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“There’s a swat team scoping out the classrooms off Fifth,” Balor reports a moment later.
“Fifth!” I think of the sprawling campus layout. “That will take forever to get to the auditorium. Do they know how many dancers are rehearsing in there?”
“I can’t break into the conversation and tell them!” Balor snaps. “They’ll find my signal and cut me off. Where are you?”
“We’re about to go into the tunnel. Will I lose you?”
“No, there are transmitters now.”
“Fuck!” Griffin slams the brakes as a car two lengths ahead of us skids out of control, veering into on-coming traffic in the opposite lane and then flips over. “We’re fucking blocked!” He twists around to back up, but there’s a row of cars behind us.
We’re boxed in.
“Fuck this. Sorry, Griff.” I open the passenger door and hop out to run through the tunnel. Passing the car teetering on its roof, I mutter, “Sorry, man. It’s a fucking straight lane.”
How do you lose control driving straight going fucking thirty-five? He’s not my problem. I hope there weren’t any kids involved. That softening sets me back. Kids. I never cared about kids, and that needs to change. Darragh’s got a daughter. Kieran and Riordan are both expecting.
Kids will be all over the place. Just like when we grew up.
“Balor!” I yell into my phone. “I’m running in the tunnel.” I race at top speed in the citybound lane, since it’s completely clear now.
“You? Running?” he sounds shocked.
“I know…” I don’t remember the last time I moved this fucking fast. Maybe to save Riordan’s ass over the winter, but even then, I don’t recall the wind going through my hair like it is now.
I’m racing like this because of Katya…
Headlights swing toward me, and I jump out of the way. “Arsehole!” I yell at the guy who thinks he can race down the citybound lane and avoid this traffic. He’ll be stuck facing the wrong way when the traffic is cleared.
“Balor!” I yell into the phone as I run. “Anything on the cameras yet?”
“No.”
“When I get there, I’m going inside.”
“Considering what you look like, they may shoot you, thinking you’re an accomplice.”
“Get an NYPD boss on the phone right now!”
“Riordan!” Balor patches in our underboss and gives him an update. “Okay, he’s on it.”
A pinch of light greets me, and I run as fast as I can toward it. The smell of diesel and exhaust chokes me. Outside, the fresh air is a relief, but the afternoon sun blinds me.
Traffic on the approach is snarled as I weave between cars. Sweat pours into my eyes from the heat and Katya’s school is still three agonizing city blocks away. The dark bronze sculpture of ballet shoes outside the main entrance shines off the sun. Like a heat missile, I zone in on it and let it draw me in. Until a horn blares, tires screech, and next, I’m flying into some arsehole’s windshield. It breaks, and I think my arm does, too.
I roll off and keep running on pure adrenaline.
Aww fuck. There aresomany cop cars, men in blue pacing up and down the street in front of the school. They’ll have to shoot me, and I hope these fuckers miss. No one sees me until I run right past them. I’m that fast.
“Hey!” one yells, and I hear footsteps chase after me.
One leaps and takes me down to the cement.
“My wife is in there!” I yell, flipping over and throwing punches.
Two cops grab my arms and keep me pinned. If they search me, they’ll find my ghost gun which isn’t registered, obviously.
I get to my feet, and with a glare that can rattle any member of the best police department in the world, I say, “I’m going to save my fucking wife. Shoot me, if you want to stop me. But if something happens to her, I’ll find out who you are and kill you.” I break free and tear toward the main entrance, knowing I can be gunned down in an ambush by this so-called active shooter.
