Midas spoke again, more urgently this time. “Guys, no kidding, white male just popped out from Mott on Canal behind the Asian couple. He’s juking back and forth, but moving after them with real intent.”
“I see him,” Ryan said.
“You’re serious?” Caruso said.
Odd, Chavez thought, that Dom would question intel from another member of the team.
“Dead serious,” Midas said. “This guy’s wearing a light jacket, khaki slacks. He moves like a cop. I think I caught a glimpse of handcuffs on his belt.”
Ding stood up straighter now.
“Our rabbits are crossing Canal,” Adara said. “Heading south on Elizabeth.”
“Okay,” Midas said. “The Asians and Khaki Slacks are continuing east. I don’t see any other coppers. I’m guessing this guy is off duty.”
“Or some kind of hit,” Jack Junior offered. “No kidding.”
“Out of role, Ding,” Adara said. “Out of role.”
Ding reached in his pocket and flipped the isolation switch on his radio so everyone could hear him. “Abort the scenario,” he said. “I say again, abort scenario. Keep your distance, but hang with the lone dude in khakis just in case. Who has eyes on the two white males you spotted? They are not mine.”
“Forget them,” Adara said. “Those two are a nonissue. A little game in order to win, Boss. We’ll explain later.”
“Yes, you will,” Chavez said. “Confirming, no one else in play besides two Asians and Khaki Pants.”
“That is correct,” Adara said.
Chavez bit back the urge to chide her. Instead, he coordinated team movement while Clark called Lanny’s cell and got the rabbits on the common frequency so they’d be in the loop.
“Everybody stay loose,” Ding said. “We don’t want to step in the middle of another agency’s op.”
Midas piped up. “Asian couple turning right on Bowery.”
“Okay,” Ding said. “Lanny and Dave, keep going south on Elizabeth. Midas, how about Khaki Pants?”
“Approaching Bayard,” Midas said. “He’s locked on. If he had a team, somebody else would be taking over the eyeball about now. I’m thinking he’s alone.” There was a pause, like Midas was trying to get a better look at something. “The Asian male has a pistol in his waistband.”
“John and I are coming off the bridge,” Ding said, picturing the map in his head as he ran. “We’ll cut behind Confucius Plaza to stay ahead of you. Dom, hang a left at your next cross street. Hustle over to Canal so you guys can leapfrog with Midas if need be.”
“Adara and I are east on Bayard,” Dom said.
Jack Junior spoke next. “Coming down Bowery—”
The radio bonked, meaning two people attempted to speak at the same moment, leaving both transmissions garbled.
Dom came over the net, breathless.
“I know this guy,” he said. The jostling in his voice suggested he was jogging. “He’s FBI. His name’s Nick Sutton.”
“The Asian couple just turned right,” Midas said. “The next street past Bayard. Sutton’s still on them. I’ve lost the eye.”
“I’ll move closer,” Dom said. “See if I can catch his attention—”
The radio fell silent. Seconds later, Dom came back, breathless, running.
“Man . . . down,” he said.
3
Caruso swept aside the tail of his jacket to draw his Glock. His eyes were up, scanning. Nick Sutton lay slumped in the grimy concrete stairwell leading below street level next to the entrance of a nail salon. The steel door to the basement behind him was closed, forming a concrete pit at the bottom of the steps. It would have been an easy matter to hide and ambush the agent when he came by. Caruso had heard no shots. The half-dozen pedestrians coming and going down Doyers either hadn’t seen anything or had simply ignored what they saw.
“It’s Dom,” Caruso said, stepping around Sutton in the cramped space and trying the door while Adara assessed the agent’s wounds. “We’re here for you, bud.” He wanted to drop to his knees and help, but neither he nor Adara would be any help if they got shot.
Arterial blood painted a massive arc on the concrete wall. Even now, after years on the job, Dom found himself astonished at the apparent gusto with which blood left the human body. If anyone besides a trauma surgeon could save Nick Sutton now, it was Adara Sherman.
Dom shielded Adara as best he could in the small alcove, then, pistol tucked in tight against his ribs, pulled on the door handle with his left hand. It was locked tight. That didn’t mean much. Caruso had read somewhere that there were tunnels all over Chinatown. Sutton’s attackers could have gone through the door or just walked away—in which case they would be walking directly into Chavez and Clark.
Caruso jumped back on the radio. “They may be coming your way, Ding.”
The radio clicked twice, signifying Chavez had heard.
Dom fished the FBI badge out of his shirt and let it dangle on a chain around his neck. The Bureau badge carried a lot of weight, but it was relatively small. The little gold shield would do little to avert a blue-on-blue shooting if another cop showed up pumped with adrenaline, but it was better than standing beside a bloody body brandishing a gun without it.
Pistol in low-ready, he stood over Adara and the wounded agent, scanning the doorways and windows along Doyers—the street known as the “Bloody Angle,” where Chinese tong hatchet men stained the street red, hacking rival gang members to death in the early days of New York.
“Talk to me, Nick,” Adara said. “Can you hear me?”
Sutton mumbled something Dom couldn’t make out.
“We’re gonna get you fixed up,” Adara said, her voice grim. “Ambulance is on the way.”
Dom glanced down at her blood-soaked phone on the steps.
Sutton moaned. Despite Adara’s efforts, he was losing a lot of blood.
“They’re long gone,” Dom said. “What do you need me to do?”
She pointed to Sutton’s armpit. “You can help me with this artery. There’s another bleeder somewhere and I need to find it.”
Caruso holstered his weapon and knelt across from Adara. She used two fingers to hand off a spaghetti-like end of Sutton’s brachial artery. A gaping three-inch gash laid bare the meat and bone of his upper arm. Two smaller wounds framed the gash like bloody parentheses. The blood and gore made it difficult to tell how many times Sutton had been stabbed, but his wounds were many and deep. His aggressor had gone for his neck, but he’d been able to get his arm up, taking most of the damage to his triceps and his ribs—small consolation, since such a wound only meant he would bleed to death at a slightly slower rate than he would if he’d had his throat cut.