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’slocked,” 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.
CHAPTER TWENTY
It was Friday, July 17, 10:32 a.m., and Larkin stood on the waterfront promenade of Carl Schurz Park, overlooking the dark and choppy waters of the East River.It’d been raining for the last hour, a gentle but constant drizzle that left the bench-lined walkway devoid of its usual hustle and bustle of late-morning joggers, dog walkers, and nannies with strollers.No one sat on the lawns, the nearby dog run was empty, and pigeons huddled together by the dozens along the handrail, their feathered, puffed heads wet, and in general, looking as miserable as the gloom that seemed to have settled over the city.
