Bart Callan concentrated on keeping pace as the motorcade snaked a turn onto
First Avenue. Once he rotated the wheel into the straightaway, he flicked a glance
in the rearview to Rook in the backseat. “Never thought I’d say this, but glad you
’re around, after all.”
“Yeah?” muttered Rook. His response came muted, not just from the backhanded
compliment, but he’d been maintaining a low profile in the aftermath of Yardley
Bell naming him as the source of her intel on the Jamaican. He knew this would be a
discussion later with Nikki, and hunkering became his defensive strategy. But the
man behind the wheel seemed to have a different agenda—and worked it—masking his
digs inside praise, all for Nikki’s ears.
“I’m serious. Without your special relationship with Yardley Bell, we’d never
have this lead.” Separately, Heat and Rook reacted with discomfort. They both
wanted out of that car, but doing fifty in a Code Three wouldn’t be the place. And
Bart continued, sounding innocent even as he made one last pick at the scab. “You
and Yardley must be good friends to have ended a romance and still be this close.”
Rook didn’t answer that. Heat wanted to turn in her seat and eyeball him; wished
for one moment of privacy so she could unload. That would wait.
“Know what this bridge is?” asked Callan as they crossed the Harlem River on the
Willis Avenue span. “The twenty-mile-mark of the New York City Marathon. Know what
we call this bridge? The Wall.”
“Because this is where you hit it?” asked Rook.
“No.” Callan scoffed. “Because this is where the lesser runners do.”
An officer in black fatigues waved them into the staging area, the parking lot of
the US Postal Service’s Bronx sorting facility off Brown Place, around the corner
and out of sight of Barrett’s Do the Jerk warehouse. Callan scoped the blacktop,
which was filled with hazmat vans, FDNY trucks, ambulances, and a pair of daunting,
black military-style armored personnel carriers with battering rams. In a far
corner, a portable hazardous materials scrub-shower area was being set up beside a
medical DRASH tent. “Handy to have this USPS property here in the neighborhood,”
said Heat.
The agent nodded. “This is federal synergy at its finest.” He sounded tongue-in-
cheek, but his face meant every word. When they heard the click of Rook unbuckling
his seat belt, Callan found him in the rearview mirror. He spoke softly but with the
tone of a drill instructor. “You will remain in the vehicle.” Rook folded his
hands in his lap to wait.
Yardley Bell met them mid-block on 132nd, on their walk-up to the deployment zone,
and recited the briefing. “Streets are cordoned, all exits blocked, neighboring
properties… a shipping fulfillment center and a scaffolding business… have been
cleared out. Quarantine team’s ready and we have air support.” She twisted to the
sky. “We also attracted a couple of TV news choppers. I had FAA push them back one
mile, and our public information officer is calling the stations to inform them of
the readiness exercises we are conducting this week.” Nikki listened to Yardley, so
in-charge. She heard the competency and the confidence, and felt a little bad she
couldn’t admire her.
“Got your warrant, Agent Bell.” Callan handed her the paper.
She gave it a quick glance and said, “Let’s light the fuse.”