The Jefferson Key

EIGHT

MALONE CALMLY WALKED DOWN A LOW-CEILINGED PASSAGE that connected the Hyatt with Grand Central Terminal. He knew that, once he was inside the busy concourse, he could take a train back to the St. Regis, where Cassiopeia was waiting. Together they could figure out what to do next.

Interesting that he thought that way.

Together.

For years he’d lived and worked alone. He’d met Cassiopeia two years back but only a few months ago, in China, had they both finally acknowledged how they felt. At first he’d thought their closer connection simply the emotional fallout from all that had happened.

But he’d been wrong.

They’d been combatants, competitors, then friends. Now they were lovers. Cassiopeia was confident, smart, and beautiful. They shared a pleasant, trusting intimacy, knowing that whatever one needed the other would provide. Like now, when a cadre of police, surely trigger-happy considering what had just happened, were on the hunt.

He could use a little help.

Actually, he could use a lot.

He exited the tunnel, passing through a set of glass doors that opened into a concourse lined with busy shops. A street exit loomed 150 feet to his right. He turned left and entered the most recognized terminus in the world, nearly a football field long and a third that wide. The famous ceiling-a gold-leaf zodiac of stars atop a cerulean blue sky-soared a hundred feet above. Atop a central information booth rose the famous four-faced, brass clock. It read 7:20 PM. Hallways and passageways branched off in all directions, leading to train platforms. Escalators moved up and down to more levels striped by tracks. Beneath him, he knew, was a massive dining concourse overflowing with cafes, bakeries, and fast-food outlets. Farther down were the subway lines. His destination.

His gaze searched the open restaurants that dominated two sides of the cavernous hall one floor up. He heard snippets of conversations from passing commuters. No word yet on Daniels’ condition.

Two suits entered the terminal from the same passage he’d just negotiated.

Three more followed.

He told himself to stay cool. There was no way he’d been tagged. They had practically nothing to go on. They were simply reconnoitering. Searching. Hoping for a break.

Three New York City cops rushed in from one of the street exits. Several more appeared to his right, emerging off escalators that led up to 45th Street.

Wrong. They were zeroing in on a target. But what had Stephanie’s note said? You can’t trust anyone. He needed to head down two levels to the subway. Unfortunately, there was now no option but to head left and take the exit out onto 42nd Street.

Had that been their plan?

He crossed a wide pedestrian bridge that spanned a concrete walk. One of the police emerged from the far side of the information booth and rushed his way.

He kept walking.

No police or suits stood before him.

A marble balustrade, waist-high, protected the bridge’s edges. He spotted a narrow ledge on the other side of the rail that led off the bridge and angled down to the walkway below.

The unexpected always was best, but he’d have to move fast. The cop behind him was surely only a few steps away.

He sidestepped, whirled, then brought a knee to the man’s gut, shoving his attacker to the ground. He hoped a few precious seconds had been bought, enough that he could evade the others still in the main hall.

He leaped the marble railing and balanced himself on the ledge, cautious of the fact that the drop down was a good thirty feet. Too much for a jump. He hustled forward, arms out for balance, moving down, leaping off the ledge when the drop was less than ten feet.

Agents and police appeared above.

Guns were drawn.

Alarm spread through the people on the lower path as they saw the weapons and began to scatter. He used their confusion as cover and raced forward, beneath the overpass, out of the line of fire. It would take the cops above him a few seconds to dart to the other side of the bridge, which should be enough time for an escape. The Oyster Bar restaurant opened to his left, the main dining concourse to his right. He knew that a dozen or more exits led from the dining concourse to tracks, trains, stairs, elevators, and ramps. He could catch any one of the trains and buy a ticket once on board.

He hustled into the dining hall and started for one of the exits on the far side. A maze of eateries, tables, chairs, and people lay in between.

Plenty of cover.

Two men appeared. They’d been waiting on the far side of a central pillar. They leveled weapons and an old cliche came to mind.

You can’t outrun the radio.

He raised both arms.

Shouts came, ordering him to the floor.

He dropped to his knees.