In ten minutes she was out the door, take-out food in one hand, and playing the cooperative target: walking straight into the cul-de-sac.
She paused at the entrance, looking into the bag, apparently making sure the restaurant had included the extra rice or fortune cookies or chopsticks. Still fiddling with the bag, she continued toward Rhyme’s town house.
Swann eased his car back into the street but had to brake fast, as a bicyclist sped in front of him and stopped, debating for some reason whether to turn around or continue on to Central Park. Swann was angry but didn’t want to draw attention by honking. He waited, face flushed.
The biker headed on — opting for the beautiful green of a spring park — and Swann punched the accelerator to get to the cul-de-sac fast. But the delay had cost him. Walking quickly, Sachs had reached the end of the L-shaped passage and disappeared to the left, toward the back of the town house.
Not a problem. Better actually. He’d park, follow her in and shoot her as she approached the door. The geometry of the cul-de-sac there would mute the gunshots and send the sounds in a hundred different directions. Whoever heard would have no idea where they came from.
He looked around. No cops. Little traffic. A few oblivious passersby, lost in their own worlds.
Swann pulled the car into the mouth of the cul-de-sac, put the transmission in park and stepped out. With the gun drawn, but hidden under his windbreaker, he started over the cobblestones.
He recited to himself: two shots, low in her back, one toward the knee. Although he vastly preferred his knife he was a good marksman. He’d have to—
A voice behind him, a woman’s: “Excuse me. Could you help me?” British accent.
It belonged to a slim, attractive jogger in her early thirties. She stood about eight feet away, between him and the open driver’s door of his car.
“I’m from out of town. I’m trying to find the reservoir. There’s a running path…”
And then she saw it.
His windbreaker had eased away from his body. She saw the gun.
“Oh, God. Look, don’t hurt me. I didn’t see anything! I swear.”
She started to turn but Swann moved fast; he was in front of her in an instant. She took a breath to scream but he struck her in the throat, his open-handed blow. She dropped hard to the concrete, out of sight of a couple across the street, arguing about something.
Swann glanced back up the dim canyon between the nearby buildings. Would Sachs be inside by now?
Maybe not. He didn’t know how far the L of the cul-de-sac extended behind Rhyme’s.
But he had only a matter of seconds to decide. He glanced down at the woman, gasping for breath, just the way Annette had in the Bahamas and Lydia Foster had here.
Uhn, uhn, uhn. Hands to her neck, eyes wide, mouth open.
Yes or no? He debated.
Choose now.
He decided: Yes.
CHAPTER 53
Amelia Sachs stood in the cul-de-sac behind the town house, Glock drawn, aimed toward where the dim canyon made a right turn and eventually joined the crosstown street.
The Chinese takeout she’d ordered was sitting on the cobblestones and she was in a combat shooting stance: feet planted parallel, toes pointed at your enemy, leaning forward slightly with gun hand gripping hard, other hand cradling the trigger guard for stability. Your dominant arm stiff; if the muscles aren’t taut the recoil might not eject the spent shell and chamber another. A jam can mean death. You and your gun have to be partners.
Come on, Sachs thought to her adversary. Come on, present! This was, of course, Unsub 516. She knew it wasn’t Barry Shales, the sniper; he was still under surveillance by Lon Sellitto’s team.
Several times today she’d noticed a light-colored sedan — first, near Henry Cross’s office building on Chambers Street. Then on the drive here and again fifteen minutes ago. She hadn’t seen the car clearly but it was likely the same one that had been following her from Tash Farada’s house in Queens.
Noting the car pull into a space at the end of the block, she’d debated how to handle it. To call Central Dispatch or to approach him by herself on the street might have precipitated a firefight, a bad idea in this densely populated area.
So she’d decided to take him in the cul-de-sac. She’d bought the Chinese takeout to give him a chance to spot her. Before leaving, she’d slipped her weapon into the bag. Then she’d started across the street, careful not to present a target, and into the cul-de-sac, apparently focusing on her order but actually sensing from her periphery when the man would make his move.
She’d hurried to the bend in the cul-de-sac, aware that the car was approaching then stopping. At that point she’d turned, dropped the food and gripped her weapon.
Now she was waiting for the target to present.
Would he drive farther in? Probably not. Too easy to get blocked in, if a delivery or moving truck showed up.
Was he out of the car and moving fast toward her?
Palms dry, both eyes open — you never squint when you shoot. And you focus on two things only: your target and the front sight of your weapon. Forget the blade sight at the back of the receiver. You can’t bring everything into definition.
Come on!
Breathing steadily.
Where was he? Prowling forward, about to leap around the corner and drop into his own shooting stance?
Or what if he’d anticipated she was on to him? He might have grabbed a passerby to shove into the cul-de-sac as a distraction. Or use him or her as a shield, hoping that Sachs would react and shoot the innocent.
Inhale, exhale, inhale…
Did she hear a voice? A soft cry?
What was that? Easing forward, Sachs crept toward the other leg of the L. Paused, flattened against the brick.
Where the hell was he? Was his weapon up too, pointed at exactly the spot where she’d appear if she stepped forward?
Okay, go. Just go low and get ready to shoot. Watch your backdrop.
One…two…
Now!
Sachs leapt into the main part of the cul-de-sac, gun up, and dropped into a crouch.
Which is when her left knee gave out completely.
Before she got a clear look at where the unsub might be waiting for her, she tumbled sideways onto the cobblestones, managing to lift her finger off the trigger before she pulled off a random round or two. Amelia Sachs rolled once and lay stunned, a perfect target.
Even her vision had deserted her. Tears from the pain.
But she forced herself to ignore the agony and scrabbled into a prone position, gun muzzle aimed down the cul-de-sac, where Unsub 516 would be coming for her. Aiming at her. Sending hollow-point bullets into her.
Except that he wasn’t.
She blinked the moisture from her eyes, then wiped them fiercely with her sleeve.
Empty. The cul-de-sac was empty. Five sixteen was gone.
Struggling to her feet, she holstered her weapon and massaged her knee. She limped to the street and conducted a canvass of those on the sidewalk. But no one had paid any attention to light-colored cars, no one had seen a compact man with brown hair and military bearing acting strangely, no one had seen any weapons.
Standing with hands on hips, looking west then east. All was peaceful, all was normal. A typical day on the Upper West Side.
Sachs returned to the cul-de-sac, fighting the limp. Man, that hurt. She collected the Chinese and tossed it into a Dumpster.
In New York City alleyways the five-second rule about dropped food does not apply.