White Night

Chapter 54

8:30 pm and they were in position.

The FBI and Homeland Security were taking point. A BDU truck was parked half a block away, with two Bomb Disposal Unit teams on standby. NYPD was there to assist, their orders to observe and report only. Ross and Connors were seated on a bench across the road from the old bookstore. They were to pose as a couple resting on a bench—Ross had practically spat his coffee back at Agent McAvoy when he gave them that assignment. Her slender fingers disappeared inside Ross' large hand, but she wasn't complaining, they were the only part of her still warm.

The bookstore was wedged on the end of a row of stores, some abandoned, others still clinging on. Across the street, cold silver breath rose above an FBI homeless man nestled in his sleeping bag. Agent McAvoy was positioned behind a closed store window as other agents blended in with pedestrians, and snipers settled in on nearby rooftops.

A teenager was lurking further down the street, his hands wedged in bulging pockets, ear buds pumping the latest R & B music into his head.

Ross rubbed her arm and she almost flinched, before remembering their task and responding by resting her head on his shoulder. Her earpiece crackled to life softly. "Potential suspect, 4 o'clock."

A man in a tan overcoat strode by. Not the drug mule they were looking for, he was a well-groomed Mediterranean with broad shoulders and expensive shoes, but they couldn't afford to ignore anyone.

Nikolai had confirmed that if the bomber couldn't make the drop, he was to leave the bag at a random location in Romano territory. They had one shot to intercept disaster.

The Mediterranean man continued, trying to walk casually but showing too much interest in the building. He crossed the street and walked past their position, glancing in the bookshop as he passed the windows.

Ross continued to stare at the store vacantly. With her head resting on his shoulder, she could see further up the street. The man continued on, then stopped to look in the window of another store.

Her feet were blocks of ice. She shuffled them slowly, wishing that coffee was part of their cover, not that she could've swallowed it. The next thirty minutes were critical.

Other pedestrians walked past. Some stopped to check their cellphones or stare at street signs but then wandered on aimlessly, each set of footsteps sending the cops' heart rates climbing until they cleared the store.

She looked down at Ross' watch, an Omega with an elegant blue face and a black leather strap, but unlike most sold in the city, it wasn't bought on Canal Street for fifty bucks. This was the real deal, her monthly take-home pay sitting on her partner's wrist.

8:35 pm. Twenty-five minutes to decide the lives of dozens of people.

"Target approaching again," her earpiece warned.

The man in the overcoat walked past the bookstore again, stopping this time to check out his appearance in the glass, but searching through the pane as he adjusted his tie.

There'd been no time to evacuate. The risk of tipping off the bomber was too great. The FBI and NYPD teams had flowed quietly into the street, blending in with the civilians they were trying to save. A steady stream of people travelled up and down the street, heading home or out to their second job. Lights were on in the apartments above the row of stores, including the bookstore itself. Casualties would be high. There had to be a dozen apartments in that block alone and double that in the two surrounding blocks.

The kid with his hands in his pockets moved toward the store, his jacket straining at the sides. What the hell was he carrying? The kid strutted closer, looking around him with wide eyes, before stopping one building short of the store and leaning against the wall again.