Her uncle put a finger over her lips and shook his head. “Not now, don’t worry about it.”
She let her eyes close again and let the morphine take her back to float in the white clouds. She was warm, she was safe, and best of all, her uncle was here and he’d protect her. She felt him squeeze her hand. As she floated away, she thought things could be worse.
But then it hit her, she had to tell him, had to—her eyes opened. “Uncle Carl, they’re going to assassinate someone, someone big.”
The machines beeped faster, insistently now.
He smoothed her hair off her forehead. “Calm down, Nessa. We’re going to stop them. We’re on their trail already. Now I want you to get some rest.”
“No, no, there’s going to be another attack—and an assassination, someone important—” She was gasping for breath, fighting to stay awake.
Pain, so intense, struck her chest like lightning. She felt a strange rush bubbling inside her. Her eyes rolled back in her head. Her heart monitor went haywire.
Nurses and doctors rushed into the room, shoving him out of the way.
“What’s happening?” Carl Grace yelled.
“She’s coding. Sir, please, you must move out of the way.”
29
BISHOP TO C4
Brooklyn
Rather than going immediately into Vida Antonio’s Laundromat, they stopped to study the burned-out auto repair shop. It took up most of the opposite block. The second story had collapsed into the first, and wouldn’t you know it, the broken-down cars in the lot right next to the burned-out building weren’t damaged. The brick was scorched black; the glassless windows gaped onto the street. The smell of soggy insulation and burned wood still filled the air. Bits of ash were still being churned up by passing cars. A yellow strip of crime scene tape was strung across the drive to keep vehicles out of the lot.
“Nothing to do here,” Nicholas said. “Let’s go see Mrs. Antonio.”
Vida Antonio was waiting for them behind a spotless counter in her Laundromat. She was small and round and gray and sharp-eyed, somewhere in her late sixties. She had a seen-it-all air about her, and the barest hint of an Italian accent, almost smothered by all-out Brooklynese. They were barely through the door when she said, “You the FBI?”
Nicholas nodded. Mike said, “Hello, Mrs. Antonio. I’m Agent Caine, and this is Agent Drummond. I understand you saw something of interest last night?”
Mrs. Antonio immediately held a finger to her lips and gestured for them to follow her into the back, past a dozen churning washing machines and dryers, ten or so patrons sitting in chairs reading or cruising the Internet on their tablets, or staring blank-eyed at the tumbling windows in the machines. Two young guys were folding sheets and talking. No one paid them any attention.
Once inside a small office, Mrs. Antonio breathed out a sigh of relief.
“Before I tell you anything, I need to see some ID.” She held out her hand.
They gave her their creds, and Mrs. Antonio examined them closely before saying, “Anyone can see me talking to you from the street. I don’t need to upset anyone, you know what I mean? Certain folk could get the wrong idea. Now, don’t think I’m talking about the Mob and them seeing you and coming in to cut my throat. It’s the young people, they get nervous around cops and I don’t want to lose business.
“I’m pleased you took me seriously. Of course I knew you had to be FBI; the two of you are as spiffy and clean as a sunrise. Except for the bruises. What did you do, get into a catfight?”