Apprentice in Death (In Death #43)(34)

The flop smelled of piss and roaches. But it didn’t matter. The sight line straight up Broadway to Times Square was unobstructed. The thinning sleet, even the occasional sky tram winging by didn’t distract.

“I have the target.”

The trainer nodded, picking out the target himself through a scope. “You have the green. Take your time. Take the target out.”

“I want more than three this time. I can do six. I want six.”

“Speed and accuracy, remember. Three is enough.”

“It sets a pattern, and I can take six.”

After a moment, the trainer lowered the glasses. “Four. Don’t argue. Do the job. Argue, we abort.”

Pleased, the apprentice watched the people thronging the streets of Times Square, watched them walk and gawk, snap their pictures, run their videos, haul their bags of worthless souvenirs.

And began to do the job.

Officer Kevin Russo patrolled with his friend and fellow cop, Sheridon Jacobs. They’d just grabbed a couple of loaded dogs off a cart on their break, and his sat warm in his belly.

He liked his beat—always something happening, always something to see. Of course, he’d only been assigned to Times Square the last four months, but he didn’t see it getting old anytime soon.

“There’s Grabby Larry,” he said to Jacobs as he watched the aging street thief casing the tourists. “Guess we’d better run him off.”

“He’s showing the miles.” Jacobs shook her head. “There ought to be a retirement home for old street thieves. Guy has to be pushing the century mark.”

“I think he passed it a few years ago. Jesus, he doesn’t even see us coming.”

They didn’t hurry. Grabby Larry wasn’t as nimble as he’d been in his prime; and the week before, his mark had beat him to the ground with her purse—the one he’d hoped to steal.

Russo started to grin at the memory, then today’s mark—a woman of about seventy, with a bright red purse dangling from her arm—dropped like a stone.

“Ah, shit, call the MTs, Sherry.” As Russo darted forward, a kid on an airboard in a small pack of kids on airboards went flying, took out a trio of pedestrians like bowling pins.

Russo saw blood bloom on the back of the kid’s bright blue jacket.

“Get down! Down! Take cover.”

Before the first scream, the first realization of those around him, Russo pulled his weapon. He leaped toward the kid in hopes of shielding him from another strike. But the third hit Russo in the center of his forehead, a scant inch below the brim of his cap. Russo was gone before he hit the ground, before the fourth body fell, and a fifth.

While chaos erupted blocks away, while screams ripped the air and tires squealed, the apprentice sat back, smiled up at the trainer.

“Five was a compromise.”

The trainer lowered the scope, aimed stern disapproval. But pride shone through it. “Pack it up. We’re done here.”

—

In Whitney’s office, Dallas’s communicator buzzed almost simultaneously with Whitney’s ’link signaling a breakthrough communication.

“I’ll get back to you,” he told the media liaison. His eyes met Eve’s as they both answered.

“Dallas.”

“Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Officer down, Broadway and Forty-Four. Multiple victims. Four confirmed dead. Wounded unverified.”

“Acknowledged. On my way. Sir.”

“We have a dead cop. I’m coming with you. Let’s move.”

She tagged Peabody on the way. “Garage. Now. We have another strike, Times Square. He got a cop.”

Automatically, Eve turned toward the glides. “They’re faster, sir.”

If anyone thought it odd the commander rushed to keep pace with her, weaving through bodies on the glides, they were discreet enough to keep it to sidelong looks—and most just quickly made a hole.

Halfway down, Whitney grabbed Eve’s arm. “Elevator. I’ll bypass from here.”

When Whitney muscled onto the jammed elevator, cops, not so discreetly, came to attention. And no one bitched—out loud—when he swiped his ID card and called for the garage.

“What level?” he snapped at Eve.

“Level One.”

After ordering it, he glanced at her. “Your rank rates higher.”

“I like Level One.”

“The way you like an office the size of a broom closet.”

“I guess. Yes, sir. Commander, it’s going to be mayhem.”

He pulled a black scarf out of the pocket of the coat he’d yanked on as they’d rushed out of his office. “I’ve dealt with mayhem.”

Eve decided to be discreet, and said nothing.

They shoved off the elevator into the echoing garage. One glance told Eve they’d beaten Peabody, and that gave Whitney time to survey her ride.

“What kind of vehicle is this, and why in hell don’t you have better?”

“It’s my personal vehicle, and better than it looks.” Quickly, she opened the locks, glancing back as she heard the elevator clump. “Take shotgun, sir.”

As he climbed in, she sent a warning stare toward Peabody. “Take the back. The commander’s riding with us.”

Eve slid behind the wheel. “Speed’s key. We’re going hot.”