Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (59 page)

He stopped at a Suzuki dealer in Edgemoor, just across the state line, and bought two full-face motorcycle helmets—one for himself and the other for Sopho. He also got her a jacket. Then he took the Lexus up to Hawkridge and parked in back of the warehouse. He got out of the Lexus as quietly as he could, and gestured for Sopho to do the same.

The old Indian he'd sold to Katie's boyfriend, Matt, was parked at the back of the lot. As Ned had both feared and predicted, Matt had already customized it. What had been a painstaking attempt to match the original red and brown two-tone color scheme had been painted over. The gas tank now a featured a portrait of a Viking warrior so drenched in lacquer that the paint job looked to be about an inch thick.

Ned handed Sopho her helmet and instructed her to get on the back seat of the Indian. She shook her head. She was clearly scared to ride on the big bike. Ned gave her a stern look. She made a timid step toward the bike, but stopped and started crying. Frustrated, Ned sighed and picked the girl up. He was surprised at how little she weighed and how violently she was shivering. He told her as soothingly as possible that everything was going to be all right. He put her helmet on her, adjusted the strap, then climbed on the bike and put his own on. He noticed that she instinctively put her tiny arms around him and held on. She still held onto her little bag as well.

Ned still had a spare key to the Indian on his key ring. He hadn't kept it from Matt intentionally; he had just never gotten around to giving it to him. He turned it. He knew that the sound of the kick start would immediately get the attention of anyone within earshot—Matt could even catch him and beat the shit out of him or hold him until the police came—so Ned was determined to get it on the first try. With his left foot on the peg, he stood up and put all his weight on the starter. The old motor gave out a disappointing
blub-blub-blub
.

“C'mon, baby,” Ned whispered. He pushed Sopho back and tried again. This time it just began to take and then noisily crapped out. One of the Mexican guys Ned remembered from the warehouse stepped out of the loading dock doors to take a look. As soon as he saw Ned and Sopho on the big old bike he ran inside. Ned knew he was fetching Matt. With one last desperate kick, the dynamo ignited and the Indian roared to life. Ned pulled back on the accelerator and popped the clutch. Sopho flew backwards, nearly off the bike, but was saved by the ridiculous sissy bar Matt had since installed. She bounced back into Ned and held on as tightly as she could. Ned could neither see nor hear Matt and his friends running out of the loading dock and shouting at him to come back.

Ned went as fast as he could to Highway 13. He laughed a bit to himself when he thought of the picture they made: a man and a child in full-face neon-colored racer helmets riding on an incredibly loud vintage bike with a shiny Viking on each side of the gas tank—hardly the least conspicuous way to get to New York City. But he also knew he had no choice.

He eventually merged onto I-95 in Philadelphia. When traffic became too clogged, he split the lanes, driving between the anxious, waiting cars. It was illegal but it also allowed him to get into New Jersey in about half the time it would have taken if he had followed traffic laws. Sure that the Russians would expect him to visit Nina, he avoided Staten Island and the other quick routes into Brooklyn. Instead, he headed up the Palisades Parkway to the George Washington Bridge. Racing back down the West Side Highway, he took the 50
^th
Street exit and parked the bike as legally as he could on 48
^th
Street in front of a rental-car franchise.

He walked the rest of the way to the Javits Center down 11
^th
Avenue past the dozens of luxury car dealerships that line the way. He was pulling Sopho by the hand and could tell that she was overwhelmed.

When they entered the huge glass rectangle that is the Javits, it was full of thousands of men and women—most of them in suits, but some in more casual clothes—milling around signs advertising the presence of the Annual Heating, Ventilation and Air Conditioning Professionals' Conference. Ned bypassed the line and went right to the exhibition floor's entrance. He was stopped by a security guard. The guard was tall and fat, with a small mouth that hung open all the time. Although he was only twenty-five or so, he was already mostly bald and already attempting to remedy the situation with a poor comb-over. “Can't let you in without a badge, sir,” he said officiously.

“But this is an emergency,” Ned told him, hoping his look of desperation would help convince the guy give him a break. “I need to get in there, to talk with an exhibitor.”

“The only way in is with a badge,” the young man actually appeared to be enjoying Ned's desperation.

“Fine,” Ned said, exasperated. Other people in line behind him were getting angry at the hold up, and letting him know. “How do I get a badge?”

“Well, you should have signed up a month ago, then it only would have been $295,” the guard said dully. “But now, you're gonna have to go over to the line'way over there, register, show some ID and pay.”

His superior, a plump black woman in her forties cut him off. “What's the problem here, Laderoute?” she demanded, looking back and forth at the security guard and Ned.

“This guy's got no badge,” Laderoute said sheepishly. “And he wants to get in.”

Betting that the older security guard was not only smarter, but also kinder than her charge, Ned appealed directly to her. “I'm not here for the show,” he told her in measured tones. “I just have to talk with Thor Andersson of Hawkridge. It's an emergency.”

“Mr. Andersson? I know him,” the woman smiled. “What's the emergency? Maybe I can pass him a message.”

“Some of the items he has may be potentially dangerous if they are mounted the wrong way,” Ned stammered, thinking while he was talking. “Only someone familiar with the technology can help him . . . It could be a matter of life and death.”

The older security guard looked at Ned and then at Sopho. Then she turned to Laderoute. “Do you think this man would bring his child along to see a ventilation trade show and make up a story about dangerous parts just to get out of paying the entry fee?” She turned back to Ned and told him to “go ahead” and admonished him to be back within fifteen minutes or he'd have to pay full price for a badge.

Ned let out an enormous sigh of relief and walked in, towing Sopho behind him. Inside was a huge set of rows of displays from various heating, ventilation and air-conditioning suppliers and related companies. Some were just wooden desks, while others looked like the sets of some elaborate game show in which all the prizes were air conditioners. There were hundreds of them. Finding Hawkridge shouldn't be too hard, he thought to himself, because it was one of the biggest such companies around, but with so many others there and with the Swede's desire to avoid anything ostentatious, it could take a long time.

Ned decided to be methodical. He started at one corner and walked straight down the long aisle. Sopho was still holding his hand and chattering quietly to herself in her language. He looked at her and marveled at how calm she looked. He wondered if her crossing had been so frightening that she just didn't have the emotional reserves left over to be scared now or that she was still young enough to believe that all adults had her best interest at heart. He wished for a moment that she spoke English. Before continuing their search for Hawkridge's booth, he went back to the snack bar near the entrance. He bought a hot dog and a couple of slices of pizza. There was no place to sit in the crowded eating area, so he leaned against the wall while Sopho sat at his feet. She ate both slices of pizza and really seemed to enjoy her large orange soda. Ned relaxed for just a second and smiled at her. As he looked up, something familiar caught his eye. He couldn't be one-hundred percent sure it was Vasilly, but the man who walked past had on the same type of suit, was about the same size and had the same haircut. And his purposeful stride caused Ned's own spine to shiver. He did his best to hide behind some guys in suits who were talking loudly about “green technology.”

As soon as the man who may have been Vasilly was out of sight, Ned grabbed Sopho—her hands still slightly greasy from the pizza—and walked in the opposite direction. He walked as quickly as he could without being totally obvious, and checked each stand to see if it was Hawkridge's. At the very end of the hall, he turned to go down the next aisle and saw—no more than twenty feet in front of him—two very large men in full Sons of Satan colors. Without thinking, he jumped—tugging Sopho off her feet—into the next aisle.

Then he stopped. He simply couldn't think of what to do next. The Sons were there and they obviously weren't buying air conditioners. They were in the building with just one purpose, as was Vasilly. Between the two of them, one was sure to succeed. He began to think his plan to grab the heroin-filled coils was stupid, doomed from the start. He should have just delivered the girl and kept on going. He looked at Sopho. She smiled weakly back up at him. He was trying to think of what he could possibly do next when he felt a big hand on his right shoulder. He wanted to scream, but couldn't. Instead, he turned around.

It was the Swede. He had a grave look on his face. “You should get out of here,” he said.

“You have the wrong coils.”

“I know,” the Swede told him calmly. “And they have been disposed of. But your presence here is compromising us.” The crowd walked past them, carrying on their own conversations and ignoring the scene unfolding in front of them.

“Disposed of?” Ned stammered. “So they're gone.”

“Yes, they are,” the Swede said. “And I had a talk with Grigori. We have a situation to manage.” Then he gritted his teeth and said, “He told me that Roman is very displeased with you.”

“Yeah,” Ned said and gestured to Sopho.

Andersson sighed. “I had heard such stories about Roman, but did not want to believe them. I can't tolerate this sort of thing,” he said. “Give me the girl. The authorities will ask me fewer questions.”

“But they saw me come in with her, thousands of people have seen you and me talking.”

“Just go. Here.” Andersson pulled out a handful of business cards and selected one. He handed it to Ned. “This guy owes me a favor. Get in touch with him,” he said. “I can't guarantee anything, but it's the best I can do.”

Ned thanked him and said good-bye to Sopho. Her eyes fixed on him; he knew he'd never forget that look.

He scanned the crowd quickly for the two bikers and, failing to see them, walked as inconspicuously as he could toward the main entrance. He had taken just four steps when he heard Vasilly. “Come with me, Macnair,” he said. “We have some things to talk about.”

Ned could feel himself trembling. He turned and looked Vasilly in the eyes. After a long pause, he answered. “Go with you so you can kill me?” he finally said. “I don't think so.”

Vasilly laughed. “If I wanted to kill you, you'd be dead already,” he said and did his best to contort his mouth into an imitation of a smile. “You think I'm afraid of a few stupid security guards?”

“So why do you want me?”

“Grigori wants to talk with you. This issue with Roman is not a big deal,” he said. “Maybe everyone makes a new start.”

Ned knew he had no real options. He nodded and said, “Okay, let's go.”

Vasilly smiled and started to walk through the building just a step behind him. Ned looked back at the quiet, angry man. “How's Semyon?” he asked.

Vasilly looked at him and curled the right side of his mouth into a grin. “He'll be alright,” he said. “The bikers let him go; it seems like there was a mistaken identity. They were looking for a man named Ned Aiken, not Jared Macnair, or even Eric Steadman.”

Ned's body sank. He thought about the tortured thief in Moscow. Just as Ned was trying to come to terms with that, he was grabbed from behind and spun around. Ned didn't recognize his face, but saw he was wearing full Sons of Satan colors and could tell from the patches on his jacket that he had killed for the club at least once before. “Fuckhead,” was all the biker said. Then, “You're coming with us.”

Vasilly glared at the biker and his partner, who was in front of them, blocking their way out. “Get out of our way,” he snarled. “We have important business to attend to.”

“No fuckin' way,” said the second biker.

“Listen, you are too young to die over such trivial matters,” Vasilly said. “Get out of our way, or you will pay severely.”

The security guard from the entrance, Laderoute, approached the arguing men. “What's the trouble here?” he asked with as much command as he could muster. Then he looked at Ned. “And you,” he said. “Your fifteen minutes are up. Time to go, buddy.”

All five men stared at one another in stunned silence. Finally, Ned reared back and punched Vasilly as hard as he could in the jaw. The smaller man fell into the two bikers, but was agile enough to pull out a tiny Smith & Wesson handgun and shoot the security guard in the throat.

That was Ned's cue. He tore out of the room and through a crowd mingling at the entranceway. His feet hit the pavement on 11th Avenue and he kept running.

Defying oncoming cars and trucks, he ran across the six lanes and down 38
^th
Street, stopping only to allow a fire truck to pull out in front of him. He flew over the bridge over 10th Avenue, finally stopping at the corner of 38
^th
and Ninth. Traffic was at a standstill, and Ned spotted an empty cab. He jumped in and told the driver to take him to where he had parked the Indian. “It may take a while,” said the driver. “And this is a one-way going downtown. I'm gonna have to take 11th back uptown.”