penetrating the right lateral nasal wall before angling up through his left eye, coming to rest in the orbit. Strangely enough, the pain wasn’t that bad, and he had the strength, in his final moments, to tear the M60 fuse igniter free from the right side of his seat.
He’d been wearing his seat belt when the vehicle tipped over, and his body was now dangling to the right, toward the shattered passenger-side window and the pavement. With tremendous effort, he managed to bring his left arm around — it didn’t seem to be working correctly at all —and get one of his fingers inside the pull ring. As he prepared to carry out his final task, he thought of his dead cousin and smiled.
It was the last act of his life.
At that precise moment, Kealey fired six more shots through the roof of the cab. All six found their target, though it was the second that killed Nazeri as it tore through the top of his skull, penetrating his brain and coming to rest in his cervical column. Kealey instantly moved round to the front of the vehicle and crouched, gun up, aiming through the shattered windshield. He could see that the driver was dead, and his thoughts turned instantly to defusing the bomb; until he got inside, he couldn’t be sure if it was on a timer or if Vanderveen had rigged up an electrical firing system.
Before he could act, though, he was aware of a voice carrying high over those of the frantic onlookers. He looked up, breathing hard, and saw something that turned his spine to ice. Another vehicle — a red Mercury Sable — was parked directly next to his stolen Crown Vic, about 50
feet north of his current position. A man who looked vaguely familiar was standing next to the open driver’s door, his left arm wrapped around Naomi Kharmai’s throat. Vanderveen looked different, but Kealey instantly made the connection, looking for the man’s right hand. He couldn’t see it.