The naked edge

13

In lengthening shadows, Brockman stared at the glut of traffic and told his driver to leave the car in Global Protective Service's garage. "I can walk home faster. Call me in an hour. I'll tell you when to pick me up."

After the stress of the day's events, he welcomed the chance to move. Six feet one inches tall, with two hundred and ten pounds of solid muscle, he exercised ninety minutes a day, using weights, a treadmill, and a multi-purpose flex machine in his apartment. Although the temperature was forty degrees and he wore only his suit, he welcomed the chill as he loosened his tie and took long strides past Madison Avenue onto Fifty-Third Street.

Stretching his legs, dodging pedestrians, he almost broke into a run as he reached Fifth Avenue and headed north. The exertion warmed him. The blaring horns, rumbling engines, and choking exhaust of traffic blurred until he was hardly aware of them. He concentrated on the satisfaction of using his muscles, of feeling blood surge through his veins.

Fifty-Eighth Street. Ahead, beyond jewelry and designer clothing stores, he saw Central Park stretching away on his left, its leaves red, yellow, and gold in the last of the sun. Sixty-Third Street. Now only the park was on his left, its bushes, boulders, trees, and grass looking surreal in the concrete of the city. He took out his encrypted cell phone and pressed numbers.

"Case," he said, using the name of a knife manufacturer as a code word. He waited for a reply. "New Orleans," he explained to the person listening. "I'm supposed to fly there tonight. Cavanaugh has the company jet, so I need to go out to La Guardia and take a commercial flight." He waited for a response, then added, "He went to Iowa."

Brockman put the phone away and walked even faster. He purged his mind of traffic, of pedestrians, of bicycle messengers and kids on skateboards. He imagined that he hiked through a wilderness, far from people and the messes they made. In his reverie, the only sound was the crackle of his footsteps on fallen leaves as his skin tingled and he inhaled mountain air.

At Seventy-First, he turned right, went a block and a half, and entered his apartment building. There, he took the elevator to the tenth floor. His forehead was beaded with sweat as he walked along a corridor, reached his apartment, and unlocked it. When he opened the door, the intrusion detector began its shrill beep, giving him twenty seconds to press buttons on a number pad to the right of the door.

Despite his years in the security profession, Brockman made the error that virtually every intrusion-detector owner makes. The anxiety that the beep-beep-beep created caused him to leave the door open while he pressed the buttons on the pad. Only when the beeping stopped did he turn toward the door to shut it. But the beep, beep, beep had obscured the sound of approaching footsteps. Suddenly, Brockman felt a sharp sensation in his right thigh. Reaching to draw his pistol from under his suit coat, he saw Ali Karim's dark face glaring from the hallway. Brockman's leg felt warm. As the dart in him spread its toxin, Ali's angry features seemed to waver.

Brockman floated backward, downward, Ali's blurred hands striking him, yanking his pistol away.