Authors: James Patterson,Andrew Gross
For the first time, Nordeshenko felt a cautious sense of optimism. No one was following them. No one was shooting either.
The two vehicles pulled away.
A block away, three police cars sped by, lights flashing. They were going in the opposite direction. Nordeshenko let himself smile. One day they would hold a clinic on this escape.
“Are we free?” a voice from behind asked. Then Dominic Cavello lifted up his head.
“For the moment,” Nordeshenko said. “Now all we have to worry about is getting
off
this island.”
I RAN OUT to the street and stood there—staring helplessly as the black Bronco sped away. There was no way I could stop it. I watched it turn at the corner, melding into traffic, then disappear from sight.
Every muscle in my body seemed to shrink and collapse; I’d never felt more useless in my entire life. Two police cars started after them, having to navigate around some delivery truck blocking the street. But it was too late.
I ran back to the courthouse and flashed my ID at a startled cop, grabbing his radio. “This is Special Agent Nicholas Pellisante of the FBI. Dominic Cavello has escaped from the federal courthouse in Foley Square. He is traveling east on Worth in a black Bronco, unidentifiable plates, headed toward Chinatown. Suspects have fired shots. There are multiple casualties.”
A dead patrolman lay crumpled on the pavement. He looked no older than twenty-five. Stunned pedestrians were rushing out of the courthouse. Most had their hands to their faces. Trying to cover up the shock?
I rushed back through the doors and into the courthouse. EMS techs were already administering to one of the fallen guards. Meachem was there, the captain. He was ashen-faced. Some useless police chatter began to trickle in. I felt the urge to slam the radio up against the wall and watch it shatter.
I didn’t know where to go, except back inside the security office. Special Agent Michael Doud was in there. He was in charge of the FBI’s on-site security team, and he was already playing back video from the bloody scene in the elevator.
“I saw the getaway car,” I told him. “Black Bronco. I couldn’t see the plates. There are two security marshals down out front.”
Doud took a deep breath. “I’ve got the mayor’s office on the line. And the chief of police. There’s an emergency order to block all tunnels and bridges out of Manhattan. Everything’s on the highest crisis alert. They shouldn’t be able to get off the island.”
“Don’t bet on it,” I said, and gritted my teeth.
I sat down and slammed my fist against a nearby table in frustration. All of a sudden I felt a tremendous draining of strength. What the hell? I placed my hand against my ribs. The feeling was slick and warm.
Jesus, Nick.
I was bleeding like a stuck pig.
DOUD’S EYES MET MINE. We both looked down at my blood dripping onto the floor.
“Sonovabitch,” I said. Then I opened my jacket. There was a wide circle of blood seeping through my shirt.
“Get EMS in here, now!” Doud shouted to one of the security men.
“Good idea.” I nodded, sagging back against the wall.
A shout came over the radio. “I think we’ve got a fix on them.” It was the open line to the mayor’s crisis center. A black Bronco had been spotted turning off Tenth Avenue, feeding into the entrance for the Lincoln Tunnel, heading to New Jersey.
“We’ve got the entrance covered,” the voice from the crisis center declared. “Port Authority’s got SWAT in place there.”
Through the phone lines, we were able to patch in a video feed from the crisis center. Above us, one of the monitors began showing a wide sweep from a camera overlooking the tunnel. The black Bronco was about tenth in line. “There it is!” All of a sudden the camera zoomed in tighter. The traffic was funneling into two lanes.
I held my side, but I wasn’t going anywhere right now. I could make out the black Bronco. The same one? It sure looked like it.
“Suspect vehicle has Jersey plates. EVX-three-six-nine,” a voice announced over the radio.
For a second I was caught up like everyone else, just hoping we had managed to land on the right vehicle. Then a thought flashed through my mind. I grabbed a microphone off the table.
“This is Special Agent Pellisante. These people likely have automatic weapons and
explosives.
The car could be booby-trapped. Cavello might not even be in there anymore. The SWAT teams should do their best to isolate the vehicle.”
My wound was history now. I moved closer to the screen and watched the Port Authority team start circling in, surrounding the vehicle from a distance, letting others pass. It was a tricky assault. There were lots of innocent people around. Hundreds of them.
Black, helmeted figures began to creep into the wide-angled camera view. The Bronco was four rows from feeding into the tunnel entrance. I could see the police teams narrowing in, arms drawn. The Bronco’s windows were tinted black. If someone in there was looking out, they had to see the assault force coming.
The Bronco inched up to the first row. A police car suddenly sped up, blocking the entrance to the tunnel.
SWAT personnel were all over the place, crouched low, closing in.
I could see exactly what was happening. The Bronco was surrounded by at least twenty heavily armed policemen.
The Bronco’s front doors swung open. I stepped closer to the screen. “Be him,” I said, balling my fists. “Be him.”
People were coming out of the Bronco, hands in the air. A male dressed all in black. Then a woman, wearing a floppy hat. A small boy. The boy was crying; he grabbed the woman.
“Son of a bitch!” I heard someone say over the radio. The picture didn’t need any words or captions, though.
It was the wrong car.
We’d lost Dominic Cavello.
I STAYED IN THE COURTHOUSE security room until the EMS people wouldn’t let me be there any longer. A couple of young med techs did their best to treat me, but I wasn’t going anywhere until I saw the videotape. The tape of the man in the elevator—the one who had sprung Cavello.
I watched it at least a dozen times.
He was medium height, not especially well built. I couldn’t really tell if he was young or old. I looked for any distinguishing marks. He had a beard, which I figured for a fake. Short dark hair, glasses. But this guy knew precisely what he was doing. He never hesitated, not for a second. He was a pro, not just some hired gun. He caught us off guard, even with New York’s finest and two dozen FBI agents all around the courthouse.
“Can you zoom in on the face for me?” I asked the security tech manning the video machine.
“Right.” A touch of a button, and the camera panned in.
I stood up, moving myself closer to the screen. The film got grainy. It narrowed in to a close-up of the steely, professional eyes as the killer himself stepped on the elevator. Steady and businesslike, efficient. I burned those eyes into my mind. The security tech slowly advanced the film, frame by frame. Suddenly there were gunshots. The two marshals went down.
“Get this over the wires to the NYPD and the crisis control room,” Mike Doud directed the techie. “I want this picture out to every bridge and tunnel and every cop on the street.”
“It’s a waste of time,” I said, sagging back against the table. “He doesn’t look like that anymore.”
Doud snapped at me, obviously frustrated. “You got a better idea?”
“I might. Compare it to the film from Cavello’s
first
trial. Go day by day if you have to. Eliminate the beard and the glasses. I’ll bet he was there.”
The medical people were literally dragging me away now. They had a van waiting. I looked up at the face on the screen one last time. I wanted to make sure I recognized it when I saw him again.
I was sure I was looking at the man who blew up the juror bus and murdered all those people.
WHEN THE CALL CAME IN I was in the back of an EMS van, rushing me to Bellevue Hospital.
I was stripped to my waist and had an IV in my arm and EKG sensors attached to my chest. The sirens were blaring as we zigzagged through traffic up the lower East Side. I asked for the cell phone in my jacket.
“I just heard,” Andie said. Her voice was cracking with disbelief and sadness. “Oh, God, Nick, I just saw it at a coffee shop. It’s all over the news.”
“I’m sorry, Andie.” But I was more than sorry. How many times could I say those words to her?
“Goddamnit, Nick, every cop in New York was down there.”
“I know.” I sucked in a breath. One of the EMS people tried to take away the phone, but I brushed him aside. The flesh wound in my side wasn’t hurting so much now. Nothing cut deeper than the anger and disappointment building inside me.
“The bastard killed my son, and now he’s free.”
“He’s not free,” I said. “We’ll get him. I know how that sounds, but we’ll get him.” The hospital was only blocks away. “
I’ll
get him.”
For a second Andie didn’t answer. I didn’t know if she believed me, and in that moment, I didn’t care.
Because I meant it.
I’ll get him.
I felt as if I might be passing out as I disconnected from Andie with a mumbled “Bye.” The van was stopping at the emergency entrance.
I never even told her that I’d been shot.
RICHARD NORDESHENKO SHIFTED the silver Voyager into the entrance lanes for the George Washington Bridge. The tie-up was massive, and Nordeshenko wasn’t surprised. He scanned the radio news channels—they were already all over the story.
Flashing police lights were everywhere. Every single vehicle was being checked, trunks opened. Trucks and vans were being pulled aside, their cargoes searched. Nordeshenko looked up into the sky. Above him, he heard the
whip-whip-whip
from a police helicopter circling above. This wasn’t good.
They had already changed cars twice. He had removed the beard and eyeglasses he’d worn in the courthouse. There was nothing to worry over, right? Just be calm. Cavello was safely hidden in a hollowed-out compartment under the rear seat. Even if the Bronco had been located by now, what did it matter? Everything was in order. No one could connect him to the vehicle he was driving now.
Unless they found Cavello.
The tall steel towers of the bridge loomed about a quarter mile ahead. Police on foot were making their way back toward their car. It was a typical code-red response. SWAT teams and bomb-sniffing dogs. Well-trained perhaps, but with no practical experience.
“What’s the delay?” the gruff voice said from the back. “How does it look up there? Is everything okay?”
“Relax, you should be honored. This is all for you.”
“It’s cramped in here. And hot. It’s been over an hour already.”
“Not as cramped as the isolation unit of a federal prison, yes? Now be quiet, please. There is one last checkpoint to pass through.”
Two policemen wearing armored vests and carrying automatic rifles were coming up to the Voyager. One of them tapped on the window with the barrel of his gun. “License and registration, please. And open the back.”
Nordeshenko handed the officer his documents, which showed he was a resident of 11 Barrow Street in Bayonne—and that the van was registered to the Lucky George Maintenance Service in Jersey City.
“Any word?” Nordeshenko asked him. “I heard what happened. It’s all over the news.”
The officer checking his documents didn’t answer. The other flung open the hatch to the back and peered in. All that was visible back there was an industrial-sized vacuum cleaner, a rug-cleaning machine, and some cleaning agents in a plastic tray. Still, Nordeshenko held his breath as the policeman poked around.
Nordeshenko had a pistol strapped to his ankle. On a dry run the day before, he had decided what he would do. Take out the officers. Run back against traffic to the other lane, where cars were still moving. Pull a driver out of any vehicle and get out of there. Cavello was on his own.
“What’s that?” one of the policemen barked. He pushed aside the machinery and pried open a compartment.
Nordeshenko nearly reached for his ankle, but didn’t. Not yet. His heart stood still.
Take out both of them. And run.
“There’s supposed to be a spare in here,” the officer said, “by law. What if this old piece of junk breaks down?” He re-covered the compartment.
“You’re right, Officer.” Nordeshenko slowly relaxed. “I will tell it to my boss. I’ll tell him we owe you a free rug cleaning.”
The policeman handed Nordeshenko back his license as the cop in back slammed shut the doors. “You don’t owe me shit,” he said. “Get a spare tire in here, pronto.”
“Consider it done. I hope you catch him,” Nordeshenko said. He raised the window and started to drive away. Minutes later, as he cleared the security area, traffic picked up pace. They crossed over the bridge. As soon as he saw the sign separating New York from New Jersey, his heart started to slow down.
“Congratulations. We’re golden,” he called back. “By this time tomorrow you’ll be out of the country.”
“Good.” Cavello lifted himself out of the compartment. “In the meantime, there’s been a change of plans. There’s something I have to take care of first. A debt I have to pay.”
THEY DROVE WEST to Paterson, New Jersey, on Cavello’s instructions—a tree-lined neighborhood of middle-class homes. Nordeshenko pulled up in front of a modest, pleasant, gray-and-white Victorian. It was April, but a Nativity scene was still there from Christmas, center stage in the small front yard.
“Wait in the car,” Cavello said, tucking the handgun he had taken from Nordeshenko into his belt.
“This isn’t what you’re paying me for,” the Israeli said. “This is the kind of thing that can get us killed.”