Then everything changed. And in a hurry.
On the monitor, Rook swiveled casually to look back over his shoulder, as if making room for other diners, who were out of the frame of the picture. But, as he turned back, two pairs of hands reached in to the frame and grabbed him. The whole thing startled Nikki for an instant, as if the speakeasy monitor had flipped channels to some primetime cop show. But the image was both real and in real time. As Rook struggled and was dragged out of the picture, Heat shouted, “NYPD, call 911!” and yanked open the door.
Hopping down the stairs two at a time, Nikki raced down the first flight but missed a step on the turn and stumbled onto the floor of the landing. Without bothering to stand up, she let the momentum of the fall carry her on a roll down the lower flight, regaining her footing on the fly halfway down, and was quickly out the door and on the sidewalk.
Her first glance was to the left, in the direction where she had seen Rook being dragged away. But there was no sign of him there, and no reason to think that was the right direction to go—unless they had taken Rook into the lobby of the office building next door, which seemed unlikely. When she swung her view right, she heard yelling and a woman screaming just as she saw the backs of two large men struggling to drag Rook around the corner of 3rd Avenue.
She sprinted after them, calling behind her, “NYPD! Officer needs help!” in hopes that the postal policeman would hear and respond. But city buses were parked along that block, and she couldn’t count on being heard—or seen—over them.
Heat came upon the two men, working to get a hard-fighting Rook into the back of a family-style van. He had the sense to spread his arms and legs to make it more difficult for them to get him inside, even though the big men would eventually surely prevail. Heat drew her Sig Sauer and, just as she was about to call for a freeze, a pro wrestler–sized guy standing beside her, one she hadn’t counted, spun, executing an arm bar that clotheslined her to the pavement and sent her pistol clacking into the gutter. She went for the man’s legs instead of her weapon, but her angle of leverage sucked. It felt like slamming into a tree trunk. He slipped free and brought a leg back to deliver a kick, but she log-rolled to one side and his shoe only grazed the meat of her upper arm.
The blur of feet and pants legs at ground level told Nikki they had gotten Rook inside the vehicle. She lunged for her gun and took a soccer kick behind her ear. Heat’s vision faded out. Her head came down on concrete, and in her swirl of nausea and blindness all she could hear was running footsteps, a door sliding and slamming, and the squeal of tires disappearing up 3rd Avenue with Rook inside going God knows where.
Nikki Heat burst through the door of the homicide bull pen full bore, calling out assignments even before she had cleared the threshold. Even though it was after 10:00 P.M., Raley and Ochoa had mustered the entire crew and the squad was operating at full capacity. Rhymer and Aguinaldo had canceled their evening plans to rally for the captain. Even Detective Feller, bleary, unshaven, but in fresh clothes, had zombied in and was already working the phones. Nikki would take him on his worst day. Or, in this case, hers.