For Everything a Reason Page 23

  Carter watched as Joseph disappeared into the steady throng of people. Eventually, even Joseph’s tall figure was taken by the bustling crowd. The detective clicked on his two-way radio. It came to life with a sharp crackle.

  “Tyler – this is Carter, you copy?”

  A metallic voice came through the static. “Yeah – reading you loud and clear. Over.”

  “Good. He’s coming your way. Over.”

  A short pause followed. Then, “I’ve got him in sight. Nobody’s making a move on him yet. Over.”

  “Stay frosty. Over.”

  “Copy that. Over.”

  Carter dropped the radio into his inside pocket. He turned the sound up higher and listened to the unsettling chatter that filled the airwaves with white noise.

  Now, all he could do was wait.

  ***

  Joseph entered the busy terminal. His eyes turned to the large clock that hung from the arched ceiling.

  8:49AM.

  His heart beat a little faster. Was he too early? Was the killer watching him now and wondering why he’d arrived already? He tried not to focus on any one face in particular, already deciding that he would act surprised by the face that did eventually challenge him. Equally, he tried not to look too out of place, which would inevitably draw suspicion. He had no desire for anyone to recognise him or even acknowledge his existence.

  He decided to wander over to one of the benches in the centre of the foyer. Only one seat was unoccupied. He took it, positioning himself between two businessmen, both engrossed in the financial section of the New York Times.

  The clock now read 8:52AM.

  Joseph folded his arms and then closed his eyes, understanding that he had no other option but to wait it out.

  ***

  The sidewalk was full of pedestrians, flowing around the parked Sedan like a stream running about a stone. Carter tried to remain focused on the map spread out on his lap. Still, the wish to observe forced him to use every ounce of will to keep his attention on the map. He kept his head down, hoping that his presence would not alert any curious eyes that may be out there, watching and waiting.

  ***

  The second hand ran towards the hour. Joseph watched as it climbed past 9, moved towards 10, then on to 11. The last five seconds felt like an age. Eventually the second hand disappeared behind the long arm of the clock.

  9AM.

  Nothing happened. No Russian hit-men jumped out of the crowd. No alarms went off to cause mass panic, allowing the killer a clear path to Joseph. No nearby telephones rang with orders to jump on the next train available, ready to take him to an undisclosed location.

  Nothing.

  Panic hit Joseph instantly.

  Why hadn’t Yurius shown?

  Where was his son?

  The businessman to his left coughed slightly, forcing Joseph to look toward him. They made eye contact. Joseph’s breath caught in his chest. Had Yurius sent another in his place? The guy looked worried; possibly by the battered, bruised and desperate-looking black man who sat beside him. He closed his newspaper quickly, made a show of checking his wristwatch, realising that time had slipped by him, and then stood, before disappearing into the crowd. Joseph tried to follow the guy’s progress, but a multitude of similarly tailored suits camouflaged his movements almost instantly.

  He took a deep breath and forced his heart to steady. He reached up to wipe away the cold sweat that had broken out along his forehead. Thirty-three seconds had ticked by since he last looked.

  The remaining businessman, sitting to his right, looked towards Joseph and then quickly turned his attention away. Understanding that his body language was drawing unwanted attention, Joseph picked up the discarded newspaper and opened it in an attempt to look normal, composed. He rested it against this thigh, the words swimming before his eyes, his mind unable to steady itself long enough for him to read anything of significance.

  Then, suddenly, a bold headline came into focus.

  Joseph squinted, forcing the words to take shape. He blinked once, twice, not fully comprehending what they said. He read the headline again, then for a third time. “Oh, dear God…” he breathed, understanding coming to him in a flash. He jumped to unsteady feet, the newspaper slipping from his fingers. Now, he spun full circle, looking for a familiar face – an agent, or undercover detective. Nobody. Just strangers in a strange world: a world that had just been knocked out of kilter and tipped towards absolute madness.

  ***

  Carter’s radio crackled to life. Tyler’s voice filled the interior of the small Sedan. “This is Detective Tyler. Something’s happening. Ruebins is on the move. Over.”

  Carter hit the communications switch. “He made contact with anyone? Over.”

  “No. Not that I can see. Over.”

  “Wait. I-I think he’s…” – the reception faltered and Tyler’s voice became a squeal of static.

  “Tyler?” the detective called. “Tyler. You copy? Over.”

  Just the hiss of airwaves.

  “Tyler?” Carter was momentarily frozen by indecision. What should he do? His orders had been to remain here, ready to pursue any fleeing vehicles. If he left now and Joseph was taken elsewhere, then the chase would prove more difficult.

  “Tyler?” he barked again.

  The radio just hissed with contempt.

  “What the hell,” he said, reaching out to open his door. His hand froze. Someone in the crowd had just gone by. Clean and tidy, and whistling a tuneless melody, as if he cared not about the world around him.

  ***

  Presley Perkins strutted boldly down Broadway, oblivious to the man whose child he had so recently murdered.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  The crowd seemed to contract around Joseph. He became dizzy, and for one terrible moment thought he was about to suffer a third attack. He staggered forward slightly. The commuters nearest to him unconsciously stepped away, primeval instincts putting them out of reach of trouble, before minds full of present-day thoughts sent them on their way.

  Joseph filled his lungs to capacity, breathing in deeply, waiting for the bout of dizziness to pass. It did, and the walls of the foyer retracted back into place.

  Now, he took a minute to examine his surroundings in more detail. Directly before him stood a small information desk, circular in shape so that it could be approached from every angle. Two young ladies, both wearing heavy makeup, their faces tanned to a bright orange even in this cold month, stood in the centre of the commuters, offering a wealth of information.

  Joseph turned his attention away from the helpdesk and towards a newsstand that was wedged into one corner of the foyer. The stand was barely larger than a puppet booth, something he’d seen as a child. Two employees were playing out the roles of Punch and Judy. One, a woman, was busying herself with selling her assortment of candy and editorials; the other, a man, stood rigid, his eyes pinned to Joseph. Instantly, Joseph realised just how out-of-place the guy looked.

  Joseph tried to focus on the guy’s face. He was clean-shaven, handsome and muscular – and way too big to be stuffed behind the counter.

  The tiny kiosk was meant for just one person, not two.

  Was he one of the FBI agents?

  The guy held Joseph’s gaze for a second longer and then made a show of straightening out a row of magazines that were already neatly arranged.

  A small coffee house pulled Joseph’s attention away from the kiosk. Steel tables and chairs were occupied by commuters, either engrossed in morning newspapers or chatting animatedly to friends or colleagues. Joseph flipped from one face to the next. Most were wearing identical business suits: matching dark blue jackets and pants, or straight skirts, which stopped just below the knees, and an assortment of different coloured ties, some sombre – blues, blacks, greys – others bright reds and greens, which gave those who wore them puffed out chests, like those of exotic birds.

  Only one guy stood out. He wore casual slacks and a baseball cap.
Nothing unusual in that, but he held a financial supplement in his hands, and the rest of the newspaper could not be seen – nor was there a cup of coffee or other choice of beverage before him.

  Another agent?

  Joseph spun full circle, seeing faces that could be either innocent or full of intent. He looked again at the large clock. 9:02AM. Had the killer spotted something that had unnerved him? Just as Joseph was about to head towards the entrance, a figure caught the corner of his eye. The figure cut through the crowd and headed directly towards him. Joseph tensed, his instincts telling him that this was it – the defining moment.

  Joseph was joined by his nemesis. Now two people shared the open space that had formed around them.

  “Big Bear…” Yurius greeted, his lips stretching out over bright white teeth in a smile.

  Joseph turned towards Jake’s kidnapper. “Where’s my son?” he demanded.

  “Safe,” Yurius replied. “Come.”

  Yurius turned his back on Joseph, casually, confidently, and started to make his way towards the entrance. Joseph followed obediently, doing as Carter had instructed. As he trailed behind, he felt – sensed – that someone had taken up position behind him. He dared not look that way, in fear of seeing another face – another gun-wielding maniac who wouldn’t rest until Joseph had been erased.

  He did chance a look to his left and right, to see if either the café occupant or the newsagent had made a move to follow. Both stayed where they were.

  Get up! screamed Joseph silently.

  Neither paid any attention.

  Yurius stopped just a few yards inside the lobby. “Wait here,” he ordered, glancing over his shoulder. He left Joseph standing alone. The sensation of being watched almost pulled him around. Somehow, he managed to remain focused on the busy sidewalk just beyond his position.

  A steady stream of commuters continued to mill through the entrance, some hurrying to catch trains, others saddled with backpacks that looked fit to burst, ready to start early vacations. Just a few appeared as if brought here by the flow of people, caught on the moving wave of flesh, with no real destination in mind.

  One such character caught Joseph’s eye. He was a large fellow, ruddy-faced, who wore tight-fitting sweat pants and jacket. A small sports bag hung by a strap from his shoulder. He seemed pleased with himself, a large colourful smile playing across face.

  The guy headed straight for Joseph. Joseph looked at him expectantly. Was this another accomplice? The guy nodded in his direction.

  Joseph nodded back, only to realise at the last moment that the guy had actually been acknowledging someone standing directly behind him. The guy brushed past him, his sports bag nudging Joseph’s elbow as he did so.

  Joseph heard a single sentence come from behind, and then the general clamour drowned out the conversation.

  “I got Viktor’s money…” the guy said.

  ***

  Carter felt trapped – unable to breath. Indecision, loyalty and inner turmoil fought against each other. Should he get out and follow Perkins? His need for revenge demanded it. Get out now and cut Perkins down, no matter what the consequences were. Loyalty towards his profession and Joseph Ruebins screamed for him to stay put and see what the kidnapper had to offer. Nevertheless, this loyalty was a double-edged sword. The devotion to his son, Billy, cried out for him to avenge his death. Carter’s understanding of what was right and wrong thrashed it out in the pit of his stomach.

  Why was Perkins here, of all places?

  Was he finally ready to flee the city?

  Carter needed to know. He couldn’t just let Perkins get away scot free, never to pay the price for his terrible actions. Without thinking, Carter opened the door and then stepped out into the windswept street. Absentmindedly, he patted his jacket, feeling the small revolver that rested there. Then, ignoring the voice of Tyler, now clear and present, he started to make his way over to the busy entrance.

  ***

  Joseph became rooted to the spot. The sudden arrival of this newcomer had thrown off what senses he had remaining. Immobility had struck him down.

  Just as he was about to turn, Yurius reappeared. The kidnapper spoke in Russian to the guy behind Joseph. A similar reply came. Yurius nodded, and then focused his attention on Joseph.

  “Follow me,” he ordered, and again retreated through the entrance.

  Joseph duly followed the order. He sidestepped an elderly couple and then, unexpectedly, came face-to-face with Detective Carter.

  “What..?” Joseph gawped. “What’s going on?”

  Carter seemed to blank Joseph completely. He failed to make eye contact; instead, his attention was riveted to something else. Like a man caught in the spell of sleepwalking, Carter moved beyond Joseph and continued to draw away.

  Joseph reached out, ready to take Carter’s arm, but Yurius had already disappeared from sight. With no other option, he let the detective pass by and quickly stepped out onto the sidewalk.

  The Russian was just yards away, talking casually into a cellular. He raised a hand to stop Joseph short. Words that Joseph had no comprehension of fell from the Russian’s lips. They seemed to go on for an eternity, which in reality lasted for no more than a minute.

  Desperate now, Joseph took a single step closer. He was halted by the thunderous blast of gunfire.

  Yurius stopped talking. A wave of people rolled out of the lobby, screaming and fear stretching their faces into ghastly masks of terror. More gunfire sounded, amplified by the resonance of the foyer.

  The killer’s confidence appeared to evaporate instantly. He cursed in his own language and then took off down West 14th Street.

  “Yurius!” Joseph cried.

  The man didn’t stop.

  Summoning every ounce of his strength, Joseph gave chase.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Presley Perkins smiled to himself. The train station appeared to have more people in it than The Rangers Stadium. People branched off in many different directions, disappearing into tunnels and stairways, eagerly going about their business. He couldn’t think of a safer place to hand over Viktor’s money and collect his bus ticket and falsified documents.

  For a second he questioned his choice of transport. Now that he was here, should he have asked for train tickets instead? For one, the journey time would be cut by more than half. No, Presley thought, the trains running into Mexico underwent far more stringent checks on passports and papers, whereas a bus ride would be considered a simple daytrip, a tourist sampling what this neighbouring country had to offer. He’d still be expected to reveal his passport, but with the promise of return, border control would be less rigorous.

  Anyway, Presley thought, the checkpoints were more to keep the Hispanics out, rather than stopping Americans going the other way.

  He moved deeper into the crowd. Then he spotted one of Viktor’s men: the Georgian, Pyotr Krylov.

  Krylov waved Presley over. He passed a towering black man, someone Presley thought he recognised from somewhere, but in the next instant he reached the Georgian.

  “I got Viktor’s money,” he announced.

  The sports bag on Presley’s shoulder drew Krylov’s attention. “All of it?”

  “Yeah – the whole shebang.”

  Krylov reached inside his jacket. “I have your papers here,” he said, withdrawing a small brown envelope.

  Perkins looked at the package with something close to desperation. “They all there?”

  “Yes. Passport, driving licence and ticket to Mexico.”

  Presley grinned slyly. “No need for the return – hey?”

  The sly grin was mirrored on the Russian’s face. Little did Presley Perkins know that a tip-off to border control would see him dragged from the bus and taken into custody. A simple and relatively small sum of money had bought this guarantee, and a second amount, paid to one of Viktor’s Mexican contacts, would see that Perkins never left the holding pen alive.

  “Drop the bag,” Krylov ordere
d, now staring back coldly.

  Presley did as he was told. He placed the bag at the Georgian’s feet. Krylov dropped to one knee. He unzipped the bag and opened it out. A bundle of green bills filled the bottom. He closed it and then stood.

  Presley licked his lips. “The envelope?” he asked.

  The Russian made as if to give Presley the small package but, at the last moment, he tossed it into a nearby bin.

  A hysterical whine burst from Presley’s lips. He dived into the bin, scattering litter in all directions, digging to find his one chance at freedom. The envelope appeared amongst a pile of empty food cartons. He snatched it up, holding it protectively against his chest. He noticed then that Krylov and the bag of cash had simply disappeared.

  No matter. He had what he’d come for.

  His antics had attracted a small measure of attention. Most people looked quickly away as he turned from one face to the next. Only one held his gaze, and this person’s eyes were full of hatred.

  “No…” Presley breathed.

  Detective Thomas Carter stared back.

  A terrible moment of déjà vu passed. Perkins and Carter had squared off like this recently. Only now, William Carter’s father had all the advantage. His weapon was drawn, held steady at his side.

  “No…” Perkins said again, in total disbelief.

  Carter tapped the weapon against his thigh, making sure its presence was well noted. Presley’s eyes widened slightly when he recognised which weapon the detective held.

  “No… No… No…” he chanted foolishly. “This can’t be.”

  The detective took a step closer, making sure his words could be heard clearly over the general noise.

  “You’re coming with me – now.”

  “No,” Presley said, taking a step back.

  “You’ve two choices,” Carter said. “You can either live or die.”