NYPD Red

Chapter 72



TRAFFIC SCRAMBLED TO get out of our way as we tore down Seventh Avenue at autobahn speed. “Thank you,” Kylie said, eyes glued to the road.

I didn’t respond.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“For what?” I mumbled.

“What do you think? Come on, Zach—Cates asked you to ride herd over me, and three days later, you’ve gone off the reservation. That’s my fault.”

“It was my choice not to answer the phone,” I said.

“Okay. But thank you. I mean it. I owe you big-time. Spence and I both owe you.”

“Great,” I said. “Maybe he can help me find a job in security at Silvercup.”

She turned and smiled at me, nearly plowing into a cab that couldn’t get out of her way fast enough.

Under ordinary circumstances, it would have taken twenty minutes to get to Kylie’s apartment in Tribeca. But with lights, sirens, and an absolute madwoman behind the wheel, we made it in eight and a half.

The Caprice screeched to a hard stop at the corner of Washington and Laight streets in front of an elegant eight-story redbrick building that had long ago been the Pearline Soap Factory. Tens of millions of dollars later, it had been transformed into a symbol of the ultimate chic that now defines lower Manhattan. No one on a cop’s salary could possibly afford to live there. Spence was obviously a good provider.

“Seventh floor,” Kylie said as we raced into the lobby. The elevator was right there, doors wide open, but she ran past it and into the stairwell.

I followed.

“Elevator’s too slow. This is the fastest way,” she said, giving the obvious answer to a question I hadn’t even bothered asking.

“Do we have a plan?” I said as we got to the fifth-floor landing.

“No. Yes. I don’t know. Damn it, Zach, we don’t need an NYPD Red master plan for every little thing. I just want to get in, get Spence out, warn the neighbors, and get our asses out of the building. If it blows, it blows.”

It made sense. In, out, run. Simple. There was no time to try to disarm a bomb.

We crashed through the stairwell door on seven, and turned right. There were only two apartments on the floor. Kylie’s was in the front.

She pulled a key out of her pocket and jammed it into the lock on Apartment 7A.

In, out, run, I kept saying to myself. Simple. But something wasn’t sitting right.

Kylie turned the key, and in that split second I knew. Nothing that came from the twisted mind of Gabriel Benoit was ever simple.

I lunged at her and threw her to the floor.

“What the f*ck?” she screamed.

“It’s booby-trapped,” I said.

She stared at me, half believing, half in denial, because undoing a booby trap takes time, and we were running out fast.

“How do you know?” she said.

“I don’t. But I know Benoit. He gave us more than enough time to get here. He wants us to barge through that door.”

“We have to get in,” she said. “Spence is in there.”

“Quiet.” I stood right up against the door and yelled. “Spence!”

He responded with a series of high-pitched shrieks. I knew from the Skype call that his mouth was duct-taped. He couldn’t utter a word, but it was clear from the urgency and the inflection in every cry that he wasn’t just asking for help. He was giving us a warning.

“Spence,” I said, “is it safe to open the door? Grunt once for yes. Twice for no.”

The answer came back loud and clear. Two muffled, yet distinctly separate, penetrating sounds. No.

“Is the door wired with explosives?”

A single grunt. Yes.

Every ounce of confidence and bravado drained from Kylie’s face. She had made all the calls—no bomb squad, no backup, just storm the castle and save the day on her own—and now it looked like every single call she had made was wrong.

“Zach…,” she said, looking as vulnerable and helpless as I’d ever seen her.

Suddenly saving Spence’s life was all on me. I shut my eyes and tried to picture every square on the chessboard.

“We have seventeen minutes,” she said.

No time to overthink.

“Spence!” I yelled through the door. “Can I come through the window?”

One grunt. And then…nothing.

Yes.

It was the answer I’d been hoping for.

“That’s it,” I said to Kylie. “I can get in through the window.”

She looked back at me—fear, disbelief, disappointment, and a slew of other negative emotions in her eyes. “Zach,” she said, “we’re seven stories straight up. How the hell do you plan to get in through the window?”