Killer Instinct (Instinct #2)(73)

There was no daylight between the door and the latch jamb, but I could tell the door was propped open ever so slightly. It wasn’t by accident. Whoever was inside with her wasn’t invited.

Foxx drew his Glock even faster than I did mine. I knew what he was thinking. It was the Mudir. The Mudir wouldn’t have been invited, let alone welcome given the circumstances.

Only this didn’t feel like him.

Foxx raised three fingers, then two, then one. Now!

He went high and I went low as we peeled around, moving inside. Scan left, scan right, scan back again.

There was no movement, but the place had been turned upside down. Closets had been riffled through, coats and jackets strewn all over the floor. Cabinets and credenzas, their drawers yanked out and emptied. As we made our way around the first floor, there were all the telltale signs of a burglary. Except the more it looked like one, the more I was convinced it wasn’t.

Whoever did this was looking for something of value, all right. Just not anything having to do with money.

Foxx pointed to the stairs. Up we go …

The only thing we could hear was our own footsteps as we reached the second floor. Room after room looked the same. It was as if M?tley Crüe had spent the night. Even the mattresses had been flipped.

I took the lead at the end of the hall as we approached Sadira’s bedroom. I knew the layout all too well. Step and listen, step and listen. There still wasn’t a sound to be heard. It was dead quiet.

Then, suddenly, it wasn’t.

The noise came from behind us. Downstairs. Panicked running, heading toward the front door. We’d missed a room, a closet, a basement—something on the first floor. Damn! How? Never mind …

Go!

We sprinted down the hallway, the next sounds coming at us from out on the street. We couldn’t see it unfold, but we could piece it together as we flew down the stairs.

Foxx’s driver, Briggs, had blasted his horn before jumping out from behind the wheel. He yelled, “Freeze,” but got fired on instead. One shot, immediately followed by one of his own. Just one. Maybe that’s all he needed. Or maybe we were too late.

Foxx and I bolted out of Sadira’s townhouse. Briggs was lying in the street and grabbing his right shoulder, blood seeping through his fingers. Foxx went to him while I spun around, trying to catch a glimpse of the gunman.

“There!” said Briggs, his hand dripping red as he pointed down the street.

There were two of them, about thirty yards away. One had just swung open the large back door of a van; the other was loading their cargo. Even in the murky light of dawn, I could see her bound and gagged. Sadira was writhing, trying to break free. The only good news was that she was still alive.

I traded glances with Foxx. What do we do? Only I already knew. I was back in the fold.

“C’mon,” said Foxx, helping Briggs to his feet. That’s what we do. We take care of our own first. “We need to get you to Raborn.”

Raborn was the underground emergency medical center run by the Agency for operatives or others who fit the bill due to special circumstances. Namely, the need to avoid police reports or the press.

“Hell, no,” said Briggs. He glanced at his shoulder and shrugged the other one. “I’ll call an Uber.”

An Uber? He was serious. Kids these days.

He grabbed his cell, wincing as he reached into his pocket. He was in pain, but he was going to live. Sadira was an entirely different story.

Up ahead, the van pulled away from the curb. We watched as it sped off down Hudson Street, tires screaming. Sadira was literally disappearing before our eyes.

Foxx and I turned to each other again.

Say no more.





CHAPTER 104


FOXX TOOK the wheel. I grabbed shotgun.

The van had a big head start, but it was still in our sights. On an open road, we’d close the gap in no time. Except this was lower Manhattan. With its narrow streets and cross traffic, we might as well have been miles apart.

Not for long, said Foxx’s right foot.

He jammed on the gas, throwing the Expedition into Drive so fast I was nearly knocked out by the headrest.

“Who are they?” I asked. Nothing about this fit the Mudir.

“Hell if I know,” said Foxx as he swerved around a taxi, nearly clipping a parked Jeep. “But apparently she’s worth more to them alive.”

The van turned onto Bethune, a long block south of us, heading now on a straight shot west, but they would soon run out of real estate. Up ahead of them was the West Side Highway.

I turned to Foxx. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

There was only one way for that van to go when it hit the highway. North.

We hadn’t lost them, but we weren’t gaining on them either.

“Do it,” I said.

Foxx jerked the wheel to the right as he made the turn onto narrow West 12th going the wrong way. We hurtled over the uneven pavers and squeezed at full speed past the few oncoming cars, their horns blaring at us.

“Hold on,” he said calmly. He was dialed in.

Yanking the wheel as he pumped the brakes, Foxx threw us into the next turn. We were somewhere between drifting and fishtailing around the corner onto the West Side Highway, now heading north. With three lanes to choose from, Foxx gunned it. I leaned over, glancing at the speedometer. Even while weaving through the morning traffic, we were soon pushing eighty, eighty-five, ninety—