Bad blood

50

Within minutes, because of our proximity to both City Hall and One Police Plaza, Peterson had been able to assemble a sophisticated team of sharpshooters to send in to retrieve us. A handful of men in helmets and bulletproof vests, armed with rifles and handguns, surrounded us to learn what had happened, while two transit crewmen who had entered with the police worked to extricate Mike’s foot from under the railroad tie.

Mercer pointed with his flashlight at the narrow tunnel into which Brendan Quillian had fled.

“You know where it ends?” one of the cops asked, while two others, rifles at the ready, positioned themselves on either side of the black hole.

“Murray Street,” Mike said, still on his back. “A few blocks west of here. It used to feed into a building that was rented out by the city as a wine cellar.”

“I’m Gary Passoni,” the group leader said to Mike. “Let’s get you topside. The commissioner himself is on this. There’s a SWAT team going in from above at every one of those old station exits. They’ll find the wine cellar. They’ve got the maps.”

Passoni put his walkie-talkie to his mouth to transmit the information about Quillian’s flight into the Murray Street tunnel wing.

Another officer took my arm. “Ms. Cooper? The lieutenant wants you out of here yesterday, okay? You’re with me.”

“I’d like to wait until Chapman’s leg is free.”

“Let’s go, blondie,” Mike called to me from the tracks. “Don’t hold up the traffic. I’m bringing up the rear.”

I looked back and saw that he was being helped to his feet by the crewmen. I started to move along the platform with my escort, worried that Mercer was going in the opposite direction, to help the new arrivals find Quillian.

Someone gave a signal that the track was clear, and again the train started a slow approach to meet us.

Before it pulled within range of me, a volley of gunshots rang out, this time from the cylindrical cave into which Brendan Quillian had disappeared.

The men guarding the black hole dropped to their knees, and one screamed out for all of us to get down.

A voice called Passoni’s name from within the tunnel.

“Yeah?”

“Hold your fire on that end. I think we hit him after he took a shot at my first man in. My guys are coming toward you, sweeping for him. Stand away.”

The police had clearly found the Murray Street entrance and encountered Quillian on his way to a last-ditch effort to escape.

Mercer yelled at the cop holding on to me, “Move her out. Move her out now, understand?”

The man tugged on my arm and I went forward, but continued to look at Mercer, calling out to him, “You get out, too. You don’t have a vest, you don’t have-”

Passoni held a finger to his lips. I stopped midsentence and could hear the sound of someone whimpering, crying softly, out of sight but not far away.

The two sharpshooters saw something through their night-vision goggles that caused them to lower the aim of their rifles.

Seconds later, Brendan Quillian crawled out of the darkened tunnel, one hand pressed against his throat. He rolled onto his back at the foot of the subway platform.

One cop stepped on his neck, pinning him in place while three others were upon him immediately, wresting a revolver from his hand and searching him for the other gun.

Mercer was on his knees closest to the fugitive when the officer lifted his boot and the gunshot in Quillian’s neck spurted blood like a small geyser.

“Get him in the bus!” Passoni shouted, waving his team to carry the dying man to the subway train and out to the ambulance that had been summoned for Mike.

I broke away from the cop who was trying to escort me when I saw Mike hobble toward Quillian.

“How does your fucking neck feel, Brendan?” Mike asked. “At least it’s a faster way to die than strangulation.”

One of the guys pushed Mike back while they worked to stop the bleeding and lift their prisoner to get him to help. I could see Quillian gasping for breath like a fish out of water, his one good eye darting wildly around at his captors.

He looked harmless now, his long body limp and his face almost gray, as the blood ran out of him.

“What’s your hurry?” Mike asked Passoni. “If anyone ever deserved a long, slow, painful-”

“Shut up, Chapman.”

“Easy, Mike,” Mercer said, stepping back to let four of the men carry the fugitive toward the waiting subway car.

As they passed in front of me, Brendan Quillian’s left lid opened wide. He searched the vaulted ceiling above the platform as though hoping to see the sky. He groaned loudly, and his head tossed backward, convulsing several times before he fell still. The fire within his good eye-the left one-went out as he died in the arms of the four cops, deep within one of the blackened tunnels he had feared almost all of his life.