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 façade 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 Larkinsupposedto 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.
