Carbines and Capacitors 11/14
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Chapter 11
Checkmate
The afternoon seemed to crawl by as Cheyenne waited for word and for Boots and Saddles.* He tried to settle in and read, but none of the books he had on hand fit his mood-All Quiet was too dark, Roughing It too light, Phantastes too strange, and he couldn’t focus well enough to keep up with The Lord of the Rings. He wasn’t normally this tense before a battle… but then again, even when he didn’t have full freedom of action, he normally knew the ground and wasn’t waiting for a lady to pit her enemies against each other.
That wasn’t to say he didn’t know ladies who would pit their enemies against each other, but they were usually more like Samantha Crawford. Joss Carter had been Cheyenne’s first friend in this year-she’d saved his life. He didn’t like knowing she had this ruthless streak, and he liked seeing it in action even less. Sure, he knew as well as anyone that there was a time to work outside the law to see justice done, but he couldn’t protect her if she wanted to do it without him while also wearing a badge. But she knew perfectly well he couldn’t track her in this concrete madhouse on his own.
Well, Mr. Finch was apparently keeping tabs on her, and Reese and Sam were on hand to ride out if Miss Carter needed backup. All Cheyenne could do was wait and pray… and clean his guns.
It was full dark, or as fully dark as it ever got here, by the time Cheyenne finished with the last piece of his arsenal, yet he still had three hours to kill before Boots and Saddles. So he took his time with supper, shined his boots again, triple-checked every weapon he’d be carrying that night and put all the spare ammo he could fit on his gun belt and in his pockets, and made sure to shave after his shower. As he dressed, he imagined Sam teasing him about having what she’d call a hot date-but it wasn’t his appearance he was worried about.
Dressing and arming himself felt so odd this time, having to reacquaint himself with styles he’d have worn without a second thought six months ago while adding parts like the ballistic vest and shoulder holster that had become uncomfortably familiar since he’d gone to work for Mr. Finch. It took a moment’s walking around and several practice draws for the gun on his hip to feel natural again. Yet once he’d added the string tie and hat to the outfit, it was a jolt to remember that he still needed to put his telephone in his pocket and the earpiece in his ear. He did so with a sigh, wishing Tom and Bronco were there so at least he wouldn’t be off kilter alone.
And then he wasn’t alone.
“Ready?” Reese asked quietly from behind him.
“You’re early,” said Cheyenne, turning around. “What happened?”
“Just got back from Red Hook. Carter took a few pot shots at Quinn and made it look like Yogorov did it, so HR rounded up most of the top Bratva brass for execution. Except Carter called the FBI and stashed the stolen drugs in HR’s cars.”
Cheyenne frowned. “Why?”
Reese shrugged. “Diversion, apparently. Not only does it get those pawns off the board, but it isolated Yogorov so she could arrest him and get his sworn statement implicating Quinn in Beecher’s death. She’s got Yogorov stashed out of town while she comes back for Quinn.”
Cheyenne sighed heavily. “She’s been spendin’ too much time around Elias.”
Reese shook his head. “She’s always been capable of this. I’ve known that from the night we met-the compassion she showed me was genuine, but I knew exactly what she was doing when she offered me a cup of water with the goal of getting my fingerprints from it. She’s a tough cop, and she’s good at her job. She even sold me out to the CIA once when they had her convinced I was a serial killer-of course, she didn’t know at the time that they were trying to kill me. Still, she’d be scarier than Shaw if her moral compass wasn’t pointed in the right direction.”
“Those planted drugs could ruin her case. That happened to Tom Brewster once.”
“Bodie. What’s done is done. Besides, Terney recorded a full confession before he disappeared. Apparently Yogorov gave him until dawn to get his affairs in order, but Carter can’t get any more out of Yogorov than that.”
Cheyenne sighed heavily.
“Come on.” Reese clapped Cheyenne on the shoulder. “You can yell at her on the boat.”
Cheyenne didn’t like having anything to yell at her about, but he didn’t say so. He just pocketed his keys and followed Reese out the back way.
Once they were in the car, Mr. Finch called each of their pocket telephones in turn to add them to the party line. “I’ve nearly finished setting up the system for Root,” he announced once Cheyenne was connected. “I’ve taken every precaution I can, but I am still rather apprehensive about all this.”
“I think we all are, Finch,” said Reese.
“Laskey’s at the safe house,” Sam reported. “Collier should sleep through this, but in case he doesn’t, I’ve briefed Laskey on Vigilance and warned him not to let himself get recruited.”
“I’d have thought he’d learned his lesson with HR,” said Mr. Finch.
“Can’t be too careful,” countered Reese.
“Where’s Miss Carter?” Cheyenne asked.
“She just arrived at Det. Fusco’s apartment,” answered Mr. Finch. “They should be starting their show for the cameras any moment.”
Cheyenne nodded. The two detectives didn’t have a script per se, but at the first strategy meeting, they’d rehearsed the broad outlines of this little sketch, meant for the benefit of the HR mole at the Real Time Crime Center. Fusco would confront Miss Carter about keeping him out of the loop; she would give him a fake safe deposit box key with some rigamarole about “if anything happens to me”; he’d talk her into letting him come along, and she’d accept on the condition that he let her drive. Then he’d give her a fake set of car keys and go back inside to arm up, at which point she’d throw the fake keys away and drive off. Actually, Miss Carter had given copies of the real safe deposit box key to Fusco and Mr. Finch at the meeting, and Fusco had his safely hidden. The fake was meant to be a decoy in case HR captured Fusco-even if he gave them the correct bank information, the key wouldn’t fit.
“And I believe I’m as ready as I can be,” Mr. Finch continued. “I won’t be patching Root directly into this call, as she said she’ll need her own line to communicate with the Machine, but I will be putting this call on speaker in case she needs to convey verbal directions.”
“Here’s hoping she doesn’t,” Reese muttered.
“I’m on my way to meet Fusco,” said Sam. “Any change in plans?”
“Not so far,” answered Mr. Finch. “Please be careful, Miss Shaw.”
“You, too.” Then there was a beep, but Cheyenne was reasonably sure Sam had only muted her end of the call rather than hanging up.
The line fell silent while Reese took a roundabout route toward Queens and Mr. Finch went to get Root. Cheyenne tried unsuccessfully to update his mental map of where everyone was and where they would be shortly. Everything moved too fast, and there were too many unknowns for one man to keep track of unaided.
His reverie was broken when Root’s voice said “Well!” with the bright tone of a lady sitting down at a poker table with a group of unwary men she meant to fleece. “Good evening, gentlemen-and ladies. We are all hooked up to the RTCC’s feeds, and I am about to start tracking the GPS signals for all HR personnel. The Machine says it’ll look less suspicious if we block communications only for the HR members who show up at Monahan’s house, and I won’t begin that until just before John and Cheyenne move in. Let’s see… there are John and Cheyenne… there’s Shaw… Fusco just went inside… there go his keys… there goes Carter! And we’re off to a roaring start.”
“Are you planning to give us play-by-play of the whole evening, Root?” Reese asked.
“Did you want me to?”
“No,” Reese, Sam, and Cheyenne chorused.
“How about color commentary?”
“No.” Mr. Finch added his voice that time.
Root gave one of her condescending chuckles. “Good thing I’m gonna be too busy, then.”
Cheyenne rolled his eyes.
That was the last they heard from Root for quite a while, however. Mr. Finch handled what few status updates were needed, the most important of which was when Miss Carter finally called Monahan just as Reese pulled into the parking lot of the Catholic church just down the street from Monahan’s house. Monahan, as expected, told Miss Carter to get to his house as soon as she could and then promptly called Quinn, who in turn called Simmons.
Miss Carter, meanwhile, made a couple of other calls and then called Reese, who put the call on speaker. “It’s me,” she said. “I’m on Astoria Boulevard, headed your way.”
“We’re at the church,” Reese replied. “What’s your ETA?”
“Between 11 and 11:15.”
“All right. We’ll see you soon.”
“Thanks, John.” And she hung up before the faint tremor Cheyenne heard in her voice could become more definite.
“She’s scared,” Reese observed quietly.
“Who wouldn’t be?” Cheyenne returned.
Reese smiled and raised his voice. “Finch?”
“All security cameras on Juno, Kessel, and Loubet accessible to the RTCC are on a sixty-second loop,” Mr. Finch replied. “And there are no HR patrol units within a mile. You’re clear to move.”
Reese and Cheyenne got out in tandem, shutting the car doors as silently as possible, and approached Monahan’s house from the blind side. Ducking past the windows, they let themselves into the back yard and hid in the shadow of the storage shed that stood in one back corner of the property.
“Switching off the loop,” Mr. Finch announced once they were in place.
“Simmons picked Quinn up five minutes ago,” Root added. “There are three other men in the car. They should reach your location in twenty.”
So while Cheyenne wondered, not for the first time, why anyone who could afford a house the size of Monahan’s would willingly buy one in a city, crammed so close to its neighbors that there was just enough room to walk single-file between them and with a yard that would barely hold a decent chicken coop, the team watched and waited for Quinn and Simmons to arrive. It was just about twenty minutes later when Mr. Finch reported that the HR men had likewise parked several blocks away, with a patrol unit watching the car, and were walking up to the house. But Cheyenne heard little until Monahan passed the French doors on his way to the front of the house and returned with the HR men, one of whom carried a roll of plastic. Even when Simmons began issuing orders, Cheyenne couldn’t hear distinctly enough to know what was being said, but he could see the other men begin unrolling the plastic to cover the floor.
“Finch,” Reese breathed. “They’re planning to kill her here.”
“I know,” Mr. Finch said. “I’ve got ears on the room. And I am recording.”
“Let me get you eyes as well.” Reese pulled out his pocket telephone and snapped several photos before putting it away again. Cheyenne could only assume that Reese had gotten photos of everyone in the room-he couldn’t see well enough himself.
“Thank you, Mr. Reese. Det. Carter has just turned onto Kessel.”
At almost the same moment, Simmons gestured to Monahan, who went to wait in the darkened front room. Less than a minute later, Cheyenne heard Miss Carter’s car pull up and park and her car door open and close. Reese signaled to Cheyenne, and the two of them crept forward to hide on either side of the French doors while everyone inside was focused on ambushing Miss Carter. As soon as she saw Quinn, Miss Carter surrendered, dropped her gun, and let Simmons destroy her phone and herd her onto the plastic, but as Mr. Finch had expected, she goaded Quinn into gloating over having ordered Beecher’s death. Then she lamented having tried to play a lone hand-and Cheyenne tucked his coat behind his revolver and drew his Desert Eagle while Reese took up his own position.
“But then I realized you’re just too dirty,” Miss Carter continued. “Everywhere I turned, you had friends ready to help you out and I was alone. So… I called some friends of my own.”
And Reese blew the French doors open with a shotgun blast. Then he tossed the shotgun to Miss Carter and drew his pistol while Cheyenne gave covering fire, sending Simmons and Monahan diving for cover. By the time Miss Carter had hold of Quinn’s arm and was pushing him out of the room with Reese and Cheyenne on their heels, the three junior HR men were down. Simmons grabbed his radio, but Cheyenne shot it out of his hand. Neither Simmons nor Monahan moved again while the team hustled Quinn into the front room, where Reese took point and Cheyenne covered the rear.
“Give me your keys,” Reese demanded as they emerged in the front yard.
“We’re drivin’?” Miss Carter asked but passed her keys to Reese.
“Not far.”
Cheyenne kept his eyes on the house as Miss Carter shoved Quinn into the back seat of her car and Reese jogged around to the driver’s seat, but he made the mistake of holstering his pistol before opening his own car door. Naturally, that was when Simmons burst out of the house. But Cheyenne drew his revolver with the speed of thought and put three rounds into Simmons’ head before Simmons could get one shot off. Then the engine started, and Cheyenne barely had time to duck into the car before Reese sped away. Cheyenne managed to get his door shut just as Reese turned onto 72nd Avenue to go south.
“I didn’t know that kind of quick draw was real,” said Root’s voice in Cheyenne’s ear, sounding awed. “I thought it was something that only happened in the movies.”
“Is Simmons dead?” Reese asked.
“As a doornail,” Root confirmed at the same time Quinn answered, “Simmons is a resilient man. You may be surprised.”
“Three shots to the head would be tough for anyone to survive,” Cheyenne noted, replacing the spent brass in his revolver.
“You-know-who is sure he didn’t,” Root agreed.
“Where on earth do you think you’re taking me?” Quinn asked as Reese turned onto Metropolitan and Cheyenne put a fresh magazine in his Desert Eagle.
“Federal building downtown,” said Miss Carter.
Quinn chuckled. “You really think you can get across any of the bridges between here and Manhattan without my boys knowing about it?”
“No,” said Reese and parked beside a bus stop. “That’s why we’re not going that way. Let’s go.”
“Be sure to leave Quinn’s phone in the car,” Mr. Finch cautioned as everyone got out.
But when Cheyenne turned to pass that on to Miss Carter, she was already tossing Quinn’s phone back inside. She’d already handcuffed Quinn, too, and the shotgun was on the seat. Cheyenne nodded his approval and shut the door, and then they were off, marching briskly down Metropolitan to 72nd Road and south toward Union Turnpike.
“This just in,” said Root as they turned the corner. “Generalissimo Francisco Simmons is still dead,** but one of the HR mooks just shot Monahan. I’ve intercepted all calls out of the house and all 911 calls from the neighbors. The uniformed officers watching Simmons’ car are looking anxious, but so far it looks like they haven’t talked themselves into going in without orders.”
“The train is leaving the station now,” Mr. Finch added. “It should reach the park in about five minutes. There is no traffic on Union Turnpike at the moment.”
Reese and Cheyenne nodded to each other and picked up the pace.
Quinn looked around nervously as the team started to cross Union Turnpike without breaking stride. “You can’t be serious,” he said as they cleared the first median and started across the second lane. “Even if we don’t get run down by a passing car….”
“Never go into the parks at night,” Reese recited, sounding bored. “We know.”
“Still clear,” said Mr. Finch as they reached the second median.
They were just turning onto the path into the park when Root said, “Welp, looks like the three bears got themselves patched up enough to try to get back to the car themselves. Simmons is still dead, though, and we’ve still got their phones blocked.”
Cheyenne had a feeling it was going to be a long night for more reasons than the time required to get back to Manhattan.
The park was quiet compared to the rest of the city, which made it easier to hear human-sized rustles and whispers further off the path. But “They packin’ heat” was the phrase Cheyenne picked up the few times he could make out words, and that seemed to be enough to keep whatever miscreants were hiding amid the trees at bay. So the team made good time and reached the railroad track just as the train’s lantern became visible through the trees.
“You can’t be serious!” Quinn repeated.
“Sometimes you gotta think outside the box, Alonzo,” Miss Carter said as the train put on its brakes.
“By now my men have staked out every station on this line-”
“They haven’t!” Root assured Reese and Cheyenne quickly.
“-and there is no way you can possibly get past them.”
“Who said we were getting off at a station?” asked Reese as the train stopped. “We’re not getting on at one.”
Cheyenne vaulted into the open boxcar first to make sure there were no surprises. Finding it clear, he reached down to grab Quinn’s hands and pulled him up while Reese pushed from behind. Then Reese and Miss Carter scrambled in while Cheyenne kept Quinn under control, and Reese shut the door they’d just come through. A moment later, the train jolted and moved off.
“Something you should know, Mr. Reese,” said Mr. Finch. “The fence around the used car lot is topped with razor wire. You’ll have to dismount a hundred yards further along-Miss Shaw left the car in the parking lot of the grocery store that backs onto the track.”
Reese didn’t reply, only went to the opposite door to watch for landmarks. Less than a minute later, they passed under the two bridges at the southern edge of the park and came out into the open.
Quinn then looked up at Cheyenne with what was probably meant to be an ingratiating smile. “Mr. Merritt, I am sorry not to have gotten to see you perform in Wagons West. Your dedication to your craft is truly remarkable.”
Cheyenne didn’t respond.
“Perhaps I could arrange for new backing for the show-that is, if your repertory company still has any interest in staging it here in New York and if you’ll surrender me and your friends to my men when we reach them.”
Blatant attempts at bribery always disgusted Cheyenne, whether he was wearing a badge or not. But this one, coming after Simmons had traded barbs with Miss Carter about Shakespeare before the shootout, somehow reminded Cheyenne of the trap he’d sprung on Nick Avalon some years earlier. “Like the man said,” Cheyenne replied. “‘The play’s the thing / Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.’ ’Course, that kind of assumes you’ve got a conscience to catch.”
“Thirty seconds,” Root warned before Quinn could come up with a retort.
Cheyenne ushered Quinn and Miss Carter over to Reese as the train approached a high-sided bridge. Once they were past it, Reese sat down on the edge of the doorway and motioned for the others to do the same. The train did slow down slightly, but it was still going faster than Cheyenne had expected when the gradient leveled out and Reese signaled for them to jump out. Miss Carter had to drag Quinn out with them, which meant he landed wrong and twisted his ankle, but no one spared him a moment’s sympathy. Cheyenne only supported him from one side and Miss Carter from the other while Reese led them up the track and around the fence to the parking lot and the next car.
“Breaking news,” said Root as they reached the end of the track. “Generalissimo Francisco Simmons is still dead, but his minions have finally reached their vehicle, only to realize that none of them have the keys. We let them get a call out for an ambulance because somebody doesn’t want them to actually bleed to death-”
“Human lives are generally worth saving, Miss Groves,” Mr. Finch interrupted.
“But that was all. I think you’ll be able to make the river before-oh, one of them just passed out-before they can try to get word out to be looking for you guys-”
“We should probably also allow a coroner’s van to get through to the house.”
“Harold….”
“Out of respect for the dead….”
“No, no, wait, hear me out. If it looks like we can’t keep the news contained, we use Simmons’ cell phone to send HR to all the wrong places.”
“Perhaps we should discuss this more privately.”
“Hey, guys,” Sam’s voice broke in. “I left you a present in the glove compartment. But tell Joss I will want the Nano back.”
Reese led the way unerringly to the right car, and Quinn seemed startled that Reese unlocked it using the key. Once the team was inside and underway, Cheyenne opened the glove compartment and pulled out a bulky, heavy envelope. He could tell by the feel that there was a gun inside, along with something long, flat, and rectangular. The second item was the wrong shape to be a magazine, but knowing Sam, it was likely to be a syringe case.
Cheyenne handed the envelope back to Miss Carter. “Sam left this for you,” he said. “Says to tell you she’ll want part of it back.”
Miss Carter accepted the envelope and opened it. “Awww, she remembered,” she said with an audible smile as she slid the contents out.
“What is that?” Quinn asked.
“Two ways of makin’ sure you don’t give us any more trouble.”
“I haven’t begun to give you trouble, Joss.”
“And I’ll just make sure it stays that way.”
Quinn gasped as Miss Carter jabbed the syringe into his arm; Cheyenne looked into the back seat just in time to see her push the plunger.
“The syringe has ketamine,” Sam said at the same moment. “It should wear off about the time you guys get to North Cove.”
“This just in!” Root chirped. “Generalissimo Francisco Simmons is still dead-”
“I think that’s about enough of that joke for one night,” Mr. Finch interrupted, plainly irritated.
“-and the patrol unit has handed his minions off to the ambulance and gone to try to track you. They found Carter’s SUV, but it looks like they’ll need a bloodhound to figure out where you went from there. Right now they’re arguing about what to do next. No leaks so far, but John, you might want to break the speed limit. We’ll coordinate the lights for you.”
Reese didn’t respond verbally, but he did push the car to a speed that still made Cheyenne’s head spin. Every traffic light Cheyenne could see ahead of them suddenly turned green, which caused some honking and probably swearing, but the car sailed through every intersection and wove through what traffic there was with ease. In four minutes flat, they reached the marina in Hamilton Beach, where Mr. Finch had moored a boat (he called it a small yacht) for them, and they boarded while Quinn was still able to walk under his own power.
“I’ve left overcoats in the cabin for everyone,” Mr. Finch noted as Reese and Cheyenne cast off and weighed anchor and Miss Carter guided Quinn inside. “I expect it to be fairly chilly out on the water.”
Reese grinned. “You spoil us, Harold.”
As the boat began to move away from the pier, Miss Carter came back up with an overcoat for Reese. He thanked her, put it on, and took the helm while Cheyenne and Miss Carter went below.
“I’m afraid you are leaving just at low tide,” Mr. Finch continued, “but that boat has a shallow enough draft that it shouldn’t matter, and the tide will be turning in a matter of minutes. Just-please be careful, John.”
“I will,” said Reese and started the engine.
Quinn had already lain down on the bed in the prow and was fast asleep when Miss Carter and Cheyenne entered the cabin. While Miss Carter checked Quinn’s pulse, Cheyenne looked her over and saw not only the bulge of Sam’s gun holstered at the small of her back but also an earpiece in her ear. That must mean Sam had left her a new phone, too.
Miss Carter straightened with a nod, then heaved a sigh of relief and turned to Cheyenne with a weary smile. “Hi, Cheyenne.”
“How are you holdin’ up?” Cheyenne asked.
“Okay. To be honest, I wasn’t sure we’d get this far. But… here we are. And I’m plugged in now,” she added with a twinkle and gestured toward her ear.
He smiled. “Well, we’re gonna get you the rest of the way. Any news, Miss Groves?”
“Not so far,” said Root. “The guys you shot are on their way to the hospital, and the unis are still arguing over Carter’s car. Unless something changes, we’re gonna wait until y’all get past Coney Island before we send the group text from Zombie Simmons.”
“I’m not sure that’s better than the Francisco Franco joke,” said Mr. Finch.
Cheyenne felt a headache coming on.
“The idea,” Root continued as if Mr. Finch hadn’t spoken, “is to get HR focused on Queens and the East Side so nobody’s anywhere near North Cove. Whether or not it’ll work remains to be seen, but….”
“Well, as diversions go, I’ve seen worse,” said Cheyenne. “You can’t exactly stampede a herd o’ longhorns through Central Park and expect to tie up the whole gang.”
Miss Carter laughed.
“Now I kinda want to, just to see what would happen,” said Root.
“Bad idea,” said Sam.
“Not Central Park, though, more like Wall Street.”
“Very bad idea,” said Fusco, and when he’d joined the call, Cheyenne had no clue.
Still, Cheyenne agreed. “I take it you’ve never seen a stampede in person, let alone what one can do when it goes through a town.”
Root paused. “You have?”
“Imagine the worst flash flood you’ve ever seen, only instead of water, it’s solid flesh an’ sharp horns an’ hooves. When those beeves get spooked, all they know to do is run, and they don’t care what’s in their way. It’s bad enough on the open range, where you’ve got some hope of escape. It’s worse when they’re headed for a cliff an’ you’ve got to turn ’em or lose the whole herd. But the worst is in town. I saw a man once run his herd through a town street to take revenge on folks he thought tried to cheat ’im-they did so much damage that every business on that street had to close, and some o’ the buildings were barely standing at the end of it. Almost killed a good friend of mine.”
“Oh.” Root seemed somewhat taken aback, which surprised Cheyenne. Maybe the Machine was chiding her as well.
“So where are you, Shaw?” Reese asked.
“Washington Heights,” Sam answered. “We’re in separate cars just in case we need to split up.”
“At least we’re already over here if HR does shut down the bridges,” Fusco added. “Getting out of Manhattan’s gonna be a lot easier than getting in.”
“Well, we can at least catch our breath,” said Mr. Finch. “We’ll continue monitoring the situation from this end, but it doesn’t look like we need to worry quite yet. Without Simmons, it appears that no one quite knows what to do, at least of those who currently know of Quinn’s arrest.”
“Let’s keep it that way,” said Reese.
Cheyenne finally found a place to hang up his hat and returned his attention to Miss Carter. “Want some coffee?”
Miss Carter nodded. “Thanks.”
Cheyenne nodded back and ushered her to a seat at the table before going to the galley, which had a small stovetop. He quickly located the coffeepot, coffee, and creamer and soon had a pot of coffee on the fire to brew.
“Is this your first time on a yacht, Cheyenne?” she asked as he sat down across from her.
He looked around. “You mean a boat like this? Yes, ma’am. I’ve taken a canoe down a river before, rode a Mississippi riverboat a time or two, but I’ve never been out to sea before. Trains an’ horses are more my line.”
She smiled.
“You?”
“First time to actually sail in one. I don’t usually set foot on a boat unless it’s a crime scene.”
He chuckled, and they lapsed into companionable silence until, just about the time Cheyenne got up to turn the fire off, Mr. Finch said, “Oh, dear.”
“What?” asked everyone who wasn’t in the library.
“It appears someone may have called the Coast Guard,” Mr. Finch announced. “A cutter has just left the station on Staten Island and is headed in your direction.”
“Where’d the call come from, Finch?” Reese asked.
“Working on it, Mr. Reese.”
“I can confirm it wasn’t any of the HR members currently in the know,” said Root. “My guess is it was someone who lives near the docks in Hamilton Beach who saw a bunch of people dressed in black boarding a boat and thought it looked suspicious.”
“I just need to know whether we’re about to have a fight on our hands,” Reese insisted.
“Offhand, I’d say not,” said Mr. Finch. “It would be better to answer their radio call, at least, so they’re less likely to stop you. But I’ll let you know if we discover otherwise.”
Miss Carter shook her head. “I knew this was too easy.”
“Hey,” said Cheyenne and put a hand on her shoulder. “We ain’t licked yet.”
She smiled tightly at him but didn’t seem all that encouraged.
It was only another minute or two before Mr. Finch reported that the call had indeed come from a number in Hamilton Beach, shortly after which the Coast Guard vessel hailed Reese on the radio. Reese identified himself as John Rooney and gave the name of the boat and its destination. But apparently that wasn’t enough, because the Coast Guardsman asked permission to come aboard.
Reese granted permission, but Root said, “They can’t know about Quinn. What are they looking for?”
“It could be anything,” said Sam. “Face it, sailing at low tide is gonna look weird to anyone.”
“I can’t help that, Shaw,” said Reese and stopped the engine.
“I know. I’m just sayin’.”
Cheyenne, meanwhile, had started searching the cabinets and finally found what he was looking for: a nearly-empty bottle of whiskey. He brought it to the table, then took off his gun belt and handed it to Miss Carter, took off his tie and stuffed it in his pocket, and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and about half the buttons on his vest. She hid the gun belt in the storage chest under the seat across from the table. Then he picked up the whiskey bottle again, and together they went to wait by the foot of the stairs that led up to the bridge. They had just gotten into position when footsteps on the deck heralded the arrival of the Coast Guard.
“Good evening, sir,” said a young woman’s voice. “We’re sorry to trouble you. Could I have your name again?”
“John Rooney,” answered Reese.
“Would you mind telling me why you’re out on the water so late, Mr. Rooney?”
“I was out with some friends when I suddenly remembered I was supposed to move my yacht before midnight.”
“Actually,” Mr. Finch began.
“My employer’s yacht, I should say,” Reese corrected smoothly as if Mr. Finch hadn’t spoken. “I have free access to it, but it’s registered in his name.”
“And who is your employer?” the young woman asked.
“Harold Crane.”
“Good catch, John!” said Root.
“May we look around, Mr. Rooney?” the young woman wondered. “It won’t take long, just routine, but the call we received raised the question of smuggling.”
“Oh, no, go right ahead,” said Reese. “My guests may already be asleep….”
That was Cheyenne’s cue. He took a quick swig of whiskey and staggered up the steps as if he were more than three sheets to the wind. “Wash goin’ on, Zhohn?” he slurred as he reached the door to the bridge.
Reese turned in mock alarm. “Jim! Where the devil did you-”
“Yer not my movver,” Cheyenne interrupted, pointing at Reese with the bottle. “If I wanna drink, ish none o’ yer bishnesh.” The boat rolled a little, and Cheyenne let the motion send him crashing into the doorframe.
“Give me that.” Reese swiped the bottle out of Cheyenne’s hand. “How much have you had?”
“Not enough.” Cheyenne pretended to grab for the bottle and miss as Reese sidestepped.
Before the mock fight could come to blows, however, a female hand landed on Cheyenne’s left arm, accompanied by a high-pitched giggle. “Aw, c’mon, Jimmy,” said Miss Carter, sounding nothing like her usual self. “Leave John alone. Zo’s asleep-let’s you an’ me have some fun, huh?”
Cheyenne genuinely lost his balance as he let her pull him around, and he slipped halfway down the stairs to the tune of her giggling. Then he sat down on the stairs and pulled her into his arms with a playful growl, burying his nose-but not his lips-in the crook of her neck and putting his right hand between her shoulder blades and his left on the butt of Sam’s gun. Miss Carter giggled more and squirmed but slid her left arm around his shoulders while her right hand came to rest on the butt of his Desert Eagle.
“Got a clear line o’ sight?” he murmured in her ear.
“Aw, you so sweet,” she answered loudly enough for the Coast Guardsmen to hear and nodded against his shoulder.
“Here’s hopin’ we don’t need it.”
She hummed in agreement.
Behind him, Cheyenne could hear Reese apologizing to the Coast Guardsmen. “He’d been sober for about four months,” Reese was saying. “I don’t know what possessed him to fall off the wagon tonight-”
“It’s really all right, sir,” the young woman assured him. “We won’t disturb you any further.”
Cheyenne looked up just enough to see a man’s face peer in one of the cabin windows briefly, but then he was called away, and the footsteps left. Reese shut the cabin door-and a burst of applause came through the telephone.
“Let’s not do that again,” said Miss Carter with a laugh as Cheyenne let her go.
Cheyenne grinned sheepishly. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“No. And thanks for not actually kissing me.”
“You sure you don’t wanna be an actor, Cowboy?” Fusco asked. “That was pretty damn good.”
“Bein’ undercover is all the actin’ I care for,” Cheyenne replied, going back to the galley. There he poured three mugs of coffee, adding creamer to one for Miss Carter, while she pulled on the overcoat Mr. Finch had left for her. Then Cheyenne handed her her coffee and one of the ones he’d left black. “Want me to get the door?”
She shook her head with a smile. “Thanks, Cheyenne.” With that, she headed up to the bridge to take Reese his coffee and watch the scenery, leaving Cheyenne to restore his appearance, put his gun belt back on, have his own coffee in silence, and keep an eye on Quinn.
The relative quiet was finally broken by Root announcing, “Okay, Zombie Simmons text is away, and HR is behaving completely predictably. They’ve shut down all the bridges and tunnels coming into Manhattan, and they’re moving in on the train stations in Queens. The guys who know that Simmons is dead are still offline. So far, there are no HR units near North Cove.”
“I’m in Tribeca,” Sam reported. “I’ll park on Broadway and walk the route from the federal building just to make sure it’s clear.”
“A’right,” Fusco agreed. “I’ll park closer to North Cove. But Cuckoo’s Nest, I need to know the second anyone starts movin’ that direction so I can take off and try to lead ’em away.”
“Didn’t know you cared, Lionel,” Reese teased.
“We’re talkin’ about my favorite partner here, genius,” Fusco shot back. “And I don’t mean you.”
“Aww, Fusco,” Miss Carter said warmly. “You do know I meant what I said about you bein’ the best partner I’ve ever had.”
“Feeling’s mutual, Carter,” Fusco replied with equal warmth.
“Ugh, sell it to the Hallmark Channel,” Sam groaned.
Cheyenne laughed in spite of himself.
The closer the boat came to North Cove, the stronger the tension in the air grew. But both Root and Sam confirmed that there were no HR thugs to be found in that part of Manhattan, so while Fusco helped Reese and Cheyenne tie up at the dock, Sam jumped aboard and helped Miss Carter get Quinn on his feet. And then, with guns at the ready, the team began the final trek to the federal building.
They had just made the turn onto Broadway when Mr. Finch said, “Wait-into the church, now!”
Reese, who as usual had taken point, swiftly led the team up the block and into St. Paul’s Chapel. Only when the door was closed behind them did he whisper, “What is it?”
“A patrol unit left the Brooklyn Bridge, headed toward Park Row. Miss Groves is trying to determine their destination.”
“We are six blocks away-”
“I’m aware of that, Mr. Reese, which is why we can’t risk discovery now.”
“It’s a legitimate call,” Root reported. “Domestic in progress at a hotel on Chambers Street, and that unit truly is the closest one available. But yeah, they would have gone right past you when you got to Chambers, and there’s no way they wouldn’t have noticed you.”
Fusco swore quietly.
“The good news is, it sounds like a straightforward domestic violence call. They shouldn’t need backup. So it’s not like you’ll be stuck there for hours or anything, just… ten minutes or so.”
Reese sighed. “Okay. Tell us as soon as it’s clear.”
“You got it,” Root promised.
Silence fell again, and while Sam guided Quinn to a seat on a nearby staircase, Cheyenne took the opportunity to wander through the church and look at the monuments. There was only so much he could see in the darkness, and he knew there wasn’t time to linger over anything, but since they had the place to themselves and it was the oldest building he’d ever been in, it still seemed a shame not to see what he could-and say a few more prayers while he was at it.
He had just rejoined the others when Root said, “Okay, move now.”
“You guys are gonna stop at Starbucks,” Miss Carter told Reese as Sam and Fusco hauled Quinn to his feet.
“Carter,” Reese protested.
“What, you think you’re gonna walk into FBI headquarters with guns drawn and convince Agent Moss you’re not criminals? You cannot be seen in there with me, and that’s final.”
“That go for everyone?” Fusco asked.
She looked at him, plainly considering, and then smiled. “Okay, no, you can come, Fusco.”
“Good, ’cause otherwise I’da had to ask Glasses to send Bear.”
Reese rolled his eyes and led the way outside.
Those last six blocks felt like the longest walk of Cheyenne’s life. He expected to hear another warning at any moment, but it never came. Yet just when it felt like they would never arrive, they were on the corner in front of Starbucks and across the street from Federal Plaza.
“We’ll wait here until you guys are inside,” Reese promised Miss Carter. “If anything goes wrong-”
“We are crossing the street, John,” she interrupted with a fond smile but a chiding look.
“I’m just saying.”
“I know.”
They looked at each other for a moment, and then Reese kissed her cheek and breathed, “Good luck, Joss.”
“Thank you,” she whispered back, squeezed his hand, and joined Fusco and Quinn at the crosswalk just as the light changed.
Without meaning to, Cheyenne and Sam moved to flank Reese as they watched the two detectives cross the street and enter the federal building. Cheyenne didn’t know what Sam was thinking, but it was all he could do to hold himself back and wait.
Then the door of the federal building closed, and Root announced, “They’re clear.”
Sam, Reese, and Cheyenne heaved a collective sigh of relief.
“And your ride is here,” Mr. Finch added as a taxi pulled up to the curb.
The shotgun window rolled down, and the driver whistled and called, “¡Oye, jefe!”
Grinning in apparent recognition, Reese clapped Sam and Cheyenne on the shoulder and ran to get the door for them. Once they were in, he slid in after them and shut the door, and the taxi drove off.
“How’s it going, Fermin?” Reese asked.
“Better!” answered the driver. “Maria and Jorge, they love it here. They say it’s so much better than in Cuba. They’re learning English, you know? And Jorge, man, he’s so smart. He’s doing really good in school. Maria got a job, too; she works from home, tutoring in Spanish online. You know, we’re not getting rich, but… we’re gonna make it.”
As Reese continued to exchange pleasantries with the driver, Sam’s pocket telephone buzzed. She looked at it and then showed Cheyenne the text from Mr. Finch: Driver: Fermin Ordoñez. We saved him from the Estonian mob last year, and Det. Carter helped get his family out of Cuba.
“So where to?” Ordoñez asked.
They weren’t far from Reese’s apartment in Chinatown, but instead Reese gave an address much further uptown. Cheyenne didn’t recognize it but thought it might be in Morningside Heights.
“Surprised you’re working the night shift,” Reese added as Ordoñez turned onto a cross street that would lead (Cheyenne thought) to West Side Highway.
“Another driver has been out sick all week,” Ordoñez explained. “And I don’t mind the extra hours-we got a new baby coming.”
“Congratulations! Boy or girl?”
“It’s a boy, and we already decide what we’re gonna name him: Juan José Haroldo.”
“Awww,” said Root in Cheyenne’s ear.
“Well, speaking only for myself,” said Reese, “I’m honored.”
The conversation died down at that point, and Root had only occasional updates about HR’s ongoing search for Quinn. Some of the units in Queens had started searching hospitals, and the mole at the RTCC had tried and failed to remotely access Simmons’ and Quinn’s telephones. But whatever magic Root and Mr. Finch were working with the computers still held, and no one had yet worked out that Miss Carter and Fusco had delivered Quinn to the FBI.
As the taxi approached its destination, all three of its passengers reached for their wallets at the same time. Sam took several bills out of hers and passed them to Cheyenne, who added several more before passing the bundle to Reese, who added his own contribution before folding the stack in half. When Ordoñez stopped outside a ratty-looking building, Reese passed the money through the window between the seats.
“Keep the change,” Reese said, and the three of them got out while Ordoñez was still goggling at their gift.
“So now what?” Sam asked once they were all on the sidewalk.
“Now?” Reese walked up to a door that was mostly hidden behind posters and unlocked it. “We go in.”
At first glance, even the interior of the building looked abandoned. Reese switched on a light once the door was shut again, but the few buzzing lights that came on were dim and sickly green, giving just enough light for the three of them to navigate the stairs. Cheyenne knew better than to take this place at face value, however, and sure enough, at the top of the stairs, Reese unlocked another door that opened into an apartment almost as richly furnished as his own, though smaller.
“What is this place?” Sam asked as Cheyenne hunted for somewhere to hang his hat.
“Another safe house,” Reese answered, entering a code on a keypad to lock the door from the inside. “It’s just for us-we never bring numbers here. Finch got it for me after the first time I got shot.”
“You’ll be safe there until morning,” Mr. Finch added as Cheyenne sat down on the sofa, suddenly weary. “So we’re pulling out of the RTCC feeds and restoring communications. Whatever HR’s troops do next, it’s too late for them to rescue Quinn.”
“Checkmate,” Cheyenne murmured and promptly fell asleep.
Next
* The bugle call “Boots and Saddles” was used in the US Cavalry to signal troops to mount and form the line before riding out of the fort or camp. Like Reveille, the title could also be used to refer to the time when the bugle call was to be sounded for a scheduled troop movement. Having spent a good chunk of his adult life as a cavalry scout, Cheyenne would likely think in those terms in a situation like this.
** “Generalissimo Francisco Franco is still dead” was one of the first running gags on Saturday Night Live, which premiered while news shows were breathlessly reporting on Franco’s last lingering illness.
Chapter 11
Checkmate
The afternoon seemed to crawl by as Cheyenne waited for word and for Boots and Saddles.* He tried to settle in and read, but none of the books he had on hand fit his mood-All Quiet was too dark, Roughing It too light, Phantastes too strange, and he couldn’t focus well enough to keep up with The Lord of the Rings. He wasn’t normally this tense before a battle… but then again, even when he didn’t have full freedom of action, he normally knew the ground and wasn’t waiting for a lady to pit her enemies against each other.
That wasn’t to say he didn’t know ladies who would pit their enemies against each other, but they were usually more like Samantha Crawford. Joss Carter had been Cheyenne’s first friend in this year-she’d saved his life. He didn’t like knowing she had this ruthless streak, and he liked seeing it in action even less. Sure, he knew as well as anyone that there was a time to work outside the law to see justice done, but he couldn’t protect her if she wanted to do it without him while also wearing a badge. But she knew perfectly well he couldn’t track her in this concrete madhouse on his own.
Well, Mr. Finch was apparently keeping tabs on her, and Reese and Sam were on hand to ride out if Miss Carter needed backup. All Cheyenne could do was wait and pray… and clean his guns.
It was full dark, or as fully dark as it ever got here, by the time Cheyenne finished with the last piece of his arsenal, yet he still had three hours to kill before Boots and Saddles. So he took his time with supper, shined his boots again, triple-checked every weapon he’d be carrying that night and put all the spare ammo he could fit on his gun belt and in his pockets, and made sure to shave after his shower. As he dressed, he imagined Sam teasing him about having what she’d call a hot date-but it wasn’t his appearance he was worried about.
Dressing and arming himself felt so odd this time, having to reacquaint himself with styles he’d have worn without a second thought six months ago while adding parts like the ballistic vest and shoulder holster that had become uncomfortably familiar since he’d gone to work for Mr. Finch. It took a moment’s walking around and several practice draws for the gun on his hip to feel natural again. Yet once he’d added the string tie and hat to the outfit, it was a jolt to remember that he still needed to put his telephone in his pocket and the earpiece in his ear. He did so with a sigh, wishing Tom and Bronco were there so at least he wouldn’t be off kilter alone.
And then he wasn’t alone.
“Ready?” Reese asked quietly from behind him.
“You’re early,” said Cheyenne, turning around. “What happened?”
“Just got back from Red Hook. Carter took a few pot shots at Quinn and made it look like Yogorov did it, so HR rounded up most of the top Bratva brass for execution. Except Carter called the FBI and stashed the stolen drugs in HR’s cars.”
Cheyenne frowned. “Why?”
Reese shrugged. “Diversion, apparently. Not only does it get those pawns off the board, but it isolated Yogorov so she could arrest him and get his sworn statement implicating Quinn in Beecher’s death. She’s got Yogorov stashed out of town while she comes back for Quinn.”
Cheyenne sighed heavily. “She’s been spendin’ too much time around Elias.”
Reese shook his head. “She’s always been capable of this. I’ve known that from the night we met-the compassion she showed me was genuine, but I knew exactly what she was doing when she offered me a cup of water with the goal of getting my fingerprints from it. She’s a tough cop, and she’s good at her job. She even sold me out to the CIA once when they had her convinced I was a serial killer-of course, she didn’t know at the time that they were trying to kill me. Still, she’d be scarier than Shaw if her moral compass wasn’t pointed in the right direction.”
“Those planted drugs could ruin her case. That happened to Tom Brewster once.”
“Bodie. What’s done is done. Besides, Terney recorded a full confession before he disappeared. Apparently Yogorov gave him until dawn to get his affairs in order, but Carter can’t get any more out of Yogorov than that.”
Cheyenne sighed heavily.
“Come on.” Reese clapped Cheyenne on the shoulder. “You can yell at her on the boat.”
Cheyenne didn’t like having anything to yell at her about, but he didn’t say so. He just pocketed his keys and followed Reese out the back way.
Once they were in the car, Mr. Finch called each of their pocket telephones in turn to add them to the party line. “I’ve nearly finished setting up the system for Root,” he announced once Cheyenne was connected. “I’ve taken every precaution I can, but I am still rather apprehensive about all this.”
“I think we all are, Finch,” said Reese.
“Laskey’s at the safe house,” Sam reported. “Collier should sleep through this, but in case he doesn’t, I’ve briefed Laskey on Vigilance and warned him not to let himself get recruited.”
“I’d have thought he’d learned his lesson with HR,” said Mr. Finch.
“Can’t be too careful,” countered Reese.
“Where’s Miss Carter?” Cheyenne asked.
“She just arrived at Det. Fusco’s apartment,” answered Mr. Finch. “They should be starting their show for the cameras any moment.”
Cheyenne nodded. The two detectives didn’t have a script per se, but at the first strategy meeting, they’d rehearsed the broad outlines of this little sketch, meant for the benefit of the HR mole at the Real Time Crime Center. Fusco would confront Miss Carter about keeping him out of the loop; she would give him a fake safe deposit box key with some rigamarole about “if anything happens to me”; he’d talk her into letting him come along, and she’d accept on the condition that he let her drive. Then he’d give her a fake set of car keys and go back inside to arm up, at which point she’d throw the fake keys away and drive off. Actually, Miss Carter had given copies of the real safe deposit box key to Fusco and Mr. Finch at the meeting, and Fusco had his safely hidden. The fake was meant to be a decoy in case HR captured Fusco-even if he gave them the correct bank information, the key wouldn’t fit.
“And I believe I’m as ready as I can be,” Mr. Finch continued. “I won’t be patching Root directly into this call, as she said she’ll need her own line to communicate with the Machine, but I will be putting this call on speaker in case she needs to convey verbal directions.”
“Here’s hoping she doesn’t,” Reese muttered.
“I’m on my way to meet Fusco,” said Sam. “Any change in plans?”
“Not so far,” answered Mr. Finch. “Please be careful, Miss Shaw.”
“You, too.” Then there was a beep, but Cheyenne was reasonably sure Sam had only muted her end of the call rather than hanging up.
The line fell silent while Reese took a roundabout route toward Queens and Mr. Finch went to get Root. Cheyenne tried unsuccessfully to update his mental map of where everyone was and where they would be shortly. Everything moved too fast, and there were too many unknowns for one man to keep track of unaided.
His reverie was broken when Root’s voice said “Well!” with the bright tone of a lady sitting down at a poker table with a group of unwary men she meant to fleece. “Good evening, gentlemen-and ladies. We are all hooked up to the RTCC’s feeds, and I am about to start tracking the GPS signals for all HR personnel. The Machine says it’ll look less suspicious if we block communications only for the HR members who show up at Monahan’s house, and I won’t begin that until just before John and Cheyenne move in. Let’s see… there are John and Cheyenne… there’s Shaw… Fusco just went inside… there go his keys… there goes Carter! And we’re off to a roaring start.”
“Are you planning to give us play-by-play of the whole evening, Root?” Reese asked.
“Did you want me to?”
“No,” Reese, Sam, and Cheyenne chorused.
“How about color commentary?”
“No.” Mr. Finch added his voice that time.
Root gave one of her condescending chuckles. “Good thing I’m gonna be too busy, then.”
Cheyenne rolled his eyes.
That was the last they heard from Root for quite a while, however. Mr. Finch handled what few status updates were needed, the most important of which was when Miss Carter finally called Monahan just as Reese pulled into the parking lot of the Catholic church just down the street from Monahan’s house. Monahan, as expected, told Miss Carter to get to his house as soon as she could and then promptly called Quinn, who in turn called Simmons.
Miss Carter, meanwhile, made a couple of other calls and then called Reese, who put the call on speaker. “It’s me,” she said. “I’m on Astoria Boulevard, headed your way.”
“We’re at the church,” Reese replied. “What’s your ETA?”
“Between 11 and 11:15.”
“All right. We’ll see you soon.”
“Thanks, John.” And she hung up before the faint tremor Cheyenne heard in her voice could become more definite.
“She’s scared,” Reese observed quietly.
“Who wouldn’t be?” Cheyenne returned.
Reese smiled and raised his voice. “Finch?”
“All security cameras on Juno, Kessel, and Loubet accessible to the RTCC are on a sixty-second loop,” Mr. Finch replied. “And there are no HR patrol units within a mile. You’re clear to move.”
Reese and Cheyenne got out in tandem, shutting the car doors as silently as possible, and approached Monahan’s house from the blind side. Ducking past the windows, they let themselves into the back yard and hid in the shadow of the storage shed that stood in one back corner of the property.
“Switching off the loop,” Mr. Finch announced once they were in place.
“Simmons picked Quinn up five minutes ago,” Root added. “There are three other men in the car. They should reach your location in twenty.”
So while Cheyenne wondered, not for the first time, why anyone who could afford a house the size of Monahan’s would willingly buy one in a city, crammed so close to its neighbors that there was just enough room to walk single-file between them and with a yard that would barely hold a decent chicken coop, the team watched and waited for Quinn and Simmons to arrive. It was just about twenty minutes later when Mr. Finch reported that the HR men had likewise parked several blocks away, with a patrol unit watching the car, and were walking up to the house. But Cheyenne heard little until Monahan passed the French doors on his way to the front of the house and returned with the HR men, one of whom carried a roll of plastic. Even when Simmons began issuing orders, Cheyenne couldn’t hear distinctly enough to know what was being said, but he could see the other men begin unrolling the plastic to cover the floor.
“Finch,” Reese breathed. “They’re planning to kill her here.”
“I know,” Mr. Finch said. “I’ve got ears on the room. And I am recording.”
“Let me get you eyes as well.” Reese pulled out his pocket telephone and snapped several photos before putting it away again. Cheyenne could only assume that Reese had gotten photos of everyone in the room-he couldn’t see well enough himself.
“Thank you, Mr. Reese. Det. Carter has just turned onto Kessel.”
At almost the same moment, Simmons gestured to Monahan, who went to wait in the darkened front room. Less than a minute later, Cheyenne heard Miss Carter’s car pull up and park and her car door open and close. Reese signaled to Cheyenne, and the two of them crept forward to hide on either side of the French doors while everyone inside was focused on ambushing Miss Carter. As soon as she saw Quinn, Miss Carter surrendered, dropped her gun, and let Simmons destroy her phone and herd her onto the plastic, but as Mr. Finch had expected, she goaded Quinn into gloating over having ordered Beecher’s death. Then she lamented having tried to play a lone hand-and Cheyenne tucked his coat behind his revolver and drew his Desert Eagle while Reese took up his own position.
“But then I realized you’re just too dirty,” Miss Carter continued. “Everywhere I turned, you had friends ready to help you out and I was alone. So… I called some friends of my own.”
And Reese blew the French doors open with a shotgun blast. Then he tossed the shotgun to Miss Carter and drew his pistol while Cheyenne gave covering fire, sending Simmons and Monahan diving for cover. By the time Miss Carter had hold of Quinn’s arm and was pushing him out of the room with Reese and Cheyenne on their heels, the three junior HR men were down. Simmons grabbed his radio, but Cheyenne shot it out of his hand. Neither Simmons nor Monahan moved again while the team hustled Quinn into the front room, where Reese took point and Cheyenne covered the rear.
“Give me your keys,” Reese demanded as they emerged in the front yard.
“We’re drivin’?” Miss Carter asked but passed her keys to Reese.
“Not far.”
Cheyenne kept his eyes on the house as Miss Carter shoved Quinn into the back seat of her car and Reese jogged around to the driver’s seat, but he made the mistake of holstering his pistol before opening his own car door. Naturally, that was when Simmons burst out of the house. But Cheyenne drew his revolver with the speed of thought and put three rounds into Simmons’ head before Simmons could get one shot off. Then the engine started, and Cheyenne barely had time to duck into the car before Reese sped away. Cheyenne managed to get his door shut just as Reese turned onto 72nd Avenue to go south.
“I didn’t know that kind of quick draw was real,” said Root’s voice in Cheyenne’s ear, sounding awed. “I thought it was something that only happened in the movies.”
“Is Simmons dead?” Reese asked.
“As a doornail,” Root confirmed at the same time Quinn answered, “Simmons is a resilient man. You may be surprised.”
“Three shots to the head would be tough for anyone to survive,” Cheyenne noted, replacing the spent brass in his revolver.
“You-know-who is sure he didn’t,” Root agreed.
“Where on earth do you think you’re taking me?” Quinn asked as Reese turned onto Metropolitan and Cheyenne put a fresh magazine in his Desert Eagle.
“Federal building downtown,” said Miss Carter.
Quinn chuckled. “You really think you can get across any of the bridges between here and Manhattan without my boys knowing about it?”
“No,” said Reese and parked beside a bus stop. “That’s why we’re not going that way. Let’s go.”
“Be sure to leave Quinn’s phone in the car,” Mr. Finch cautioned as everyone got out.
But when Cheyenne turned to pass that on to Miss Carter, she was already tossing Quinn’s phone back inside. She’d already handcuffed Quinn, too, and the shotgun was on the seat. Cheyenne nodded his approval and shut the door, and then they were off, marching briskly down Metropolitan to 72nd Road and south toward Union Turnpike.
“This just in,” said Root as they turned the corner. “Generalissimo Francisco Simmons is still dead,** but one of the HR mooks just shot Monahan. I’ve intercepted all calls out of the house and all 911 calls from the neighbors. The uniformed officers watching Simmons’ car are looking anxious, but so far it looks like they haven’t talked themselves into going in without orders.”
“The train is leaving the station now,” Mr. Finch added. “It should reach the park in about five minutes. There is no traffic on Union Turnpike at the moment.”
Reese and Cheyenne nodded to each other and picked up the pace.
Quinn looked around nervously as the team started to cross Union Turnpike without breaking stride. “You can’t be serious,” he said as they cleared the first median and started across the second lane. “Even if we don’t get run down by a passing car….”
“Never go into the parks at night,” Reese recited, sounding bored. “We know.”
“Still clear,” said Mr. Finch as they reached the second median.
They were just turning onto the path into the park when Root said, “Welp, looks like the three bears got themselves patched up enough to try to get back to the car themselves. Simmons is still dead, though, and we’ve still got their phones blocked.”
Cheyenne had a feeling it was going to be a long night for more reasons than the time required to get back to Manhattan.
The park was quiet compared to the rest of the city, which made it easier to hear human-sized rustles and whispers further off the path. But “They packin’ heat” was the phrase Cheyenne picked up the few times he could make out words, and that seemed to be enough to keep whatever miscreants were hiding amid the trees at bay. So the team made good time and reached the railroad track just as the train’s lantern became visible through the trees.
“You can’t be serious!” Quinn repeated.
“Sometimes you gotta think outside the box, Alonzo,” Miss Carter said as the train put on its brakes.
“By now my men have staked out every station on this line-”
“They haven’t!” Root assured Reese and Cheyenne quickly.
“-and there is no way you can possibly get past them.”
“Who said we were getting off at a station?” asked Reese as the train stopped. “We’re not getting on at one.”
Cheyenne vaulted into the open boxcar first to make sure there were no surprises. Finding it clear, he reached down to grab Quinn’s hands and pulled him up while Reese pushed from behind. Then Reese and Miss Carter scrambled in while Cheyenne kept Quinn under control, and Reese shut the door they’d just come through. A moment later, the train jolted and moved off.
“Something you should know, Mr. Reese,” said Mr. Finch. “The fence around the used car lot is topped with razor wire. You’ll have to dismount a hundred yards further along-Miss Shaw left the car in the parking lot of the grocery store that backs onto the track.”
Reese didn’t reply, only went to the opposite door to watch for landmarks. Less than a minute later, they passed under the two bridges at the southern edge of the park and came out into the open.
Quinn then looked up at Cheyenne with what was probably meant to be an ingratiating smile. “Mr. Merritt, I am sorry not to have gotten to see you perform in Wagons West. Your dedication to your craft is truly remarkable.”
Cheyenne didn’t respond.
“Perhaps I could arrange for new backing for the show-that is, if your repertory company still has any interest in staging it here in New York and if you’ll surrender me and your friends to my men when we reach them.”
Blatant attempts at bribery always disgusted Cheyenne, whether he was wearing a badge or not. But this one, coming after Simmons had traded barbs with Miss Carter about Shakespeare before the shootout, somehow reminded Cheyenne of the trap he’d sprung on Nick Avalon some years earlier. “Like the man said,” Cheyenne replied. “‘The play’s the thing / Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.’ ’Course, that kind of assumes you’ve got a conscience to catch.”
“Thirty seconds,” Root warned before Quinn could come up with a retort.
Cheyenne ushered Quinn and Miss Carter over to Reese as the train approached a high-sided bridge. Once they were past it, Reese sat down on the edge of the doorway and motioned for the others to do the same. The train did slow down slightly, but it was still going faster than Cheyenne had expected when the gradient leveled out and Reese signaled for them to jump out. Miss Carter had to drag Quinn out with them, which meant he landed wrong and twisted his ankle, but no one spared him a moment’s sympathy. Cheyenne only supported him from one side and Miss Carter from the other while Reese led them up the track and around the fence to the parking lot and the next car.
“Breaking news,” said Root as they reached the end of the track. “Generalissimo Francisco Simmons is still dead, but his minions have finally reached their vehicle, only to realize that none of them have the keys. We let them get a call out for an ambulance because somebody doesn’t want them to actually bleed to death-”
“Human lives are generally worth saving, Miss Groves,” Mr. Finch interrupted.
“But that was all. I think you’ll be able to make the river before-oh, one of them just passed out-before they can try to get word out to be looking for you guys-”
“We should probably also allow a coroner’s van to get through to the house.”
“Harold….”
“Out of respect for the dead….”
“No, no, wait, hear me out. If it looks like we can’t keep the news contained, we use Simmons’ cell phone to send HR to all the wrong places.”
“Perhaps we should discuss this more privately.”
“Hey, guys,” Sam’s voice broke in. “I left you a present in the glove compartment. But tell Joss I will want the Nano back.”
Reese led the way unerringly to the right car, and Quinn seemed startled that Reese unlocked it using the key. Once the team was inside and underway, Cheyenne opened the glove compartment and pulled out a bulky, heavy envelope. He could tell by the feel that there was a gun inside, along with something long, flat, and rectangular. The second item was the wrong shape to be a magazine, but knowing Sam, it was likely to be a syringe case.
Cheyenne handed the envelope back to Miss Carter. “Sam left this for you,” he said. “Says to tell you she’ll want part of it back.”
Miss Carter accepted the envelope and opened it. “Awww, she remembered,” she said with an audible smile as she slid the contents out.
“What is that?” Quinn asked.
“Two ways of makin’ sure you don’t give us any more trouble.”
“I haven’t begun to give you trouble, Joss.”
“And I’ll just make sure it stays that way.”
Quinn gasped as Miss Carter jabbed the syringe into his arm; Cheyenne looked into the back seat just in time to see her push the plunger.
“The syringe has ketamine,” Sam said at the same moment. “It should wear off about the time you guys get to North Cove.”
“This just in!” Root chirped. “Generalissimo Francisco Simmons is still dead-”
“I think that’s about enough of that joke for one night,” Mr. Finch interrupted, plainly irritated.
“-and the patrol unit has handed his minions off to the ambulance and gone to try to track you. They found Carter’s SUV, but it looks like they’ll need a bloodhound to figure out where you went from there. Right now they’re arguing about what to do next. No leaks so far, but John, you might want to break the speed limit. We’ll coordinate the lights for you.”
Reese didn’t respond verbally, but he did push the car to a speed that still made Cheyenne’s head spin. Every traffic light Cheyenne could see ahead of them suddenly turned green, which caused some honking and probably swearing, but the car sailed through every intersection and wove through what traffic there was with ease. In four minutes flat, they reached the marina in Hamilton Beach, where Mr. Finch had moored a boat (he called it a small yacht) for them, and they boarded while Quinn was still able to walk under his own power.
“I’ve left overcoats in the cabin for everyone,” Mr. Finch noted as Reese and Cheyenne cast off and weighed anchor and Miss Carter guided Quinn inside. “I expect it to be fairly chilly out on the water.”
Reese grinned. “You spoil us, Harold.”
As the boat began to move away from the pier, Miss Carter came back up with an overcoat for Reese. He thanked her, put it on, and took the helm while Cheyenne and Miss Carter went below.
“I’m afraid you are leaving just at low tide,” Mr. Finch continued, “but that boat has a shallow enough draft that it shouldn’t matter, and the tide will be turning in a matter of minutes. Just-please be careful, John.”
“I will,” said Reese and started the engine.
Quinn had already lain down on the bed in the prow and was fast asleep when Miss Carter and Cheyenne entered the cabin. While Miss Carter checked Quinn’s pulse, Cheyenne looked her over and saw not only the bulge of Sam’s gun holstered at the small of her back but also an earpiece in her ear. That must mean Sam had left her a new phone, too.
Miss Carter straightened with a nod, then heaved a sigh of relief and turned to Cheyenne with a weary smile. “Hi, Cheyenne.”
“How are you holdin’ up?” Cheyenne asked.
“Okay. To be honest, I wasn’t sure we’d get this far. But… here we are. And I’m plugged in now,” she added with a twinkle and gestured toward her ear.
He smiled. “Well, we’re gonna get you the rest of the way. Any news, Miss Groves?”
“Not so far,” said Root. “The guys you shot are on their way to the hospital, and the unis are still arguing over Carter’s car. Unless something changes, we’re gonna wait until y’all get past Coney Island before we send the group text from Zombie Simmons.”
“I’m not sure that’s better than the Francisco Franco joke,” said Mr. Finch.
Cheyenne felt a headache coming on.
“The idea,” Root continued as if Mr. Finch hadn’t spoken, “is to get HR focused on Queens and the East Side so nobody’s anywhere near North Cove. Whether or not it’ll work remains to be seen, but….”
“Well, as diversions go, I’ve seen worse,” said Cheyenne. “You can’t exactly stampede a herd o’ longhorns through Central Park and expect to tie up the whole gang.”
Miss Carter laughed.
“Now I kinda want to, just to see what would happen,” said Root.
“Bad idea,” said Sam.
“Not Central Park, though, more like Wall Street.”
“Very bad idea,” said Fusco, and when he’d joined the call, Cheyenne had no clue.
Still, Cheyenne agreed. “I take it you’ve never seen a stampede in person, let alone what one can do when it goes through a town.”
Root paused. “You have?”
“Imagine the worst flash flood you’ve ever seen, only instead of water, it’s solid flesh an’ sharp horns an’ hooves. When those beeves get spooked, all they know to do is run, and they don’t care what’s in their way. It’s bad enough on the open range, where you’ve got some hope of escape. It’s worse when they’re headed for a cliff an’ you’ve got to turn ’em or lose the whole herd. But the worst is in town. I saw a man once run his herd through a town street to take revenge on folks he thought tried to cheat ’im-they did so much damage that every business on that street had to close, and some o’ the buildings were barely standing at the end of it. Almost killed a good friend of mine.”
“Oh.” Root seemed somewhat taken aback, which surprised Cheyenne. Maybe the Machine was chiding her as well.
“So where are you, Shaw?” Reese asked.
“Washington Heights,” Sam answered. “We’re in separate cars just in case we need to split up.”
“At least we’re already over here if HR does shut down the bridges,” Fusco added. “Getting out of Manhattan’s gonna be a lot easier than getting in.”
“Well, we can at least catch our breath,” said Mr. Finch. “We’ll continue monitoring the situation from this end, but it doesn’t look like we need to worry quite yet. Without Simmons, it appears that no one quite knows what to do, at least of those who currently know of Quinn’s arrest.”
“Let’s keep it that way,” said Reese.
Cheyenne finally found a place to hang up his hat and returned his attention to Miss Carter. “Want some coffee?”
Miss Carter nodded. “Thanks.”
Cheyenne nodded back and ushered her to a seat at the table before going to the galley, which had a small stovetop. He quickly located the coffeepot, coffee, and creamer and soon had a pot of coffee on the fire to brew.
“Is this your first time on a yacht, Cheyenne?” she asked as he sat down across from her.
He looked around. “You mean a boat like this? Yes, ma’am. I’ve taken a canoe down a river before, rode a Mississippi riverboat a time or two, but I’ve never been out to sea before. Trains an’ horses are more my line.”
She smiled.
“You?”
“First time to actually sail in one. I don’t usually set foot on a boat unless it’s a crime scene.”
He chuckled, and they lapsed into companionable silence until, just about the time Cheyenne got up to turn the fire off, Mr. Finch said, “Oh, dear.”
“What?” asked everyone who wasn’t in the library.
“It appears someone may have called the Coast Guard,” Mr. Finch announced. “A cutter has just left the station on Staten Island and is headed in your direction.”
“Where’d the call come from, Finch?” Reese asked.
“Working on it, Mr. Reese.”
“I can confirm it wasn’t any of the HR members currently in the know,” said Root. “My guess is it was someone who lives near the docks in Hamilton Beach who saw a bunch of people dressed in black boarding a boat and thought it looked suspicious.”
“I just need to know whether we’re about to have a fight on our hands,” Reese insisted.
“Offhand, I’d say not,” said Mr. Finch. “It would be better to answer their radio call, at least, so they’re less likely to stop you. But I’ll let you know if we discover otherwise.”
Miss Carter shook her head. “I knew this was too easy.”
“Hey,” said Cheyenne and put a hand on her shoulder. “We ain’t licked yet.”
She smiled tightly at him but didn’t seem all that encouraged.
It was only another minute or two before Mr. Finch reported that the call had indeed come from a number in Hamilton Beach, shortly after which the Coast Guard vessel hailed Reese on the radio. Reese identified himself as John Rooney and gave the name of the boat and its destination. But apparently that wasn’t enough, because the Coast Guardsman asked permission to come aboard.
Reese granted permission, but Root said, “They can’t know about Quinn. What are they looking for?”
“It could be anything,” said Sam. “Face it, sailing at low tide is gonna look weird to anyone.”
“I can’t help that, Shaw,” said Reese and stopped the engine.
“I know. I’m just sayin’.”
Cheyenne, meanwhile, had started searching the cabinets and finally found what he was looking for: a nearly-empty bottle of whiskey. He brought it to the table, then took off his gun belt and handed it to Miss Carter, took off his tie and stuffed it in his pocket, and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and about half the buttons on his vest. She hid the gun belt in the storage chest under the seat across from the table. Then he picked up the whiskey bottle again, and together they went to wait by the foot of the stairs that led up to the bridge. They had just gotten into position when footsteps on the deck heralded the arrival of the Coast Guard.
“Good evening, sir,” said a young woman’s voice. “We’re sorry to trouble you. Could I have your name again?”
“John Rooney,” answered Reese.
“Would you mind telling me why you’re out on the water so late, Mr. Rooney?”
“I was out with some friends when I suddenly remembered I was supposed to move my yacht before midnight.”
“Actually,” Mr. Finch began.
“My employer’s yacht, I should say,” Reese corrected smoothly as if Mr. Finch hadn’t spoken. “I have free access to it, but it’s registered in his name.”
“And who is your employer?” the young woman asked.
“Harold Crane.”
“Good catch, John!” said Root.
“May we look around, Mr. Rooney?” the young woman wondered. “It won’t take long, just routine, but the call we received raised the question of smuggling.”
“Oh, no, go right ahead,” said Reese. “My guests may already be asleep….”
That was Cheyenne’s cue. He took a quick swig of whiskey and staggered up the steps as if he were more than three sheets to the wind. “Wash goin’ on, Zhohn?” he slurred as he reached the door to the bridge.
Reese turned in mock alarm. “Jim! Where the devil did you-”
“Yer not my movver,” Cheyenne interrupted, pointing at Reese with the bottle. “If I wanna drink, ish none o’ yer bishnesh.” The boat rolled a little, and Cheyenne let the motion send him crashing into the doorframe.
“Give me that.” Reese swiped the bottle out of Cheyenne’s hand. “How much have you had?”
“Not enough.” Cheyenne pretended to grab for the bottle and miss as Reese sidestepped.
Before the mock fight could come to blows, however, a female hand landed on Cheyenne’s left arm, accompanied by a high-pitched giggle. “Aw, c’mon, Jimmy,” said Miss Carter, sounding nothing like her usual self. “Leave John alone. Zo’s asleep-let’s you an’ me have some fun, huh?”
Cheyenne genuinely lost his balance as he let her pull him around, and he slipped halfway down the stairs to the tune of her giggling. Then he sat down on the stairs and pulled her into his arms with a playful growl, burying his nose-but not his lips-in the crook of her neck and putting his right hand between her shoulder blades and his left on the butt of Sam’s gun. Miss Carter giggled more and squirmed but slid her left arm around his shoulders while her right hand came to rest on the butt of his Desert Eagle.
“Got a clear line o’ sight?” he murmured in her ear.
“Aw, you so sweet,” she answered loudly enough for the Coast Guardsmen to hear and nodded against his shoulder.
“Here’s hopin’ we don’t need it.”
She hummed in agreement.
Behind him, Cheyenne could hear Reese apologizing to the Coast Guardsmen. “He’d been sober for about four months,” Reese was saying. “I don’t know what possessed him to fall off the wagon tonight-”
“It’s really all right, sir,” the young woman assured him. “We won’t disturb you any further.”
Cheyenne looked up just enough to see a man’s face peer in one of the cabin windows briefly, but then he was called away, and the footsteps left. Reese shut the cabin door-and a burst of applause came through the telephone.
“Let’s not do that again,” said Miss Carter with a laugh as Cheyenne let her go.
Cheyenne grinned sheepishly. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“No. And thanks for not actually kissing me.”
“You sure you don’t wanna be an actor, Cowboy?” Fusco asked. “That was pretty damn good.”
“Bein’ undercover is all the actin’ I care for,” Cheyenne replied, going back to the galley. There he poured three mugs of coffee, adding creamer to one for Miss Carter, while she pulled on the overcoat Mr. Finch had left for her. Then Cheyenne handed her her coffee and one of the ones he’d left black. “Want me to get the door?”
She shook her head with a smile. “Thanks, Cheyenne.” With that, she headed up to the bridge to take Reese his coffee and watch the scenery, leaving Cheyenne to restore his appearance, put his gun belt back on, have his own coffee in silence, and keep an eye on Quinn.
The relative quiet was finally broken by Root announcing, “Okay, Zombie Simmons text is away, and HR is behaving completely predictably. They’ve shut down all the bridges and tunnels coming into Manhattan, and they’re moving in on the train stations in Queens. The guys who know that Simmons is dead are still offline. So far, there are no HR units near North Cove.”
“I’m in Tribeca,” Sam reported. “I’ll park on Broadway and walk the route from the federal building just to make sure it’s clear.”
“A’right,” Fusco agreed. “I’ll park closer to North Cove. But Cuckoo’s Nest, I need to know the second anyone starts movin’ that direction so I can take off and try to lead ’em away.”
“Didn’t know you cared, Lionel,” Reese teased.
“We’re talkin’ about my favorite partner here, genius,” Fusco shot back. “And I don’t mean you.”
“Aww, Fusco,” Miss Carter said warmly. “You do know I meant what I said about you bein’ the best partner I’ve ever had.”
“Feeling’s mutual, Carter,” Fusco replied with equal warmth.
“Ugh, sell it to the Hallmark Channel,” Sam groaned.
Cheyenne laughed in spite of himself.
The closer the boat came to North Cove, the stronger the tension in the air grew. But both Root and Sam confirmed that there were no HR thugs to be found in that part of Manhattan, so while Fusco helped Reese and Cheyenne tie up at the dock, Sam jumped aboard and helped Miss Carter get Quinn on his feet. And then, with guns at the ready, the team began the final trek to the federal building.
They had just made the turn onto Broadway when Mr. Finch said, “Wait-into the church, now!”
Reese, who as usual had taken point, swiftly led the team up the block and into St. Paul’s Chapel. Only when the door was closed behind them did he whisper, “What is it?”
“A patrol unit left the Brooklyn Bridge, headed toward Park Row. Miss Groves is trying to determine their destination.”
“We are six blocks away-”
“I’m aware of that, Mr. Reese, which is why we can’t risk discovery now.”
“It’s a legitimate call,” Root reported. “Domestic in progress at a hotel on Chambers Street, and that unit truly is the closest one available. But yeah, they would have gone right past you when you got to Chambers, and there’s no way they wouldn’t have noticed you.”
Fusco swore quietly.
“The good news is, it sounds like a straightforward domestic violence call. They shouldn’t need backup. So it’s not like you’ll be stuck there for hours or anything, just… ten minutes or so.”
Reese sighed. “Okay. Tell us as soon as it’s clear.”
“You got it,” Root promised.
Silence fell again, and while Sam guided Quinn to a seat on a nearby staircase, Cheyenne took the opportunity to wander through the church and look at the monuments. There was only so much he could see in the darkness, and he knew there wasn’t time to linger over anything, but since they had the place to themselves and it was the oldest building he’d ever been in, it still seemed a shame not to see what he could-and say a few more prayers while he was at it.
He had just rejoined the others when Root said, “Okay, move now.”
“You guys are gonna stop at Starbucks,” Miss Carter told Reese as Sam and Fusco hauled Quinn to his feet.
“Carter,” Reese protested.
“What, you think you’re gonna walk into FBI headquarters with guns drawn and convince Agent Moss you’re not criminals? You cannot be seen in there with me, and that’s final.”
“That go for everyone?” Fusco asked.
She looked at him, plainly considering, and then smiled. “Okay, no, you can come, Fusco.”
“Good, ’cause otherwise I’da had to ask Glasses to send Bear.”
Reese rolled his eyes and led the way outside.
Those last six blocks felt like the longest walk of Cheyenne’s life. He expected to hear another warning at any moment, but it never came. Yet just when it felt like they would never arrive, they were on the corner in front of Starbucks and across the street from Federal Plaza.
“We’ll wait here until you guys are inside,” Reese promised Miss Carter. “If anything goes wrong-”
“We are crossing the street, John,” she interrupted with a fond smile but a chiding look.
“I’m just saying.”
“I know.”
They looked at each other for a moment, and then Reese kissed her cheek and breathed, “Good luck, Joss.”
“Thank you,” she whispered back, squeezed his hand, and joined Fusco and Quinn at the crosswalk just as the light changed.
Without meaning to, Cheyenne and Sam moved to flank Reese as they watched the two detectives cross the street and enter the federal building. Cheyenne didn’t know what Sam was thinking, but it was all he could do to hold himself back and wait.
Then the door of the federal building closed, and Root announced, “They’re clear.”
Sam, Reese, and Cheyenne heaved a collective sigh of relief.
“And your ride is here,” Mr. Finch added as a taxi pulled up to the curb.
The shotgun window rolled down, and the driver whistled and called, “¡Oye, jefe!”
Grinning in apparent recognition, Reese clapped Sam and Cheyenne on the shoulder and ran to get the door for them. Once they were in, he slid in after them and shut the door, and the taxi drove off.
“How’s it going, Fermin?” Reese asked.
“Better!” answered the driver. “Maria and Jorge, they love it here. They say it’s so much better than in Cuba. They’re learning English, you know? And Jorge, man, he’s so smart. He’s doing really good in school. Maria got a job, too; she works from home, tutoring in Spanish online. You know, we’re not getting rich, but… we’re gonna make it.”
As Reese continued to exchange pleasantries with the driver, Sam’s pocket telephone buzzed. She looked at it and then showed Cheyenne the text from Mr. Finch: Driver: Fermin Ordoñez. We saved him from the Estonian mob last year, and Det. Carter helped get his family out of Cuba.
“So where to?” Ordoñez asked.
They weren’t far from Reese’s apartment in Chinatown, but instead Reese gave an address much further uptown. Cheyenne didn’t recognize it but thought it might be in Morningside Heights.
“Surprised you’re working the night shift,” Reese added as Ordoñez turned onto a cross street that would lead (Cheyenne thought) to West Side Highway.
“Another driver has been out sick all week,” Ordoñez explained. “And I don’t mind the extra hours-we got a new baby coming.”
“Congratulations! Boy or girl?”
“It’s a boy, and we already decide what we’re gonna name him: Juan José Haroldo.”
“Awww,” said Root in Cheyenne’s ear.
“Well, speaking only for myself,” said Reese, “I’m honored.”
The conversation died down at that point, and Root had only occasional updates about HR’s ongoing search for Quinn. Some of the units in Queens had started searching hospitals, and the mole at the RTCC had tried and failed to remotely access Simmons’ and Quinn’s telephones. But whatever magic Root and Mr. Finch were working with the computers still held, and no one had yet worked out that Miss Carter and Fusco had delivered Quinn to the FBI.
As the taxi approached its destination, all three of its passengers reached for their wallets at the same time. Sam took several bills out of hers and passed them to Cheyenne, who added several more before passing the bundle to Reese, who added his own contribution before folding the stack in half. When Ordoñez stopped outside a ratty-looking building, Reese passed the money through the window between the seats.
“Keep the change,” Reese said, and the three of them got out while Ordoñez was still goggling at their gift.
“So now what?” Sam asked once they were all on the sidewalk.
“Now?” Reese walked up to a door that was mostly hidden behind posters and unlocked it. “We go in.”
At first glance, even the interior of the building looked abandoned. Reese switched on a light once the door was shut again, but the few buzzing lights that came on were dim and sickly green, giving just enough light for the three of them to navigate the stairs. Cheyenne knew better than to take this place at face value, however, and sure enough, at the top of the stairs, Reese unlocked another door that opened into an apartment almost as richly furnished as his own, though smaller.
“What is this place?” Sam asked as Cheyenne hunted for somewhere to hang his hat.
“Another safe house,” Reese answered, entering a code on a keypad to lock the door from the inside. “It’s just for us-we never bring numbers here. Finch got it for me after the first time I got shot.”
“You’ll be safe there until morning,” Mr. Finch added as Cheyenne sat down on the sofa, suddenly weary. “So we’re pulling out of the RTCC feeds and restoring communications. Whatever HR’s troops do next, it’s too late for them to rescue Quinn.”
“Checkmate,” Cheyenne murmured and promptly fell asleep.
Next
* The bugle call “Boots and Saddles” was used in the US Cavalry to signal troops to mount and form the line before riding out of the fort or camp. Like Reveille, the title could also be used to refer to the time when the bugle call was to be sounded for a scheduled troop movement. Having spent a good chunk of his adult life as a cavalry scout, Cheyenne would likely think in those terms in a situation like this.
** “Generalissimo Francisco Franco is still dead” was one of the first running gags on Saturday Night Live, which premiered while news shows were breathlessly reporting on Franco’s last lingering illness.