“You,” the first gunman snapped to Kieran. “Get those stones and come with me—now.”
Kieran stared at him. She wondered whether she could even move, she was shaking so badly. Some instinct came to her rescue. She swept up all the diamonds while the thief who had done the talking headed to the back with Matt Townsend. A second one moved to stand close to her. Even though she knew that his gun wasn’t touching her, she still thought she could feel it.
The third remained near the door, oblivious to the camera, his gun ready.
The thief in charge shouted from the back that the door was open. Kieran stood with the velvet-wrapped diamonds in her hands, frozen once again.
Then the nearest gunman grabbed her arm and turned, walking backward and keeping his eyes on Krakowsky and the other customer as he pulled her down a hallway and toward the back door.
He fired a shot as he walked; she felt the pistol’s kick shoot through her via his grip on her arm. The sound was deafening.
She couldn’t tell if anyone had been hit or not.
All she knew was that she was being hustled through the store and out the back door.
The alley beside the store had once been an open-air path. It was still a pedestrian passage, but now it was flanked by new buildings—new as in maybe only fifty or so years old—and boasted sidewalk cafés at both ends.
“Move!” the third man shouted, hurrying to catch up to them. “Someone in there must have set off the alarm. Hear the damned sirens?”
Her captor shoved her toward the wall, and all she could do was wonder if they would or wouldn’t shoot her in the back.
But before she hit the wall she was grabbed by the third man. “Keep her—we may need her,” he said, wrenching her around to face him. His eyes were like chips of blue ice. “If you—”
He stopped speaking for a moment, and she saw his eyes widen. Did he know her? she wondered.
He quickly found his tongue again. “We’re going to run, and you need to do everything I say. If you don’t, I will fucking blow a hole right through you. Got it?”
Kieran was trying so hard not to shake that she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to move. She finally nodded.
“Good. Now run. And don’t hold me back. Don’t trip, don’t falter, don’t stop for any reason. Your life depends on it.”
*
The moment Craig brought the car to a screeching halt, double-parking next to a silver Mercedes, he and Mike leaped out. They were already communicating via headsets, ready for whatever they might find inside.
A half dozen uniformed NYPD cops had arrived just ahead of them and were lined up outside the door of Flawless.
Mike produced his badge and said, “FBI. Anyone go in yet?”
“Just got here,” one of the cops said.
“We’ll take it easy—there could be people in there,” Mike said. “If two of you will cover me on the left, I’ll take the door. Craig, what are you thinking?”
Craig had been studying the building and thinking about the best way in.
Space had been at a premium in NYC for decades, if not centuries. Buildings tended to be flush against each other, but there were exceptions. In this instance, there was a café at the end of the block, with tables spilling out on a throughway that led to the back of the building. An old archway suggested another narrow alley at the back of the building that fronted the block, an alley that presumably ran between the buildings that faced one street and those that faced the next.
“Going around—there’s bound to be a back door,” he told Mike briefly and pulled his gun.
He didn’t wait for a go-ahead or a reply but moved as soon as he was done speaking.
He heard Mike’s voice in his ear. “Hey, watch what you’re doing. You need backup, you say the word.”
“I’m good, no problem yet,” he said in return.
He moved as quickly as he could and rounded the corner. He saw that there was an actual archway on the end of the alley, space enough for some outdoor seating for a chain luncheonette.
There were people at the tables.
“Move!” he shouted, threading his way through them. “Move!”
“What the fuck—” someone said.
“We’re moving in,” Mike said over Craig’s earpiece.
“You take care.”
“I have backup.”
Craig swore softly, running into a chair a man had pushed back.
“Dickhead!” the man said.
“Move—”
“You dickhead!”
“Move. FBI!” Craig roared.
The man moved and then someone screamed and everyone got out of his way.
Craig realized then that he was wielding his Glock.
“What’s going on, Craig?” Mike demanded.
“I’m running!” Craig panted.
He tore down the pedestrian alley as fast as he could move.
As he reached the rear of the jewelry shop he could see that the back door was open.
He heard Mike’s voice again in his ear. “I’m inside. Two people in here, both okay. One is old man Krakowsky. He said they went out the back and they have a hostage.”
“I’m on it,” Craig said.
Dammit. The thieves had been there—and they were a step ahead.
He could see people running at the other end of the alley.