Larkin ran to the edge of the walkway in time to see her, her hands and T-shirt bloody, fling the knife and Dicky aside before she took off running through the filthy water.
“Jesus Christ,” Larkin swore, holstering his pistol a second time before jumping onto the submerged tracks. He splashed through the water and grabbed the homeless man, his body odor and unwashed clothes ripe enough to make Larkin’s eyes water. He heard a scramble of boots on gravel, then a second door, toward the south, open and shut. “Go after her!” he called up to Doyle.
Doyle was gone in an instant, chasing Megan into the dark via this different route, but ultimately in the direction from which they’d come.
Larkin dragged Dicky toward a sort of elevated nook built into the wall underneath the walkway. There was a mattress, duffle bag, camping stove with a pot, and something that might have been SpaghettiOs inside, all neatly tucked away, where no MTA employee would ever know to look, unless they climbed down into the sewage themselves. He heaved Dicky up, pushing his bloody, sodden body onto the mattress before shucking off his safety vest. Larkin ripped the material until it was a long, reflective strip, and wound it around Dicky’s neck, knotting it tightly enough to put pressure on the wound—he didn’t think Megan had nicked an artery, there wasn’t enough blood—but not so much so that Dicky would choke.
“Give me your hand,” Larkin demanded, taking Dicky’s hand and making him press it over the knot. “Hold it like this. Keep putting pressure on it so you don’t bleed out.”
“…Hurts…,” Dicky croaked.
“Shut up. I’m going to call for help. Don’t even think about dying.” Larkin checked his phone, the screen a beacon in the dark, musty tunnel, but he wasn’t at all surprised to see No Service load in the top left corner. Shoving it back in his pocket, Larkin hoisted himself out of the track bed and onto the walkway. His derbies squelched as he ran through the first still-open door, returning to Armstrong. Larkin got down on one knee, noting the bubbly, wheezy breaths the man was taking through his broken nose. He grabbed the two-way radio off Armstrong’s belt, pressed down on the side button, and said, “This is Everett Larkin with the NYPD. I’m in the uptown F tunnel with Demetrius Armstrong of the MTA, somewhere underneath Central Park, and I need two buses ASAP. I’ve got head trauma and a knife—”
Larkin’s breathwhooshed out of his lungs in a sudden rush as something hard and heavy slammed into his back. He dropped the radio and collapsed forward. He felt paralyzed, gulping for air like a landed fish. A boot came down on his back, holding him pinned, while a hand dug the SIG from his holster. Larkin coughed reflexively, his body doing whatever it could to kickstart his lungs. The pistol slid free, the boot lifted, and Larkin was able to roll onto his back.
The same boy—maybe this was Tony—dropped the shovel in favor of the gun. It was clear he’d never held a pistol before, was surprised by its weight and unsure how to grasp it. “Leave Megan alone, and I won’t have to shoot you, pig.”
Larkin didn’t move.
Didn’t twitch.
Didn’t blink.
The radio crackled with a response to Larkin’s request, asking for clarification, confirmation, location,anything.
Tony took a few steps backward, using the track on his left side to keep in a straight line. He was still awkwardly pointing the SIG in Larkin’s general direction, likely to hit anything and everything, from the ceiling to Larkin’s forehead, if he pulled the trigger. “Don’t move,” he said again. Then he turned and bolted for Fifty-Seventh Street.
Larkin watched the teenage boy’s dark outline become lost to the blackness, nothing but his silhouette bouncing along the walls in disproportionate shapes as he raced past bare bulbs. His back twinged painfully as Larkin eased onto his knees, and he gasped once getting to his feet, but he grabbed the shovel and, fueled by undiluted adrenaline and rage, ran after Tony.
Because that little shitweasel was armed and was going to take Doyle by surprise.
Larkin kept along the wall, not only to reduce his visibility, but to avoid kicking up gravel and garbage and immediately warn Tony that he was being followed. Larkin could shoothimselfafter letting a teenager get the upper hand, but luck was on his side in that Tony was ultimately a dumbass kid, shit-scared, and running like being followed wasn’t even a thought in his pretty little head.
As Larkin rounded the corner, light came into view—like finding the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. He could make Megan out in the far distance, pulling herself up from the track bed, clinging to the platform floor, swinging a leg up, and rolling to safety. She’d had enough of a lead on Doyle, familiar with every possible shortcut that’d put distance between them, that Larkin could make out Doyle’s figure walking into the artificial light, like he’d thought he’d lost her, until he spotted Megan standing on the platform and hurried toward her.
Tony was nearing the access stairs and gate that kept the general public from exploring the active tunnels, and when he spotted Doyle out in the open, he shouted Megan’s name and threw the gun at her. Larkin didn’t wait to see if she caught the weapon. He charged at breakneck speed toward Tony, barreled into the teen with his left shoulder, and sent him sprawling onto the steep steps.
Tony cried out, “Oh my God, you broke my fucking ribs!”
Larkin ignored the crocodile tears, retrieved the handcuffs from his back pocket, bent over Tony, and cuffed one wrist. He attached the other to the gate so that Tony couldn’t run and was forced to cower on the stairs. “I’ll be right back to Mirandize you, yousonofabitch.” Larkin grabbed the shovel he’d dropped in the scrabble, then got close to Tony’s face and whispered, “Not a peep, or you and me are going to have a come to Jesus. And if your gal pal shoots my partner, you’ll be dealing with the bad cop andonlythe bad cop.” Larkin narrowed his gray eyes and nearly growled, “Got it.”
Tony’s eyes were so wide, they were nearly bulging. He nodded, panicked little breaths escaping from between his lips in a near whistle.
Larkin moved around him, quietly creeping up the steps and easing himself over the gate. The platform was empty, as it’d been roped off from upstairs, and Megan stood alone toward the middle, gun shaking wildly in her hands as she pointed it at Doyle. He stood in the middle of the open tracks, both hands raised in the air. Larkin could pick up the deep cadence of Doyle speaking, but wasn’t able to make out the individual words. He moved on the balls of his feet at an angle, his back to the downtown tracks as he gave Megan a wide berth so as to sneak up behind her.
“Stop it!” Megan cried. “Juststop. You’re from the street. You get it. Why’re you actin’ like this, Ira?”
“I’m a police officer,” Doyle corrected. “And I want to help you. We can still make smart choices. Right now, you can decide to put that gun down, and we can walk away from this.”
“You’ll come after me,” Megan retorted. “I just want to go to Montana. Let me go to Montana.”
“You can’t go to Montana if you shoot me.”
The gun wavered, began to point toward the floor, but then Megan squared her shoulders and raised it again. She awkwardly yanked the hammer back with both thumbs.
“Megan—” Doyle started.
A train that hadn’t gotten the fucking message about reroutes, its headlights bright as it rounded the tunnel corner from the south, laid on its deafening horn when the conductor saw Doyle. The brakes engaged and metal screeched against metal.
