shots.
Police sirens could be heard in the distance, and whether or not they were coming for him, he would not take the risk. He cursed loudly, knowing that for now he had failed. He had wasted too much time, performed too haphazardly.
He fired two more shots at the center of the door as he turned away, then ran down the stairs, past the flowers scattered on the landing. He replaced his Glock in its holster and, closing his coat, he strode down the steps and onto the street, disappearing around the corner just before a New York City Police squad car arrived on the scene.
Once Jordan heard the shooter run downstairs, he replaced the Walther in his waistband and let Florence out of her bathroom. He managed to calm her enough to explain that they were now safe. “It’s all over,” he told her. “He’s gone. Help is on the way.” He started to pull away, saying he was going upstairs to check his apartment, but she grabbed his arm.
“Wh—where are you going? Don’t leave!”
“Listen—”
“You can’t leave me here!” The more Sandor tried to get free the more she tightened her grip.
“Listen to me!” For reasons he could not explain to her, Jordan wanted no part of the local authorities, not now. Someone was trying to kill him, and he needed to get out of there before he got tied up in hours of questioning and bureaucratic time wasting. And the longer he waited the less chance he would have to follow his attacker. “The police are coming. They’re here. Just outside,” he said, pointing toward the window. “You can hear them.”
Florence began to loosen her hold on Jordan as the sirens grew louder and more reassuring. He gently but firmly removed his forearm from her grasp and rubbed the marks her fingers had imprinted on his flesh. He sat her on the couch and went to her refrigerator and poured her a glass of wine to calm her nerves.
“It’s all right now. The police are here,” he told her again. He was out of time and had no intention of spending the next twelve hours down at the local precinct answering questions and looking at another ream of mug shots while explaining things he had no interest in explaining.
“Look,” he said, “I have to go.”
Florence was too numb to speak. She remained on the couch, barely managing a nod.
“I’ll be right back,” he assured her. He made a motion to leave and she began to protest, but was too exhausted to offer any resistance. Jordan did his best to give her a comforting smile then headed out, shutting her splintered door behind him.
He raced upstairs to his apartment, pulled on his jacket, grabbed his leather bag, and went to his front door.
The police could be heard coming up the stairs to Florence’s landing. He waited and watched from the shadows as the officers surveyed the evidence of the shooting, drew their weapons, and knocked on the shredded door. The moment they entered her apartment would be Jordan’s only chance to get out of the building, and he took it. Once he heard her door close, he hurried down the three flights of stairs, then slowed to a saunter as he headed outside.
He looked up and down the street, but there was nothing unusual except the double-parked police cruiser. There was no one to follow, no leads to pursue.
He turned for Columbus Avenue, where he hailed a cab and headed south toward Midtown.
TEN
Dan Peters had dozed fitfully in his hospital bed, the discomfort of his wound and the intrusions of doctors and nurses throughout the night making it difficult to sleep. All of this was complicated by the confluence of memories and dreams that kept his mind spinning, awake or asleep. The memories would not go away.
It was daylight now, he noticed, but that made no difference. He was still trying to sleep.
His eyes opened slightly when yet another young doctor came into the room and stood over his bed. He adjusted the intravenous apparatus that fed him a steady flow of glucose solution and antibiotics. Peters closed
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