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Sean started to walk as fast as possible without actually breaking into a sprint and drawing unnecessary attention. His hand moved to his coat pocket and curled around the pistol Kelly Paul had given him earlier. He chanced a glance behind. He saw the vehicle. Black Escalade, tinted windows, probably phony plates. It had a sinister look.
He cut to his right and entered the park.
Michelle’s voice came on again. “Keep to your left, down the path. There are a few people there.”
“Witnesses won’t stop these guys, Michelle. They’ll flash their real or real-enough-looking badges and haul my ass away.”
“Then turn right at the next path and run. It’ll give me time to figure something out.”
“Where are you?”
“Right now, up a tree where I can see everything. Go.”
Sean did exactly as she said. He knew she was good, one of the best at stuff like this, but he also knew the other side was bringing its best. And there certainly would be more of them.
He picked up his pace, turning right as instructed. There was a couple up ahead strolling along with their children. He passed by as quickly as possible. The last thing he wanted was a shoot-out in the middle of a bunch of kids.
“Turn left now,” Michelle said into his ear.
He hung a left and found himself next to a large boulder with some dying flowers planted around it.
“Around the rock and up the path,” Michelle said. “Go. Go!”
Sean King went.
There were five men after Sean. They were all armed, all had quasi-federal credentials and all had one mission.
Get the man.
Their leader split them up and they branched out across the park, about forty yards behind where they had last seen their quarry. Two other men were patrolling the exits to the park where Sean might come out onto Central Park South.
One man rounded a curve in the path. He had his hand in his pocket, curled around his gun. That meant he only had one hand free to defend himself.
It wasn’t nearly enough.
The boot hit him squarely in the jaw, breaking it. He went into a crouch and his gun came out of his pocket. The second kick shattered his forearm and the gun nosed muzzle first into the ground. The third blow creased the back of his neck an inch below his medulla, and he would awake in a few hours with an enormous headache in addition to his broken bones.
Like a wisp of wind Michelle moved on to the next target.
Two of the other men had hooked back up, studied the topography, and then divided up once more. The first man headed north and west and the other in the opposite direction. In the growing darkness the second man didn’t realize the person just passing by him—wearing a long black coat and a baseball cap tugged low—looked familiar until it was too late. The fist dug into his kidney. He bent over in tremendous pain and was felled by a thunderous kick to his jaw. He dropped to the ground unconscious, his shattered face already swelling.
Michelle kept moving.
“Sean,” she said into her wrist mic, “where are you?”
“Coming up on Central Park South by the horse carriages.”
“Nix that. They’ll have it covered. Head on toward Columbus Circle, but stay in the park.”
“What’s your status?”
“Two down, a few more to go.”
Michelle moved, but not quite fast enough. The blow glanced across her forehead and dug into her ear. She twisted sideways, found purchase on the asphalt path, pivoted, setting her weight on her right foot, and launched a kick to her attacker’s left knee.
Michelle Maxwell loved attacking knees. It was the largest joint in the body where four bones—the patella, the femur, the fibula, and the tibia—all came together like a highway interchange and were held together by an array of ligaments, muscles, and tendons. It is one of the most intricate parts of the body and critical for mobility.
Michelle destroyed it.
