Blindside (Michael Bennett #12)(40)

Their voices echoed a little in this less busy section of the airport. A young woman closing up her newsstand for the evening looked on silently.

Fiore faced the man and stepped toward him. The tubby FBI agent had no fear, that was for sure.

Then someone else came from the side and bumped into the younger FBI agent, Miller. He bumped into him hard enough to knock him off his feet. Apparently this guy had a hard time staying upright.

I wondered if I would have to help my captors in some sort of confrontation. Then a pair of strong hands grabbed me from behind and started leading me toward the front door.

A voice from behind me said in English, “Just keep walking. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Not doing something stupid was always my goal. I had found that I was not always able to accomplish that goal. For the moment, I moved along with my new captors. But I was looking for an angle. Something that would help me if I fought or if I ran.

I couldn’t believe it, but suddenly I was worried about the two FBI agents’ safety. I had no idea who these new guys were, but I didn’t want them to hurt any cops.

Outside, a beat-up red Fiat skidded to a stop right in front of us. I didn’t like the looks of this at all. If I got in that thing, there was no telling where I would end up. Or, more important, who I might end up meeting. I had to do something.

I started to turn and look back into the terminal. A strong forearm kept my head from turning and shoved me forward. That was one plan out the window.

Where were the uniformed cops in this airport? If something like this happened in JFK, there’d be a dozen cops pouncing on us right now. Here, about to be shoved into a car headed to God knows where, I had to think of something else fast.





CHAPTER 57





AS SOON AS I was shoved into the back seat of the Fiat, I swung my elbow back. I had no idea where I would catch the person behind me, but I was hoping it’d be the face. My plan got hazy after that.

The man behind me blocked my elbow. Hard. His forearms felt like steel. Then he surprised me.

The man called out, “Whoa, hold on, Ace. I’m on the job.”

I froze at the combination of a Brooklyn accent and the code for a plainclothes NYPD officer. “I’m on the job” goes back decades. The origin is unclear, but it means “I’m a cop.” So I listened.

The Fiat sputtered away from the curb. The airport building faded from the side-view.

I glanced out the rear window to see if the FBI agents were following. It looked like we were in the clear, although I had no idea what the FBI would drive in Estonia. In New York, if they weren’t in a Crown Vic or a Taurus, they were in some weird seized vehicle, like a Land Rover or Cadillac.

I sat back in the seat. The man next to me settled down, too, giving me space like a zookeeper would with an agitated animal.

He said, “That’s better.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Barry Davis, NYPD.” He grinned as if he’d just told a joke.

I took his hand and assessed him. He was a powerfully built man, about forty-five, with a crew cut that had gone gray.

I realized my hand was on my elbow where I had tried to strike Davis. It still throbbed a little, but I wasn’t going to admit it. I controlled my breathing, then pushed my hair back into place. I was stalling as I accepted my new surroundings and companions.

I said, “The driver doesn’t speak?”

Davis smiled. “He’d rather not be identified, seeing as how we’re way out of our home base doing a favor for Lieutenant Martindale.”

“That’s a good partner.”

“The best. And he doesn’t want to know why the FBI tried to detain you. You know, plausible deniability and all that shit. We figured they were more worried about their jurisdiction. They hate the NYPD.”

I asked, “Where are you assigned?”

“Paris.”

“No shit. And you came all the way up here to help me?”

“NYPD never leaves a detective behind.” He handed me a folded newspaper. “Or unarmed.”

I opened the paper to see a black Beretta 9mm inside. I pulled the slide back a few centimeters to check if a round was in the chamber. It was loaded and ready to go.

Davis smiled and said, “In case of emergency.” Then he handed me a card with just a phone number. “Any problems you can’t handle, call that number. I’ll be in Bonn on an unrelated issue. We’re off the books. No official engagement at all. But that doesn’t mean you’re alone.”

“Thanks. Did Martindale tell you what I was up to?”

“Nope. And I don’t want to know. Remember, we’ll deny everything if you cause a bunch of shit here.”

I was impressed by Martindale’s tight lips. “I won’t do anything that reflects poorly on us.”

Davis laughed. “Me? I was never here. How can it reflect poorly on me?”

I smiled. “I meant I won’t embarrass the NYPD.”

“Still not an issue I’m worried about. Cops have got enough to worry about. All I care about is that you get home safely.”

“Thanks. That’s my main concern, too.”

We pulled up to a four-story hotel on the edge of the city.

Davis said, “You’re all set up here. Good luck.” He handed me my small carry-on bag, which I thought had been lost in the scuffles.