The Thirteenth Skull (Alfred Kropp #3)(52)

“I have a wife!” he yelled back. “A family! I never had any business in this business! You don’t understand what it’s like to face losing everything, Alfred.”

Oh boy, I thought. Oh, boy.

“They said they’d kill them if I didn’t cooperate!” he went on.

“Did you set him up, Mr. Needlemier? Did you give them Samuel?”

“I would pay any price to protect my family. I am not ashamed of that. I will not apologize for that.”

“That’s it,” I said. “I knew it. It didn’t make sense. Even at half speed, Samuel could have taken Vosch. You lured him somewhere and they ambushed him.”

“I saved his life,” Mr. Needlemier said. “Say what you want, judge me if you wish, but I saved his life.”

“They’re going to kill him anyway.”

“Alfred, truly, I never meant to harm anyone. I was put in an untenable position. I can’t . . . there must be . . . please, Alfred, tell me what to do. Is there anything I can do to help you?”

I remembered this fifteen-year-old kid, scared out of his mind, chasing a tall, lion-haired man down a hallway, crying after him as he marched to his doom, There’s gotta be something I can do. Take me with you; I could help.

And I remembered the tall man’s answer.

“Yes,” I said. “Pray.”

01:06:38:29

I was sitting in Captain Jack’s drinking a Diet Coke and listening to an old Billy Joel song (“Saturday night and you’re still hangin’ around . . .”), when a voice came over the intercom instructing Alfred Kropp to meet his party at baggage claim. Baggage claim, I thought. Perfect. I dropped a five on the table and said goodbye to Captain Jack’s. I felt like a regular.

Two men wearing trench coats were standing by the conveyer belt, hands jammed into their pockets, hats pulled low over their faces. Between them stood a third man, tall and pale, with a hound-dog face and very bushy, very black eyebrows. His face showed no expression as I approached; if he was happy to see me, he wasn’t going to show it. I figured he wasn’t happy to see me. I was right.

“You shouldn’t have done this, Alfred,” Samuel said.

Vosch was standing on his right, the slit-eyed, flat-face brute I first met driving the Town Car on his left. I ignored Samuel and turned to Vosch.

“Where’s Jourdain?” I asked.

“At the end of the circle,” Vosch said.

“A circle doesn’t have an end,” I pointed out.

“Or a beginning,” Vosch said.

He smiled a humorless smile and gestured toward the terminal doors.

“Shall we? We have a private jet with all the amenities.”

I looked at Samuel. He looked back at me.

“Which one do you want?” I asked him.

He cut his eyes toward Vosch. “That one.”

“Take the big one. Vosch is mine.”

Samuel’s chin dipped toward his chest. Mr. Flat-Face’s mouth came open and he said, “What?” Samuel punched him in the throat. Flat-Face fell to his knees, spitting and choking. Vosch’s right hand rose from his pocket. I reached behind my back. Vosch raised his gun toward Samuel.

I didn’t fumble. I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t weigh the odds. Nueve would have been proud.

I shot Vosch point-blank in the chest.

He fell straight back, landing hard on his butt, his shot going wild and puncturing the ceiling tile. Flat-Face reached inside his coat. “Sam,” I called softly, tossing the gun from my waistband at him as I rushed toward Vosch. Samuel caught the gun and swung the muzzle against Flat-Face’s flat face.

I straddled Vosch’s chest and put the end of my gun against the end of his nose.

“Get his gun,” I called to Samuel.

Behind me, I heard someone yell, “Call security!”

I pulled the gun from Vosch’s hand and shouted, “Somebody call the paramedics! This guy’s been shot!”

I bumped Samuel in the shoulder as I pushed off Vosch’s chest. Sam was holding a gun in each hand just like me, the one I threw him and the one he took from Flat-Face.

“We go,” I said.

He took it in quickly: the terrified onlookers, the red emergency light pulsing, the alarm howling in the distance. He didn’t need me to explain it to him: Vosch was down and Flat-Face was in no shape to chase us. Time to haul it, not kick it.

We burst through the doors into the biting cold. A taxi was parked next to the curb, engine idling so the driver could run the heater. The only other vehicle nearby was one of those big tour buses. Samuel dived into the front seat of the taxi; I took the back. He put one of the guns against the startled driver’s temple and told him to get out. No big surprise when he did. Samuel slid over, slammed the door the cabbie left open in his haste, yanked the gearshift into drive, and floored the gas. He merged without looking into the driveway leading to the exit, scraping the side of a minivan that had slammed on its brakes to avoid running over the terrified cabdriver.

I twisted around to look out the back window. Vosch and Flat-Face came out of the building. Flat-Face pointed at our cab and Vosch didn’t hesitate—he made straight for the bus.

“What is he, Superman?” I wondered. “I shot him pointblank.”

“They’re wearing Kevlar vests,” Samuel said in his trademark deadpan.