CHAPTER NINETEEN #2
“Of the six locations, we’re looking for one that a fully-grown, kidnapped man can be dragged to, and passersby won’t take notice.”
“None of them,” Doyle said dryly.
“Twenty-Third and Fifth is the Flatiron and Madison Square Park,” Larkin said. “So that’s out. Thirty-Second and Fifth is Koreatown. There’re old multiuses and walk-ups, yes, but it’s such a busy neighborhood that it’s highly unlikely to be the cross streets in question.”
“The farther east, generally the quieter the area,” Doyle suggested.
“Fifty-Third and Second is still Midtown. A lot of high-rises and office buildings.”
“What’s the other option?”
“Thirty-Fifth and Second.”
“Murray Hill,” Doyle said. “Pretty chill neighborhood, finance bros notwithstanding.”
Larkin closed his eyes and pulled up his mental map a second time.
He placed himself in the middle of Second Avenue, looking uptown with Kips Bay at his back.
The basketball and handball courts of St. Vartan Park were to the northeast, and an Armenian cathedral of the same name was to his immediate right.
Once luxury condos, now outdated eyesores, loomed several blocks north, but that immediate intersection was still made up of hundred-year-old multiuses—AC units in the apartment windows overhead, and restaurants, office supply stores, and beauty salons on the ground floors, with undoubtably some sort of city maintenance on the sidewalks or roads to inconvenience—
Larkin’s eyes snapped open. The exit sign for East Seventy-First whizzed past. He pulled up the browser on his phone and navigated to the webpage for Manhattan Community Board Six.
He tapped Work Notices and began scrolling through all of the approved work orders affecting the vicinity of Murray Hill.
“My unmitigated obsession—what you lovingly refer to as dedication—introduced me to Community Board websites in April of 2018, when I got home from work one evening to discover Eightieth Street was closed to vehicle traffic without any posted notices explaining the reason I had to park the Audi nearly five blocks away.
Turns out, our street needed substantial infrastructure upgrades and it was closed for nearly a year.
I followed the progress, or lack thereof, on the Community Board website.
“But to my point: While on that phone call with Noonan, I heard the sound of what I believe to be popping wood—like old joists in a floor needing repair—and there’s currently a multiuse on the southwest corner of Thirty-Fifth and Second that’s under repair, which required the evacuation of both the storefront and all tenants in the upstairs apartments.
Overhead protection and scaffolding has been installed, and construction is underway to both the interior and exterior, weekdays only, weather permitting.
Expected completion is October of this year. ”
Doyle didn’t miss a beat when he said, “You’re fucking brilliant, Evie.”
“Thank you.”
Doyle put the gas pedal to the floor as they passed East Forty-Ninth, swerving around the growing traffic like the Audi was trying to show off.
Thirteen minutes.
“Evie.”
“What.”
“Stop looking at your watch.”
Eleven minutes.
Doyle turned off the freeway at East Thirty-Seventh, sped through the green light at First, laid on the horn as he coaxed his way around a moving van and throng of ambulettes parked outside of a multispecialty medical facility, and narrowly missed clipping a minivan that decided to turn for the Queens Midtown tunnel at the last minute.
“ Jesus Christ .”
“We’re fine.”
Nine minutes.
Doyle turned left onto Second Avenue, only to be halted by active roadwork.
The entire block was being resurfaced and traffic was funneled into a single lane by an NYPD traffic officer.
The roar of machinery, the stink of tar and hot asphalt, the shouting of men wearing hardhats and sporting sunburns—
“Pull onto the sidewalk,” Larkin said.
“The side—”
“ Do it !”
Doyle spun the wheel and went up onto the sidewalk, pushing back an orange barrier with the bumper in the process.
Larkin took his seat belt off and climbed out of the car.
Eight minutes.
Upon seeing Doyle’s maneuver to get them out of the gridlock, the traffic officer came running toward them. “Sir! Sir !” he shouted, waving his hands. “Absolutely not!”
Larkin shut the passenger door, retrieved his badge, and flashed it.
“Tow it if you don’t like it.” He looked back as the trunk was slammed, only to see Doyle had retrieved flashlights from the roadside emergency kit, which was smart, considering an active worksite may or may not have power.
Larkin motioned and the two of them took off in an all-out run, sun in their eyes and doomsday clock counting down, down, down.
They reached Thirty-Fifth in no time, crossing the street and glimpsing the Empire State Building as they moved—one hundred and two stories of architectural feet soaring overhead and gleaming in the evening sun like a hundred million diamonds.
The work notices for the neighborhood proved to be accurate, and the lot on the southwest corner was indeed blocked off with the usual green plywood and spray-painted with notices reading: POST NO BILLS.
A sidewalk shed had been erected and netting surrounded the building, both a means of protecting pedestrians while repairs to the building’s facade and roof were ongoing.
Larkin rushed into the jungle of scaffolding and found the access door on the street side of the building.
The usual lock and chain to keep the curious and the troublemakers out of active sites over the weekend was missing.
Larkin and Doyle checked over each other’s shoulders for any foot traffic, unholstered their weapons, then slipped inside.
Six minutes.
The temperature dipped in the manmade shade, but the relative darkness forced them to turn on the flashlights and move with caution, so as to avoid banging a shin, knee, or face into an unexpected piece of industrial machinery.
To the left was an entrance for what looked like the storefront—a smoothie shop, maybe—and directly ahead was the front door for tenants.
Larkin approached, his steps loud as debris popped and cracked underfoot.
He tried the knob, not surprised to find this door had been left unlocked.
They were walking straight into the lion’s den.
But Noonan and Murray had taken Noah, and what was Larkin supposed to do?
He spared a glance over his shoulder and whispered, “We don’t split up.”
Doyle nodded.
Five minutes.
Larkin pushed open the door onto a pitch-black vestibule.
The inner door had been left wide open, and the darkness beyond beckoned him forward like a bad dream.
He raised the flashlight in his right hand, rested his gun hand atop for stability, and started forward.
He wanted to run up the stairs, take them two at a time, shout and scream for Noah, but there was no telling what Noonan—what Worth—might’ve planned for.
The air was hot, stagnant, musty, and unbearably still. Sweat rolled down Larkin’s spine and prickled his hairline. Every step he and Doyle took sounded amplified, a megaphone announcing their arrival, ruining any chance at an element of surprise.
Four minutes.
There were two apartments on the second floor. Both doors were locked.
The crunching and cracking of debris got worse on the next set of stairs, and the drywall dust was so abundant that Doyle had to stop briefly to stifle a sneeze.
Two more apartments, and two more locked doors.
The fourth-floor landing squeaked loudly underfoot, and—
— pop , pop , crack —
—perfectly replicated the noises that’d emanated from Noonan’s phone call. Larkin moved toward the door on the left, checked over his shoulder to confirm Doyle had his weapon trained on the staircase and apartment opposite them, then tried the knob.
The door creaked open.
Larkin raised his flashlight and SIG back into firing stance and took in the details as they became available through the tunnel of light: painted pink walls, bulky shapes of furniture hidden under drop cloths, personal belongings boxed and stacked against the far walls—the owner no doubt hoping to avoid any damage done to their possessions during the building’s overhaul.
Larkin took a step through the doorway, flashed his light to the left, illuminating an open threshold leading deeper into the apartment.
He took a step sideways, keeping his back to the wall as Doyle came in and lit up the right side of the apartment.
Someone let out a muffled sob that devolved into a gut-wrenching scream unable to escape his throat.
Larkin knew that voice.
He’d known it for seven years.
He turned and aimed his light in the same direction as Doyle’s, finding Noah sitting in a chair in the middle of the open kitchen, ankles duct-taped to either wooden leg, arms behind his back, and more than one strip of duct tape across his mouth.
Even from across the room, Larkin could see the black eye, the bloody nose, the tears staining Noah’s cheeks.
Two minutes.
Larkin covered Doyle as he moved to the kitchen and then walked backward, SIG still trained on the dark hallway. He reached the tiled floor just as Doyle holstered his weapon, crouched before Noah, and pressed one hand to his cheek as he peeled back the tape from his mouth.
“— erett !” Noah cried the moment the tape was pulled from his lips.
Larkin hushed him.
Doyle retrieved his ring of house keys, moved behind Noah, and used the teeth to cut into the tape around his wrists.
Larkin turned at an angle and said, “You’re okay. I’m here.”
“I—I—”
Doyle tore the tape and Noah flung his arms out and around Larkin’s waist.
Larkin stumbled a little and had to twist out of Noah’s hold so he could keep a line of sight on the hall. He pocketed the flashlight and reached back to put a hand against Noah’s cheek. “You’re okay,” he said again as Doyle moved to the bindings on Noah’s ankles.
“N-No, th-there’s—over there.” Noah was pointing to the sink.
Larkin turned to follow the gesture.
“Listen,” Noah said, and the three of them fell silent.
Tick-tock , tick-tock , tick-tock .
Larkin stepped past Noah, retrieving his flashlight as he moved toward the mechanical sound. He brought the beam across the countertop, empty but for a single sheet of paper that said:
BOOM
—squish
crack—
“Larkin?” Doyle asked.
“Everett?” Noah echoed in a shaky voice.
Larkin leaned forward, shined his light into the kitchen sink, and illuminated a homemade bomb attached to an old windup kitchen timer.
One minute.
“Ira,” Larkin said evenly. “Finish up. Quickly.” He holstered his weapon, retrieved his phone, and dialed 911. “This is Everett Larkin,” he told dispatch. “Shield 928. I need the bomb squad—”
Noah’s crying began anew.
“Thirty-Fifth and Second. The building with a sidewalk shed. Tell them there might be an active shooter in the area as well.” Larkin ended the call and returned to Noah as Doyle got the tape free from one ankle and swung around to the second. “Noah, are you able to stand.”
“I—y-yeah.”
Larkin nodded and took Noah’s hand, pulling him to his feet.
“Almost there,” Doyle said.
“You’re on the fourth floor,” Larkin explained as he passed Noah his own flashlight.
“Go down three flights of stairs. The vestibule door is wide open and the front door is unlocked. Be mindful of machinery outside, but keep going straight. When you get outside, I want you to run uptown. Don’t stop. ”
“Are you not coming?” Noah all but screeched, clutching the flashlight to his chest, its tunnel of light erratic and casting a spooky, campfire glow across his usually model-good looks.
“We’ll be right behind you. But we’ve only got the one light.”
Thirty seconds.
“Got it!” Doyle exclaimed.
“ Go ,” Larkin ordered, and he pushed Noah toward the apartment door.
Noah stumbled briefly, like he couldn’t seem to find his own legs, and then he was off, feet pounding stairs, banister vibrating, debris cracking and scraping with every footfall.
Larkin grabbed Doyle and forced him out the door.
He followed the beam of the flashlight that Doyle kept pointed at the ground between them, raced to keep up with Doyle’s longer stride, quicker descent, their measured steps now an all-out race.
Larkin heard a crash from the ground floor, could hear Noah swearing, but he kept moving.
Larkin grabbed the post topper at the second-floor landing, used the momentum to spin him around, nearly fell down the next set of stairs in his rush to reach Doyle, who was already at the bottom, but managed to catch himself by grabbing onto the wall and banister.
Larkin jumped the last two steps and raced through the vestibule and out the front door with Doyle. In the bouncing beam of the light, he saw Noah standing at the construction entrance and shouted, “Out the fucking door!”
“It’s locked ,” Noah screamed, and he shoved his body against it, as if to make certain Larkin believed him.
Locked?
Fifteen seconds.
“This way,” Doyle ordered, and he ran to their left, where a swath of sunlight came in through a gap in the plywood perimeter. “Larkin, help me.” He counted to three, and they both rammed their shoulders against the wall. “Again!”
The plywood cracked, splintered, and Doyle’s momentum threw him through the break, and he crashed onto the sidewalk beyond. Larkin turned, grabbed Noah, and shoved him through the hole, passing him to Doyle as his partner scrambled to his feet to take Noah’s outstretched hand.
Five seconds.
“Larkin!”
The ground began to shake underfoot and then the building exploded overhead.