Private Moscow

Chapter 6

I was winded but otherwise uninjured. I gasped in a lungful of air, pushed the airbag away and jumped out of the cab. The man I was chasing staggered out of the postal truck, dazed and disorientated, but as I started toward him, his flight instinct kicked in and he started running. I followed, and within moments he’d shaken off the worst of the collision and we were both sprinting at full pelt. My chest was sore as I ran along William Street and came to Hanover Square, but adrenalin kept the worst of the pain at bay. The shooter darted between slow-moving cars, vaulted a line of low railings and raced across the tiny square, which was covered in thick snow. I followed, crunching through ice-crusted powder, matching him stride for stride. Up ahead, the building line opened out a little and I saw gray clouds hanging low in the gaps between the skyscrapers. We were near the river.

The assassin jumped the railings on the south side of the square and ran across the street, earning a horn blast from a startled driver. I followed and chased him down Old Slip, a narrow road that ran down to South Street and the river. I collided with a man and woman coming out of the New York City Police Museum, housed in the old First Precinct. I skirted past the fearful couple and sprinted on. The shooter ran across South Street, forcing an eighteen-wheeler to a halt, and sprinted beneath FDR Drive, the four-lane overpass that followed the riverfront. I raced under the busy highway. The sound of the traffic rumbling overhead was almost deafening and it masked my pounding steps, so the assassin wasn’t aware how close I was until I was on him. I’d got within striking distance when the man suddenly turned and swung his pistol at me. I parried the weapon as the gun went off, and the bullet sliced the air a few inches from my ear, and the loud gunshot set my head ringing.

The assassin stood his ground, and up close I could see the seams and folds of the prosthetics that masked his true identity. He tried to bring the gun round for another shot, but I swung a punch and caught him on the chin. His gun arm flailed and I knocked it down, sending the weapon flying. It clattered across the sidewalk and skidded beneath the eighteen-wheeler. The driver was ignoring the horn blasts of the angry motorists backed up to his rear, and had his phone out filming us.

The shooter came at me with a combination of punches that made me realize I was dealing with a skilled combatant. I stepped back, ducking and blocking each blow, but one slipped my guard: a right cross that caught me on the cheek. Then came the flash of white familiar to every fighter who’s ever taken a powerful head blow, and for an instant I was blind. I covered up, tucking my head into my forearms, and absorbing his assault.

My eyesight returned and I stepped back as he swung a roundhouse. His foot swiped the air in front of me, and when it landed he was turned slightly, offering me a shot at his kidneys. I went in with a left and right that made him buck with pain, and as he crouched to cover the spot, I swung a fist into his face. The prosthetic rubber flattened, and so did the man’s real nose. He had no nasal bone, so there was nothing to break.

A gunshot rang out from the other side of the road and echoed beneath the overpass. I glanced in the direction of the sound and saw a man in jeans and a thick leather jacket trying to target me with a pistol. He shot again, and this time wasn’t too far off hitting me. I put the assassin between us, and ran for cover behind the eighteen-wheeler. The driver ignored me and kept his phone pointed at the shooter who was trying to pick me off.

I heard the bullets hit the trailer as I took cover behind it. The driver must have thought things were getting too hot, because the truck shifted into first and an instant later it lurched forward. As I watched my cover drive away, I desperately searched for an alternative, but when the trailer cleared my line of sight, there was no sign of the assassin or his accomplice. I ran beneath the highway and reached a cycle path on the bank of the East River. I looked right and saw the two men slow to a walk as they approached a chopper at the Manhattan Heliport.

The red Bell 407 was on one of the pads on the jetty that protruded into the river, and its blades were turning. The moment the assassin and the guy in the leather jacket climbed aboard, it took to the sky.

I stopped running and caught my breath as the chopper followed the river in front of me. I saw the assassin watching me from inside the aircraft, and made myself a silent promise.

We would meet again.