Numbered Account

CHAPTER 61

Nick left Sylvia’s apartment at five-thirty in the morning. She accompanied him to the door and sleep still in her eyes, made him promise to take care of himself. He brushed off the concern in her voice, preferring not to wonder if this might be the last time he’d see her. He kissed her, then buttoned up his coat and set off down the steep hill toward Universitatstrasse. Outside the temperature was well below freezing. The sky was as dark as ink. He caught the first tram of the day and arrived at the Personalhaus at five past six. He ran up a flight of terrazzo stairs to the first floor and hurried to his apartment. Inserting the key, he found the door to be unlocked. He pushed it open slowly.

The apartment was a shambles. A thorough hand had ransacked the place.

The desk was overturned. Annual reports and assorted papers were strewn across the floor. The closet was open, every suit chucked onto the carpet. The dresser drawers had been emptied, then discarded. Shirts, sweaters, and socks were everywhere. His bed rested on its side, the worn mattress lying askew, sheets and blankets tangled up in each other. The bathroom was no better. The mirror on the medicine cabinet was shattered, the tile floor littered with broken glass.

Nick saw all of this in a moment.

And then he spotted his holster. It lay in the far corner of the room cached beside the bookshelves. A gleaming black leather triangle. Empty. Side arm missing.

Nick stepped inside the apartment and closed the door behind him. Calmly, he began sorting through his clothing, hoping to feel the hard plane of his gun’s rectangular snout or the stubble of its crosshatched grip. Nothing. He picked up a T-shirt here, a sweater there, praying to catch a glimpse of the dull blue-black sheen of the Colt Commander. Nothing. He grew frantic. He shuffled around the apartment, running his hands along the floor. He lifted the mattress and threw it across the room. He upended the bed frame. Nothing. Shit!

Abruptly, something strange caught his eye. A pile of books lay next to the desk arranged sloppily like a kind of unlit bonfire. In the center of this pile sat a textbook from business school—a large book, Principles of Finance by Brealy and Myers. Its cover was open; the pages had been ripped from its spine. Nick picked up another textbook. It had received a similar trashing. He selected a paperback, The Iliad, his father’s favorite. Its soft covers were bent backward and its pages fanned. He dropped it on the floor.

Nick stopped searching. He stood up straight, alone in his silent apartment. Mevlevi had been here—or one of his men—and he’d been looking for something specific. What?

Nick checked his watch and with a start saw that a half hour had passed. It was 6:35. He had ten minutes to shower, shave, and put on clean clothes. The limo was scheduled to arrive at 6:45. He was due at the Dolder at seven. He grabbed two dirty dress shirts, fell to his knees, and swept the bathroom floor of glass. Finished, he balled them up and threw them into his closet. He stripped and stepped gingerly across the tile floor. He took a navy shower—thirty seconds under freezing cold water. He shaved in record time, ten swipes of the razor, to hell with anything left over.

Outside, a car honked twice. He brushed back a curtain. The limousine had arrived.

Nick walked to his overturned desk, grabbed two of its legs, and brought it onto its side. He ran a hand along each leg, seeking a small indentation he had made a few weeks ago. He found it, then unscrewed the round metallic foot at its base. He inserted the tips of his right thumb and forefinger delicately into the leg. He felt the tip of a sharp object and breathed easier. He grasped the metal blade and withdrew the knife. His marine issue K-Bar. Jack the Ripper. Serrated on one side, razor sharp on the other. Years ago, he had wrapped athletic tape around its handle to reduce any slippage. The tape was stained with age, mottled with sweat and dirt and blood.

Nick rummaged through the debris scattered on the bathroom floor until he found a roll of similar tape. He used it to keep the brace he wore on his right knee in place when he exercised. Working quickly, he cut four strips of tape and laid them on the table’s edge. Then he picked up the knife and pressed it flat (handle down) against a damp patch of skin below his left arm. One by one, he grabbed the lengths of tape and secured the K-Bar to his body, but not too tightly. A firm downward tug would free the knife. The ensuing motion would rip out a man’s guts.

Nick flitted through his scattered belongings looking for some clean clothes. He came up with a shirt and suit just back from the laundry. Despite their mistreatment, they were relatively unwrinkled, and he put them on. One tie remained in his closet. He grabbed it, then bolted from the apartment.

Inside the limousine, Nick checked his watch over and over again. Morning traffic was heavy, slower than it had ever been. The black Mercedes rolled past Bellevue and climbed the Universitatstrasse. It mounted the Zurichberg and passed through the forest. The dovecote tower of the Dolder Grand appeared high above his left shoulder. His heart beat faster.

Calm down, he told himself. You’re on.

Nick forced himself to wait until the limousine had made a full stop before opening the door. He was livid with himself for being late. Only ten minutes—but today timing was everything. He climbed the maroon carpeted stairs two at a time and rushed through the revolving door. He spotted the Pasha at once.

“Good morning, Nicholas,” the Pasha said quietly. “You’re late. Let’s make a quick start. Mr. Pine, the night manager, informs me that snow may be on the way. We do not want to be caught at the Gotthardo in a blizzard.”

Nick advanced a step and shook Mevlevi’s hand. “There shouldn’t be any problem. The St. Gotthard tunnel is always open, even in the worst conditions. The driver assures me we should have no problems making it to Lugano in time. The car has four-wheel drive and chains.”

“It will be you helping to attach the chains, not me.” Mevlevi smiled, then climbed into the backseat of the limousine, nodding once to the chauffeur, who manned the rear door.

Nick followed suit, allowing the chauffeur to shut the door behind him. He was determined to be the perfect functionary. Polite, amiable, never intrusive. “Do you have your passport and three photos?” he asked the Pasha.

“Of course.” Mevlevi handed Nick both. “Have a look. Friends of mine at British Intelligence passed it along to me. They tell me it’s the real thing. The Brits prefer to use the Argentinean variety. Add a little salt to open wounds. I chose the name myself. Clever, don’t you think?”

Nick opened the Argentinean passport. It was the same one used at International Fiduciary Trust in Zug on Friday, issued in the name of one Allen Malvinas, resident of Buenos Aires. Home to El Oro de los Andes. “Didn’t you say that you had lived in Argentina?”

“Buenos Aires. Yes, but only briefly.”

Nick handed the passport back without further comment. Soufi, Malvinas, Mevlevi. I know who you are.

Mevlevi slipped the passport into his jacket pocket. “Of course, it’s not the only name I’ve ever used.”

Nick unbuttoned his jacket, and his arm brushed against the forged steel blade. He smiled to himself. And you know I know.

An early-morning silence enveloped the car as it sped through the Tal Valley. The Pasha appeared to be sleeping. Nick kept one eye on his watch and the other on the passing scenery. The sky had faded from its earlier pale blue to a paler, watery gray. Still, no snow fell, and for that he was grateful.

The Mercedes hummed along nicely for another hour, its powerful engine sending a comforting vibrato through the chassis. The sleek automobile passed through the quaint lakeside village of Kussnacht before climbing onto a narrower road that followed the steep northern rim of the Vierwaldstatter See toward the St. Gotthard Pass. A few low-lying clouds blanketed the lake. From Nick’s vantage point high above its misty surface, he had the impression of a schooner’s mainsail torn by a hurricane wind into a thousand tattered strips. It made him think of a shipwreck. If he were a superstitious man, he would consider it a bad omen. Seconds later the car passed into the first of a series of isolated showers, and the lake was lost from view.

At the same time that Nick was passing through Kussnacht, Sylvia Schon tucked the telephone under her chin and dialed the Chairman’s home number for the fourth time. The line connected immediately. The phone rang and rang and rang. Twenty-seven times she allowed it to sound before banging the receiver into its cradle. Tears of frustration streamed down her face. Twice during the night, she had crept from her bed to call. Neither time had there been an answer.

Where were you, Wolfgang Kaiser, at three o’clock on a Sunday morning?

Sylvia stalked into the kitchen and rummaged through her drawers for a cigarette. She found a crushed pack of Gauloises and pulled one from the wrinkled blue sheath.

She puffed madly on the harsh cigarette, desperate to rid her apartment of Nick’s lingering scent. I’m not betraying you, she explained to his memory. I’m saving myself. I could have loved you. Can’t you understand that? Or are you too wrapped up in your personal crusade to notice that I have one of my own? Don’t you know what will happen if Kaiser is arrested? Rudolf Ott will take over. Ott—my rival for the Chairman’s affection. Ott—who tried his best to deny me my chance to move up. It’s him, Nick. He’s the one responsible.

Sylvia acknowledged a pang of guilt but wasn’t sure who it was for. For Nick. For herself. Anyway, it didn’t matter. She had chosen her path a long time ago.

Sylvia stubbed out her cigarette and checked her watch. Another ten minutes until Rita Sutter arrived in the office. She was like a clock, Kaiser had said. In at 7:30 on the dot every day for the past twenty years. His most obedient servant. Rita Sutter would know where to find the Chairman. He didn’t do anything without telling her.

Sylvia pinched the bridge of her nose and shuddered, suddenly nauseated from the unfiltered nicotine. She consulted her watch yet again. And though it was eight minutes too early, she picked up the phone and called the Emperor’s Lair.

The road had assumed a gentler incline. It rose along the icy banks of the river Reuss and wandered up a majestic valley leading deep into the craggy heart of the Swiss Alps. Nick glanced out the window, numb to the beauty around him. He was keeping his fingers crossed it would not snow, wondering where Thorne was right now. He prayed that Kaiser had left Zurich on time to make his eleven o’clock meeting with the count. A sign for Altdorf flashed past and then ones for Amsteg and Wassen, these last small villages made up of a dozen stone houses sitting alongside the highway.

Approaching the village of Goschenen, Ali Mevlevi asked the chauffeur to leave the highway so that he might stretch his legs. The driver obliged, following the next exit off of the highway and driving into the center of a picturesque village, where he halted the automobile next to a gurgling water fountain. All three men climbed out.

“Look at the time,” the Pasha said, making an elaborate show of examining his wristwatch. “At this rate we’ll arrive an hour ahead of schedule. Tell me once again what time our meeting is set for.”

“Ten-thirty,” answered Nick, instantly on edge. He hadn’t foreseen any stops. This was supposed to be the express train. Nonstop intercity.

“Ten-thirty,” Mevlevi repeated. “We have over two hours. I do not wish to sit in an overheated room twiddling my thumbs waiting for this flunky. I can promise you that right now.”

“We can phone Mr. Wenker, the man from the passport office, and ask him to meet us earlier.” Nick had dreaded the prospect of being late. So much so, in fact, that he had never stopped to consider what might happen if they were early.

“No, no. Best not to disturb him.” Mevlevi appraised the gray sky. “I have another idea. I say we take the old route over the top. I’ve never been through the pass itself.”

Over the top? That was insane. It was a skating rink up there.

“The road is extremely dangerous,” Nick said, trying to keep a docent’s steady tone. “Steep, curvy. There’s likely to be quite a bit of ice. It’s not a good idea.”

A shadow crossed the Pasha’s brow. “I think it is a wonderful idea. Ask the driver how long it will take.”

The chauffeur, who had been casually smoking a cigarette by the water fountain, volunteered an answer. “With no snow, we can be up and down in an hour.”

“See, Neumann,” the Pasha said enthusiastically. “One hour. Perfect! We can add a little scenery to the trip.”

A shrill warning bell sounded in Nick’s head. He gazed at the dramatic panorama. The Alpine valley rose steeply on both sides of them, its walls lined with outcroppings of rock and stands of snow-covered pines. Jagged peaks of a dozen lesser mountains stared down through swirling mist and cloud. He had never seen a more spectacular vista. Yet now the Pasha wanted to see even more “scenery.” Out of the fucking question!

“I have to insist that we stay on the highway. The weather can change suddenly in the mountains. By the time we reach the pass, we could be trapped in a blizzard.”

“Neumann, if you knew how rarely I leave my arid little country, you would gladly allow me this pleasure. If we keep Mr. Wenker waiting a little, so be it. He won’t mind—not for the fee Kaiser is undoubtedly paying him.” Mevlevi walked to the chauffeur and clapped him on the back. “Can we make it to Lugano by ten-thirty, my good man?”

“No problem,” came the driver’s answer. He crushed the cigarette under his boot and adjusted his cap.

Nick smiled nervously at the Pasha. Tardy arrival to the meeting with Mr. Wenker of the Swiss Passport Office was a luxury they simply did not possess. The entire plan depended on precise timing. Nick and the Pasha were due at 10:30. And at 10:30, they must arrive.

He opened the car door, pausing for a final breath of air before climbing in. Mevlevi had planned this detour. The chauffeur was one of his. Had to be. No one in his right mind would drive on the old road to the Gotthard Pass in this weather. A midwinter ascent was folly. The road would be icy and ungroomed. Worse, the weather was threatening. It could begin snowing at any second.

Mevlevi strode to the automobile. Before climbing inside, he looked Nick in the eye and tapped the roof of the car twice. “Shall we go then?”

Sylvia Schon screamed at the female operator manning the bank switchboard, “I don’t care if the line is busy. Put me through on another extension. This is an emergency. Do you understand?”

“Mrs. Sutter is occupied on the telephone,” the operator explained patiently. “You may call back later. Auf Wiederhoren.”

The line went dead.

Exasperated but not defeated, Sylvia found a new dial tone and tried the Chairman’s secretary for the third time. Finally, she heard the clipped ringing she so desired.

“Secretariat Herr Kaiser, Sutter.”

“Mrs. Sutter,” Sylvia began, “where is the Chairman? I must speak with him at once.”

“I take it this is Fraulein Schon,” answered a cold voice.

“Yes,” Sylvia responded. “Where is he?”

“The Chairman is out. He cannot be reached until this afternoon.”

“I must know where he is,” Sylvia blurted. “It’s an emergency. Please tell me where I can find him.”

“Of course,” Sutter answered, ever formal. “You may find him in his office this afternoon at three P.M. Not before. May I be of service to you?”

“No, dammit. Listen to me. The Chairman is in danger. His safety and his freedom are in jeopardy.”

“Calm yourself, young lady,” Rita Sutter ordered. “What do you mean by ‘in danger’? If you wish to help Herr Kaiser, you must tell me. Or would you prefer to speak with Dr. Ott?”

“No!” Sylvia pinched her arm to remain calm. “Please, Mrs. Sutter. Please, Rita. You have to believe me. You must tell me where I can reach him. It’s for the good of us all that I find the Chairman.”

I’m sorry, Nick, she explained to the persistent shadow that would not leave her shoulder. This is my home. My life.

Rita Sutter cleared her throat. “He will be back in the office this afternoon at three o’clock. Good-bye.”

“Wait,” Sylvia Schon screamed to the dead receiver.

Nick maintained a light hold on the armrest while looking out the window. The bleak morning had taken on a dusky gloom. He was dismayed to see tufted gray clouds gathering. Snow wasn’t far off. He shifted his gaze down the mountain and spotted a single car climbing the tortuous road far below them. It moved with surprising speed, accelerating rapidly along the short straightaways before braking to negotiate the unforgiving hairpin turns. So they weren’t the only ones crazy enough to try the pass. He turned his head toward Mevlevi. The frequent sharp turns and constant acceleration and deceleration had turned his complexion yellow. His eyes were focused on the passing landscape. His window was rolled down a crack to allow a stream of freezing air to soothe his confused equilibrium.

Mevlevi leaned forward in his seat and asked the driver, “How much farther to the top?”

“Five minutes,” the driver replied. “Almost there. Don’t worry. This storm won’t hit for a while.”

Yet, no sooner had the words escaped the chauffeur’s lips than the Mercedes entered a dense cloud bank. Visibility fell from five hundred feet to twenty in the snap of a finger. The car braked sharply.

“Scheisse,” whispered the chauffeur in a voice loud enough to alarm his passengers, or at least Nick. The Pasha, however, appeared strangely pleased. The jaundiced tint to his skin had vanished instantly. He tilted his head against the headrest and looked over at Nick.

“Willful disobedience,” he stated, as if throwing out a topic for discussion. “It runs in your family, doesn’t it? The urge to tell everyone around you to piss off. Do things your own way. You should have made a career on my side of the fence.”

Nick smirked. So now even drug dealers had careers? “I like it on my side,” he said.

The Pasha smiled broadly. “I have it on good authority that you’ve developed quite an interest in the bank’s files. Mine for one. And others. Files containing information about your father’s work at the bank. Monthly activity reports, I believe they are called. Am I correct? Did you need them to corroborate those agendas of his?”

Time stopped. The car no longer moved.

For a moment Nick wondered if he would ever draw another breath. And in that moment, his mind exploded with a thousand questions. Who had told Mevlevi he had been looking at his father’s files? Who had mentioned his interest in the file for account 549.617 RR? How did Mevlevi know about the agendas? And why was he confronting Nick now?

Nick told himself to pay the questions no mind, that his sole task was to deliver the Pasha to the Hotel Olivella au Lac where Mr. Yves-Andre Wenker, an underpaid government functionary, would interview him for an hour about why he wished to obtain Swiss citizenship. Get the Pasha to the hotel and the rest of the plan would take care of itself. But the questions remained, cutting into his mind like a dull razor.

“Alexander Neumann,” mused Mevlevi. “I knew the man. But I understand you know all that. Did your precious activity reports tell you why he was murdered?”

Nick shot up in his seat. He felt the K-Bar chafing his side. Keep your mouth shut, he wanted to shout. You have no idea how badly I can hurt you. Give me an excuse. Please. Another voice ordered him to remain calm. Let it bounce off of you, it said. He’s testing you, seeing what you know. It’s all a trick. It can’t be Sylvia who told him.

“Shot, wasn’t he? Do the reports tell you if it was a single bullet that did the trick, or was it several? Three shots, perhaps? I find that to be the most effective. Never seen a man survive who took three bullets to the chest. Use dumdums. They’ll tear his heart out.”

Nick only half heard the words. A geyser of anger spurted through his body. His neck flushed and his hands tingled. He saw the world through a crimson veneer. And all the while the K-Bar remained taped beneath his arm, crying, “Use me. End it quickly. Kill him.”

He drew back his right arm to deliver a sharp jab to Mevlevi’s chin but stopped halfway there. Mevlevi held a silver nine-millimeter pistol in his hand and it was pointed at Nick’s heart. He was smiling.

Sylvia Schon marched into the Chairman’s anteroom and presented herself to Rita Sutter.

“Where is he?” Sylvia demanded. “I have to see him right away.”

Rita Sutter glanced up sharply from her typing. “Didn’t you pay the slightest attention to what I told you on the phone? I informed you clearly that the Chairman will not be back until mid-afternoon. Until then, he cannot be disturbed.”

“He must be disturbed,” Sylvia said petulantly. “If you plan on coming to work tomorrow for the same man, I have to speak with him.”

Rita Sutter rolled her chair back from her desk and removed her reading glasses. “Calm yourself. The office of the Chairman is no place for hysterics. Or threats.”

Sylvia pounded the desk with her fist. She was at her wit’s end. “Give me his phone number now. If you care about him or about the bank, you’ll tell me where he is.”

Rita Sutter flinched at the insult. She flew from her seat and rounded her desk, grasping Sylvia tightly by the forearm and forcing her to a grouping of sofa and chairs huddled low against the wall. “How dare you speak to me that way? What could you know about the feelings I have for the bank? Or for Herr Kaiser? Tell me this instant what’s gotten into you.”

Sylvia swung her arm free of the secretary’s firm grip and sat down on the sofa. “Herr Kaiser is going to be arrested this morning. Happy? Now tell me where he’s gone. Somewhere in the Tessin. Is it Lugano or Locarno? Bellinzona? We have offices in all those cities.”

“Who is going to arrest Herr Kaiser?”

“I don’t know. Probably Thorne—the American.”

“Who has done this? Is it Mr. Mevlevi? I’ve always known he was a bad man. Has he implicated Wolfgang?”

Sylvia stared at the older woman as if she were mad. “Mevlevi? Of course not. He’s going to be arrested with the Chairman. It’s Nicholas. Nicholas Neumann. He’s arranged it all. I think he’s working with the DEA.”

Rita Sutter smiled incredulously; then she shook her head and her features sagged. “So he knows? Oh, dear. What has he said?”

“That Kaiser helped Mevlevi kill his father. That he’s going to stop both of them.” Sylvia clenched her fists, willing the older woman to action. All she cared about was getting Wolfgang Kaiser away from the police and ensuring that no matter what, Rudolf Ott did not succeed him as Chairman of USB. “Tell me where we can reach him.”

Rita Sutter snapped back to attention. “I’m afraid we’ll have to wait,” she said. “At least a while. They’re in Mr. Feller’s car and I don’t have the number. They should be in Lugano in an hour. The Chairman has a meeting scheduled with Eberhard Senn, the Count Languenjoux.”

“Where is the meeting taking place?”

“At the Hotel Olivella au Lac. The count lives there during the winter.”

“Give me the number,” Sylvia snapped. “Quickly.”

“It’s on my desk. What do you plan on saying?”

“I’m going to tell the receptionist that Herr Kaiser must phone us as soon as he arrives. When did you say he should arrive?”

“Wolfgang left my house at seven-fifteen,” said Rita Sutter. “If it’s not snowing, they should be there by ten-fifteen or ten-thirty.”

Sylvia was certain she had not heard properly. “Excuse me?” she asked. “Herr Kaiser was with you last night? He spent the night at your home?”

“Why are you so surprised?” Rita Sutter asked. “I’ve loved Wolfgang my entire life. You asked whether I cared about the bank—of course I do. It’s Wolfgang’s.” She found the phone number of the Hotel Olivella au Lac and held it out in front of her.

Sylvia snatched the number from Sutter’s hand. She picked up the phone and dialed the number. When the hotel operator answered she said, “Give me the receptionist. It’s an emergency.”

Nick kept his eyes on the barrel of Mevlevi’s pistol as he lowered himself to one knee. Snow enveloped the asphalt lot crowning the Gotthardo Pass. The limousine was somewhere behind him, the chauffeur waiting at its side. Visibility was near zero. They had arrived less than a minute before. Dutifully, he’d followed Mevlevi’s instructions to step from the car and advance several paces into the mist. He knew he should be afraid, but he couldn’t get past feeling stupid and ashamed. He’d been presented with a dozen clues and ignored them all. He’d let his heart blind him. No wonder Sylvia had had such easy access to his father’s activity reports. No wonder Kaiser had accused Schweitzer. No wonder Mevlevi knew about his father’s agendas. The source for their information was all too clear: Dr. Sylvia Schon. Nick applauded their efficient chain of communication.

Mevlevi stood above him, leering. “Thank you for giving me just cause to abandon you here on this inhospitable mountaintop. I trust you’ll find your way home. But don’t bother trying the restaurant. Its doors remain closed until May. And the phone,” he shook his head, “I am sorry. I think you’ll find it doesn’t work.”

Nick stared at the gun. It was the same pistol used to kill Albert Makdisi.

“You see, I can’t have a man who cares so little for himself working for me. You really should be a bit more selfish. Kaiser was perfect. Our goals were always the same. It took so little to make him move in the right direction. I imagine he spoiled me.”

Nick blocked out the Pasha’s rambling soliloquy and his own self-abusive thoughts. He concentrated on when to use the knife, how to distract Mevlevi, and what to do with the chauffeur afterward.

“I thought you’d make a fine soldier,” Mevlevi was saying. “Or I should say, Kaiser thought so. He was so pleased at being given the chance to seduce the son of the man who had threatened to betray him. You know the rest. And we can’t have that, can we? It is a disappointment. As for Kaiser, I imagine he’ll get over your loss soon. Probably Tuesday, when the Adler Bank takes over USB and he’s out of a job.”

The Pasha leveled the gun at Nick. “I’m sorry, Nicholas. You were right about this morning. I can’t be late. I require my Swiss passport. It’s my final protection against your compatriot Mr. Thorne.”

He stepped forward, placing his shiny loafer directly below his intended victim’s jaw. Nick didn’t look up. He heard the distinct metallic click of the safety being released. And then he moved. His right hand swept under his shirt, seeking the heft of the knife, finding it, ripping it downward and outward. His arm cut the air in a vicious arc. The knife slashed through the Pasha’s trousers, slowing only to open a gash on the man’s shin. A bullet was fired and ricocheted. The Pasha fell to a knee and cursed. He brought the pistol up for another shot. Nick sprang to his feet and ran. The chauffeur tried to block his path. He had an arm inside his black jacket. Now it was emerging. A gun.

Nick headed directly for him. He spun the K-Bar in his hand so that the serrated edge saluted the ground. He drew his right arm across his chest and slashed upward, dragging the blade across the man’s shoulder, rending the arm from his body. The knife impaled itself on bone, and Nick released it. The chauffeur collapsed, screaming.

Nick ran as fast as he could, the blast of the wind drawing tears from his eyes, freezing them on his cheeks. He heard the crack of a bullet fired, and then another and another. Four. Five. He lost count. He urged his legs to pump higher, to run faster. His lungs burned with the cold air. He tilted his head back and screamed at his body to move.

And then he was falling. His right leg collapsed under him like a broken reed. His body tumbled sideways. His shoulder bounced off the asphalt and he was down.

Suddenly all was quiet. Nothing moved behind the snowy curtain. Nick heard only the pounding of his heart and the whistle of the soulless wind as it skittered across the deserted lot. He stared at his twitching leg, recognizing the pain even before he saw the blood.

He was hit.