06 Double Danger (11 page)

“Yeah, well, maybe you’re giving up too easily,” Simon said, reaching down to pull something wedged
between the headboard and the wall. “Lester said it was a Duane Reade bag, right?” He stood up, holding out the sack with a triumphant grin. “Looks like it fell off the nightstand. Maybe in the struggle.”

J.J. reached for the bag and, with a quick intake of breath, pulled it open. “They’re here.” She smiled at him, holding out the small stack of envelopes. “And they’re clearly addressed to Dearborn.”

Simon flipped through the stack, noting that Lester had been right, there was nothing out of the ordinary here. But when he reached the last one, he stopped. A sticky note covered the address, a handwritten message scribbled in pencil.

“What have you got?” J.J. asked, pushing closer, the smell of her perfume enveloping him. He blinked, pulling himself from the sensory onslaught, concentrating instead on the words Sanchez had written on the Post-it.

“It’s the forwarding address. For Dearborn.” Simon looked up, his gaze moving to the dead man on the bed. “Sanchez came through after all.”

I
’m not sure I want to go in there.” Jillian eyed the apartment doorway nervously. “So far, everywhere we’ve gone, we’ve uncovered a body.”

“I can’t say that I blame you,” Simon said, with a small smile. “But it’s part of the job description.”

“Speak for yourself.” She laid a hand on the railing, looking down into the shadows.

They were standing at the top of a small flight of steps that led down to a basement apartment near the corner of Pearl and Fulton. The address on the sticky note in Sanchez’s apartment. According to records Hannah had found, it was owned by an eighty-six-year-old retiree named Alden Ayers. Except that Alden had been dead for almost three months, a coronary that had taken him to the ICU and then the morgue. With no known relatives, the estate, such that it was, had been lost in a shuffle of red tape and inertia.

All of which made it the perfect place for someone with something to hide.

Dearborn.

Except that he was dead.

“If you want to wait up here,” Simon said, “I totally understand.”

“No.” She shook her head. “You’re right. I need to see this through.”

“J.J., nobody is going to blame you for wanting out. No matter how much training you’ve had, there’s no way to prepare for something like this.”

She bristled at the protective note in his voice. She didn’t need someone to take care of her. Not even Simon. Hell, particularly not Simon. “Yeah, well, I’m not afraid, if that’s what you’re getting at. And it’s
Jillian
.” She lifted her chin and headed down the stairs, reaching for Simon’s gun. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to the feel of the weight in her hands, but considering the things she’d seen, she was damned sure she wasn’t going in unarmed.

At the bottom she stopped, waiting for Simon, who had also drawn his weapon.

“Looks like it’s open.” He nodded at a dark sliver of space between the frame and the door. “Doesn’t look forced.” He inched forward, using the barrel of his gun to push it wider. “And there’s no sign of a booby trap.”

“It’s almost like an invitation.” She frowned as Simon stepped inside, and then, with a slow exhalation, she followed.

The room was dark, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the low light. Simon flipped on a table lamp, the pale wash of light doing little to illuminate the room. But it was enough for her to make out the furniture. All of it well past its prime. There was a large lounger in one corner with what looked to be a TV tray in front
of it. Across from the chair was a television console straight out of the fifties. She’d seen one like it once on a trip to the Smithsonian as a kid. And sitting against the wall, adjacent to the TV, was a floral sofa covered in plastic.

“Looks like Mr. Ayers wasn’t big on redecorating,” Simon said. “This place looks like something right out of
Leave It to Beaver
.”

“Without the benefit of Barbara Billingsley.” She ran her finger along the top of the console, leaving a line in the dust that coated the top. “I don’t think anyone has cleaned in here in years. Which makes it unlikely that Dearborn actually spent any time here. Maybe this was just a decoy.”

“What do you say we check the rest of the place out before we jump to any conclusions?” His voice held a hint of censure, and she bristled again.

“Sure. Whatever.” She shrugged, holstering her gun, disliking the feel of it against her skin.

Simon walked into the small bedroom. Like the living area, it looked like a museum piece. A dusty, dirty one.

“I told you there was nothing,” she said, already turning to go.

Simon flipped the switch, and a floor lamp flashed to life, the light spilling out over a long folding table. Clearly new. Simon smiled, a look of triumph flashing in his eyes. “Oh, ye of little faith.”

The table was covered with tools and rolls of wire, along with a length of metal pipe and some plastic tubing. Several open boxes sat on the floor by the chair. Even in the dim light, it was obvious that everything was clean and new.

“This one is full of projectiles,” Simon said, reaching into one of the boxes and producing a handful of small spiked pieces of metal.

“If I’m not mistaken, this one used to house explosives.” She pulled back the flap so that Simon could see the empty containers inside.

“ ‘Used to’ being the operative phrase.” Simon leaned in for a closer look, his breath grazing her hair, his scent tantalizingly familiar. Sensory memory danced across her skin, and she wondered for the millionth time what it was about this man that called to her so deeply. No matter the distance between them, he was still always a part of her somehow. She pulled back, angry at the turn of her thoughts as she forced herself to focus.

“So you think this is where they made the bomb Tyler found in the helicopter?”

“It’s possible. The length of pipe and the wiring would seem to support the idea. But these containers are used for plastique. And the pipe bomb in the chopper used black powder.”

“Meaning there’s another bomb?” Jillian felt a chill run down her spine, the memory of the heat and acrid smell of the explosion at the hospital threatening to swamp her.

“Looks that way.” Using a handkerchief, Simon bent to pick up something on the floor. And as he moved out of her line of sight, Jillian saw a flash of light reflected against one of the rolls of wire.

Frowning, she moved closer, thinking at first that she’d imagined it, but then it flashed again. She reached for the spool, moving it out of the way, her mind screaming caution as she caught sight of a small black box taped to the
wall behind the table. A small amber light in the bottom corner flashed on and then off again.

“Simon,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm. It was probably just a charger of some kind.

“I see it.” He stepped forward, using the tac-light on his gun to illuminate the box. In the light, Jillian could see what the shadows had blocked. A timer—ticking downward. Ten… nine…

“Run,” Simon yelled, grabbing her hand as the two of them sprinted from the bedroom into the living room, out the front door, and up the stairs, taking them two at a time. As they reached the street, a young man in a khaki flak jacket, carrying a backpack, took off running. Simon started after him, but before Jillian could follow, the apartment exploded, flames shooting out the front window and curling up the stairs, a cloud of ash and smoke gushing out onto the street.

Momentarily blinded, Jillian tripped, the heated smoke filling her lungs as her knees slammed into the asphalt. For a moment, she was too stunned to move, and then suddenly Simon was there, yanking her upward, pulling her out into the middle of the street away from the now burning building.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she said, gasping the fresh air, her eyes moving to the still visible figure of the man running down the street. “Go on. We can’t afford to lose him. I’ll be right behind you.”

He searched her face for a long minute and then sprinted off after the man, both of them heading for the river. With one last, deep breath, Jillian followed, grateful for the grueling training she’d completed when she’d
accepted the job at Homeland Security. Besides, the son of a bitch had almost killed her. And she damn well was going to be there when Simon caught up to him.

The man was fast. Simon had to give him that. They’d been running full out for almost a block. And to make matters worse, the traffic on Water Street was considerably heavier than Fulton. Plus the bastard had caught the light, which meant that Simon was left to dodge traffic, bouncing off the fender of a taxi in the process, his bad leg sending a streak of pain shooting up to his hip.

Gritting his teeth, he vaulted over a parked car, swerving to miss a lady with a baby carriage. He’d lost ground, the man almost disappearing into the surging crowd of tourists heading for the South Street Seaport.

The perfect place to detonate a bomb.

This part of Fulton had been made into a pedestrian mall, the street lined with high-end retailers. And beyond that, beneath the FDR Drive, the old fisherman’s warehouses that had turned into restaurants and shops. And finally there was a large open wharf, housing Piers 16 and 17, where two Circle Line cruise ships sat ready and waiting, as well as a restored clipper ship. And everywhere, tourists. People completely unaware of the potential danger heading directly at them.

The crowd had slowed the runner’s progress, but it was impeding Simon’s as well. He swerved to the far side of the sidewalk where it was less crowded, increasing his pace, careful to keep the guy within sight as he worked to close the distance between them.

There were too many people here to risk a shot, better to try to catch up and incapacitate him somehow. Not an
easy task, but the stakes were high, and Simon wasn’t about to give up without a fight. Ahead, the man zagged to the left, into a sidewalk café. Like Simon, he’d realized that it would be easier going.

But just as the runner was picking up speed, a waiter stepped out of the restaurant, carrying several plates on a large tray. The two men slammed into each other, food and cutlery flying. Adrenaline surging, Simon sprinted forward, but as he reached the first table, the man with the backpack sprang to his feet again. Turning, he made a run for the far side of the café, pushing over tables, leaving an obstacle course in his wake.

Concentrating on staying upright, Simon dodged both people and the fallen furniture, but by the time he was free of the café, the man with the backpack had managed to pull ahead of him again, the crowd surging around him, providing cover.

Simon fought against frustration and anger, his breathing coming in gasps as his leg throbbed. He pushed through the pain, forcing himself to try to close the distance again. The overpass loomed above him as the two of them dashed from the sunlight into the heavy shadow of the FDR. The man sprinted across the street that fronted the wharf and out into the sunlight ahead.

In front of Simon, a large group of tourists stopped as their guide pointed to the warehouses sitting underneath the bridge. Simon pushed his way through the group, screaming for people to move. In any other city, the commotion would have raised all kinds of alarms. But this was New York, and people, even tourists, tended to take it all in stride.

Once free of the tourists, Simon wasted valuable
seconds slowing down, his eyes sweeping the wharf until he spotted the khaki flak jacket moving along the side of the pier toward a café overflowing with people.

Jesus. If the man detonated now…

Years of training kicking in, Simon assessed his options, choosing a gangplank that led up and onto an empty tourist vessel. Ignoring the crew’s cries for him to stop, he sprinted along the deck, running above and parallel to the man with the pack. Leg screaming in protest, Simon pushed himself harder, his lungs burning with the effort. Just a few more feet.

For a moment, he thought the guy was going to pull away from him, but three women in high heels holding margarita glasses came out of nowhere, forcing the guy closer to the side of the ship.

Sucking in a deep breath and summoning every ounce of his strength, Simon leaped from the side of the boat, tackling the man from above, grateful that he hadn’t hit anyone else in the process. The two of them drove to the ground, hitting hard, but the man with the flak jacket was nimble, slamming his fist into Simon’s jaw as they rolled over, each of them fighting for control.

Simon tried to pin him to the pavement, but the guy was strong and managed to break the hold, though not before Simon got in a punch, satisfied to feel his fist connect with the side of the man’s head. The guy went limp, and just for a moment, Simon thought he’d managed to knock him out.

But before he could secure a hold, the man was moving again, this time flipping them over, breaking free and pushing to his feet. Simon grabbed the guy around the ankles, but the man managed to regain his balance,
taking a swing at Simon, who ducked to avoid the blow. The move gave the man the opening he needed, and with a grunt of satisfaction, he pulled free again.

Simon scrambled to his feet, but the man had already managed to skirt the crowd, running back the way he had come. A couple of yards away, Simon could see the backpack. He hesitated, torn between retrieving the bag and giving chase. Seconds ticked by, and then J.J. appeared from out of nowhere, scooping up the backpack and yelling for him to go.

Adrenaline surged, and Simon ran after the man, who was just rounding the edge of the wharf to head back under the FDR. Simon’s leg and jaw throbbed in rhythm to his pounding feet. And he was gratified to see that the man was favoring his right leg as well. Gritting his teeth in determination, Simon pushed himself forward, forcing himself into an out-and-out sprint.

As he passed under the highway, the shadows of the bridge overtook him, and he blinked, for a moment losing sight of his quarry, but then he saw him, heading down the street toward one of the old warehouses, one that hadn’t yet been turned into a high-dollar tourist trap.