Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Brie
“How’s that Civic?”
Quinn’s on speaker, and I’m crouched down in a velveteen seat that’s seen better days. Circular burns dot the worn velveteen seat cushions and the whole thing smells like someone doused it in chemicals to wash away decades of cigarette smoke.
“It works. No noticeable dents on the bodywork. Paint job’s faded with age but no identifiable rust patterns.
” The name of the game is to sit in a car no one looks at twice.
Can’t be too new or nice, and it can’t be too damaged.
An early two thousands Honda Civic does the job.
“The smell…” I wrinkle my nose, not that she can see.
“Is it bad? If I need a different rental source, say so.”
“It’s not the best, but it’s not supposed to be, right?”
My location on the street is a good one, parked in a row of similar sedans crowded between the limited section of pavement that allows parking, with a view of those getting dropped off to enter the club.
Three hours in and every member arrives the same way, via car service or taxi.
I snap license plates and send them to Quinn, but given we have been granted interior surveillance access, it’s not a necessary step.
It’s just filling the time and allows us to match plates with members.
“Alright girl. Chain’s moving.” We’ve started referring to Eddie as chain because of his ever-present gold chain. “Side door exit.”
“No car at the curb.”
The side street is one-way and the only access is a right turn from the road I’m sitting on.
“He’s out,” Quinn says. I hear keys clacking—she’s sending it to the team.
One. Two. Three.
There—he appears. I crank the Civic. He’s on the sidewalk, scanning south. A small sedan with an Uber light pulls up. I note the plate as I edge into traffic. It’s light now, but one wrong turn and the district chokes.
“He’s headed north,” I announce.
“Noah’s up,” Quinn says.
“Turning onto Ninth. He might be headed out of the city.”
“Noah’s on Tenth. If he cuts to the West Side, he’ll take point.”
I’m about five cars back. From what I can tell, Eddie’s head’s bent down, not paying attention at all to his surroundings.
“Traffic is light,” I say. If it were heavy and he stayed on the avenue, I’d suspect a close destination. Light traffic makes his route inconclusive.
I continue on with the speed of traffic, mostly hitting greens. It’s not a chase as Eddie seems to be completely unaware. It’s when we’re crossing into the twenties that it hits me. “I bet he’s going to Penn Station. He may be heading home.”
He turns right onto Thirty-fourth—Penn Station, confirmed. I hunt for parking and radio Quinn. “Drop point: Eighth. Do you have CCTV in Penn?”
“I’m working on it,” Quinn says. “It’ll be delayed—messy feeds. What’s his outfit?”
“No hat. Black sports coat, black crewneck, black trousers.”
“Does he always dress like a waiter?”
“Not always, but black seems to be the predominant color of choice for Sanctuary employees.” With a smirk, I add, “Gold chain shines.”
“So he’s not doing anything to avoid being spotted?”
“No. Appears oblivious.” Miraculously, there’s a spot to my right so I take it. “I nabbed street parking on Thirty-fourth.”
As I park, I lose sight of Eddie’s car, but I know where he’s going. And he’ll lose time exiting the car.
Within seconds, I’ve parked in a way that would make Kristof, my old driving instructor, proud and step out of the Honda, blending into the pedestrian traffic with a walk-run that matches the pace of any rushed New Yorker.
I glimpse a man in black descending into Penn Station’s maze of corridors.
Shit.
I tap my earpiece. “Lost him. He disappeared underground.”
“Head for the trains,” Quinn says. “If he took the subway, you’ll never catch him. If he’s on a platform, you might.”
She’s right. He could be anywhere—at a kiosk, grabbing coffee, blending into the crowd.
I cut past Dunkin’, Sbarro, the kiosks, scanning collars and hairlines. Plenty of black jackets—none at the right height or with the correct dark trim.
Noah catches my eye across the concourse. He tilts right; I tilt left.
Twenty minutes. Nothing. He’s gone.
As I’m headed back to retrieve my car, Quinn’s voice flows through my ear. “Did you know the senator had a meeting with Adrien?”
“No.” But it shouldn’t be surprising that the two would meet. “Could’ve been unexpected.”
It occurs to me that I haven’t texted Adrien.
“Happened this morning. It was quick.”
“What’d they discuss?”
“We don’t have audio in Adrien’s office. Only video of the hallway.”
Right. “I’ll ask.”
“You can return the car and head home,” Quinn tells me. “Noah’s heading back. You’ve got dinner plans right?”
“Yeah. I’ll head back.”
I hate losing targets. He wasn’t even trying to evade us, which makes it worse. Penn Station and the subways…they’re both fucking madhouses. Maybe I played it too conservatively. Perhaps I should’ve parked closer—never lost sight.
The Civic’s a junker. I could’ve double-parked and let the city tow it. But I know that would’ve been a poor plan. It would’ve attracted attention and increased the likelihood he would’ve turned around.
Back on the West Side, my building in view, my phone buzzes.
Unknown number
STOP
I give the text a second glance, searching for the telltale signs of spam. Some additional message. A link to click. There’s nothing.
Holding the phone, I continue ascending the stairs. I have two hours to shower and prep for dinner, which sounds like a lot but with traffic I’m looking at forty-five minutes travel time unless I take the subway.
If Eddie’s back down at the club for the evening service, then he may have just had another brief meeting.
If he’s still gone, then it’s conceivable something happened and he needed to head home.
Although would someone like Eddie really take the train?
Wouldn’t he have access to the same fleet of cars that Adrien does?
And he chose not to use a car associated with the club. And then he disappeared.
I insert my key into the deadbolt, as my gaze tracks the door frame. It’s when I slip the key into the lower bolt that my skin chills and the alertness that only a surge of adrenaline produces hits me. Fresh scratches mark the brass.
Someone jimmied the lock. Then locked it behind them.
I draw my gun. In the Agency we often left them, but habit or not, I’ve carried for years. This feels necessary now.
I don’t know whether they left the lock to trap me or to hide their entrance. Either way, I move like I mean it.
Gun up, I turn the knob.
If anyone’s here, they heard the key.
I push the door wide.
The hall is empty. I clear the threshold, shoulder angled to watch the corridor.
I step forward, slow and deliberate.
A draft lifts the edge of my wig.
What? Nobody would jump from a fifth-floor window.
“Hello?” I call.
The room’s empty, but black and white glossy photographs scatter across the sofa and floor.
Gun up, I round the kitchen corner.
The windows are open.
The source of the breeze.
Finger on the trigger, I lean and peer down.
Would someone actually hang from the ledge?
I look down—street, ledge—no hands, no rigging.
No plausible exit.
Not without gear.
Broad daylight.
Crowds milling below.
Nobody climbs a facade in broad daylight without being seen.
A rattling sounds.
What was that?
Quiet. Definitely inside.
I leave the window open and step into the living room.
“Hello?”
My gaze falls on one of the photographs. It’s of me and Adrien.
STOP.
The message makes sense now.
The blackmailers sent photographs to Senator Crawford too.
My gut says I’m alone in the apartment now.
I can’t quite describe how I know, but the place feels empty.
To confirm, I clear the bedrooms, one by one.
Then return down the hall, finger on the trigger for my entire tour.
The front door’s closed, whereas I left it cracked.
The window—a distraction.
I close and lock the door—symbolic, maybe—then dial Quinn.