The Assassin (65 page)

After Ryan disconnected the call, Vanderveen had thrown the phone onto the floor by her feet. Then he had lapsed into a barrage of biting profanity. She didn’t dare to look at him, afraid of drawing his wrath. She was intensely aware of the Glock 19 in his left hand, which was resting in his lap and pointed toward her. She had briefly considered throwing open the door and diving out, but she knew she would never get clear in time. At that angle, the bullet would tear right through her abdomen, leaving her with a wound that would almost certainly prove fatal, but only after an hour or so of excruciating pain.

Far more terrifying than the gun, however, was the knife he’d dropped into his pocket before pushing her out of the warehouse and into the car. It was the same knife he’d threatened her with earlier, and judging by what he’d said to Ryan over the phone, he was anxious to use it. She couldn’t stop thinking about that shiny hooked blade, but the gun was right there, clearly visible, and she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to fire. By the time they crossed West Forty-second Street, she’d decided the best thing to do was to sit still and wait for an opportunity.

As her mind raced to find one, though, Vanderveen turned the wheel hard to the right. She looked up to see a sign that said WEST 48TH STREET, and she suddenly realized where they were going. The Renaissance Hotel at Forty-Eighth and Seventh.

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.

“Let her go!” he screamed, bringing the Beretta to bear. The other man was ducking behind her, giving him nothing to work with. Through the adrenaline, his mind did a quick assessment and gave him the bad news. He had one round left in the chamber, maybe another in the magazine.

Two rounds. Maybe.

“Set it off!” Vanderveen shouted back. Kealey watched with horror as the other man’s right hand came up out of nowhere, holding a knife. He flashed on Katie Donovan’s death involuntarily, his mind caught up in a whirl of terrible images, past and present. “There’s an M60 in the cab, Ryan. Set it off and make it painless for everyone. Otherwise, you watch her die, and I don’t have to tell you what that’s like.”

Vanderveen moved the knife up and touched the hooked, 3½-inch blade to Naomi’s right cheek. She was clearly terrified, but Kealey tried not to look at her face, knowing it would only distract him. He was entirely focused on finding a shot, but the other man was crouched behind her, making himself an impossible target. If Kealey pulled the trigger, he would almost certainly hit Naomi instead. He moved forward, his feet crunching over shattered glass, his broken ankle forgotten entirely.

“Stop there!” Vanderveen shouted, using the knife to make his point. Naomi cried out, and a tiny point of red appeared on her cheek. Kealey stopped instantly, his stomach dropping, his heart lurching.

“Okay, okay! Jesus, just… let her go. Let her go, you bastard!
Let her fucking go!
”

“You’re panicking,” Vanderveen shouted back. “That’s not a good sign, Ryan. I’ll tell you what… Forget the bomb. Just kill yourself. Take your own life and save hers. Put the gun to your head and pull the trigger, you fuck.
Do it! Do it or she dies!
”

“You’ll kill her anyway.” Kealey was desperate, frantic; there was no way to stop what was going to happen. He couldn’t believe he was in this position again. He had a gun; he had to take the shot, but Vanderveen was giving him nothing. He could aim for the left arm around her throat, but unless he was incredibly lucky, the bullet would not strike bone but would pass through and into her body. He just couldn’t take the risk.

Where were the cops? Why wasn’t anyone moving in? It seemed as though someone in a better position should have tried to defuse the situation. But even as he thought it, he could see men edging in from behind, trying to approach unseen. He did his best not to look at them, but Vanderveen seemed to sense their attention anyway.

“Back! Get back or I cut her throat! You want that on your conscience?”

Vanderveen’s would-be assailants retreated immediately, raising their hands. Kealey had been ready for them; he was sure the distraction would cause Vanderveen to turn, thereby giving him a shot, but it hadn’t happened. The other man seemed to be in perfect control, despite the fact that he was trapped in a busy intersection with police on the way and Kealey waiting for his slightest mistake. He didn’t appear to be fazed at all by the hopeless nature of his situation; in a matter of minutes, he would either be dead or in handcuffs. In truth, though, only one of those was a real possibility. Kealey tightened his finger on the trigger, waiting for Vanderveen to make his final mistake.

Vanderveen was doing his best to keep behind the woman, knowing that Kealey wouldn’t need much of a target. For a split second, he marveled at his own actions, amazed at the fatalistic nature of the choice he’d made in the car. He had raced into this situation knowing there was almost no possibility of escape, yet he didn’t regret it at all. It seemed right that it should come down to this: the two of them face-to-face in Midtown Manhattan. He still had the gun in his pocket and knew he should have used it right from the start. The knife had proved irresistible, though. What better way to remind Ryan of what he had lost? And what better way to set the stage for a loss even more profound, more horrific than the one he had suffered before?

Every fiber of his being was sparked into life by this incredible showdown; he had never felt more alive, more powerful. More
elemental
. But at the same time, he was suffused by a bitter, blinding rage. Kealey had stopped him yet again, ruining what should have been his crowning achievement. His hatred of the other man could not be more intense if it had been instilled from birth, and it was the main reason he’d driven to the hotel instead of just killing the woman and leaving the city. It wasn’t enough to take her life. He wanted,
needed
Kealey to see it happen.

Vanderveen pressed his face into the nape of Kharmai’s neck and breathed deeply, catching the mingled scents of vanilla, sweat, and fear. An unusual combination, but not unpleasant… at least not to him. Carefully, using her hair to conceal as much of his face as possible, he raised his lips to her ear and said, “Naomi, are you ready to die?”

She didn’t respond; she didn’t even moan. In that strange moment, he was intensely proud of her. He pulled her even tighter, letting his lips touch the lobe of her ear. He was aware of her heart thudding, her body shaking, her breath coming in short, quick spurts. And yet, despite her obvious terror, she didn’t scream… She didn’t even whimper.