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Chapter 15
On a cool, cloudy Sunday afternoon, for the first time in eight months, I step outside my apartment by myself and walk. Although I’m wearing a disguise — big sunglasses, a black floppy hat and a long, blonde wig — no one’s shuffling me into a limo. One of Anton’s men follows me at a distance, but he stops when I reach the subway entrance.
Walk to Lexington and 53rd, the first text says. Then take the E downtown.
I glance over my shoulder every other footstep. My pursuer doesn’t try to hide, but his instructions are clear: Don’t follow her into the subway station or the deal is off.
Sure enough, when I reach the bottom of the stairs, he’s watching me from the top, stopped in his tracks. He reaches for his cell phone.
Some time in the next minute or so, my trackers will deactivate — not that I’ll feel anything or have any way of knowing. From that moment, I’ll have three hours to conduct my interview with Death. After that, the trackers will come back on and Anton will send someone to pick me up.
Assuming he doesn’t go back on the deal.
Swiping my MetroCard, my hand shakes. I’ve done it thousands of times in my life, but I end up looking like a tourist, trying to get the machine to read it. This is really happening: Anton can still track me through my implants, but he won’t.
As I pass through the gate, my phone buzzes.
Get off at Port Authority.
Easy enough. I find a seat and keep my head down, pretending to scroll on a phone. The screen is on, and responsive to my touches, but the text is all gibberish, randomly generated with the occasional image pulled from a random website. It’s almost funny, but it keeps me from checking out the other riders and drawing attention to myself.
A man approaches me when I reach Port Authority and get off the subway. It’s Eyal.
“Lift your arms,” he says.
I do as instructed and let him use a radio frequency scanner, running it around my body with extra attention to my injection sites.
“The trackers are off. Come on.”
He snakes his arm around mine, pulling me close. His other hand stays in his jacket; I would guess he has a gun.
“Where are we going?”
“Jersey,” he says.
It’s only a short walk through the terminal, but the noise makes my head spin. I’m used to either a TV studio or a prison cell. No one pays me any attention, but people are everywhere.
We head upstairs to the NJ Transit terminals. I’m surprised at first that Ingram would want us on a bus, but instead of waiting at a gate, he opens the door for us to trespass through.
“What are we doing?” I ask, expecting a Port Authority cop to stop us.
“Just move,” Eyal grunts.
Buses rumble around us as he leads us deep in the station; I try not to breathe in the exhaust fumes too deeply.
Soon we reach a parked black Cadillac sedan; the back passenger seats open as we approach.
“Get in,” Eyal says, watching all around us, gun drawn.
I don’t hesitate, and when I climb in, Ingram’s there.
“Hi, Kate,” he says, pulling me in for a kiss.
I’m barely aware of Eyal shutting the door behind me, starting the car or driving us off. Ingram holds me close, pulling off my sunglasses, hat and wig as he breathes me in. I groan, squeezing the hard muscles in his back. He wears dark, brown slacks, a black turtleneck and a matching skullcap. The sweater clings to his body, accentuating his broad physique.
When we emerge from the bus terminal, a light drizzle taps on the windshield as soft light shines into the car. I nearly cry as Ingram cups my face in his hand and presses his forehead against mine.
“You did it,” I say, sniffing and blinking rapidly. “You saved me.”
