A Murder of Crows (12 page)

He couldn’t let that happen.

H
ICKS WAS
already halfway through his cigar by the time he’d gotten to the corner of Nineteenth Street and Broadway. The crosswalk sign had only just finished blinking red and a small herd of pedestrians ran across the street before traffic rolled. Hicks could’ve easily made it if he ran, but decided to wait. He had the corner all to himself, which was a rarity at this time of morning in Manhattan.

He decided to enjoy his temporary solitude by taking a deep pull on his cigar and let the smoke escape through his nose. No one was around him to complain. The tobacco and the crisp morning air were helping to kill his headache. The growing strength of the morning sun warmed his back and neck. Knowing it had been the last sunrise Bajjah would ever see made it seem even warmer.

His shadow stretched long and thin into the crosswalk as cars began to roll south on Broadway.

He noticed another long shadow appear next to his before it stopped short and quickly pulled back.

Strange.

New Yorkers never pulled back, especially at a crosswalk during rush hour. Every patch of ground was sacred in a busy city. Armies had surrendered ground easier than a busy New Yorker on their way to work. People only stepped back if they were at the curb and need to avoid getting hit by a bus or taxi. New Yorkers were always jockeying for position, especially at the curb, where they usually stood anxiously, waiting for traffic to thin out or slow down enough for them to cross with or without the light.

But this shadow not only stopped short. It had pulled back, even though Hicks was the only one waiting to cross the street. He had only seen the shadow for a split second, but he could it belonged to a man by the width of it.

A man who had chosen to stay behind him even though no one else was at the corner.

Why?

Hicks’ training came to the fore. He decided he wouldn’t turn around. If the shadow belonged to one of Stephens’ men, looking around only would have made them break off and try again later. The shadow could be from another phone zombie reading an email or sending out one last Tweet while he walked. It could’ve been someone trying to avoid his cigar smoke. Or maybe it was some guy like him who didn’t need to be anywhere in a particular in a hurry.

Or maybe it was someone exactly like him. Maybe it was one of Stephens’ men who’d gotten too close and pulled back before he was noticed.

Hicks took another pull on his cigar and let the smoke drift from his nose once more as he pushed the Carousel to the back of his mind and became more actively aware of his surroundings.

Amid the thick southbound traffic, he spotted a white van with rust spots on the sides make a quick right off Broadway from the center lane. Horns blared and drivers cursed and pedestrians jumped out of the way as the van made the turn. Hicks watched the van duck into a parking spot mid-block on the south side of Nineteenth Street.

The same side of the street Hicks was on.

First Shadow Man, now this.

Maybe it was another coincidence—a hurried delivery man who had lost track of where he was and was forced to make a quick turn before he lost the light.

It also might not be so innocent. Shadow Man and the van could be related. Like the Dean often said, ‘You are only paranoid if no one is watching.’

Hicks considered hailing a cab or begin walking in another direction. He could head uptown or downtown to see if anyone followed. If he was wrong, all it would cost him was a few minutes.

But if Stephens’ people really were following him, he’d blow their op and lose his chance at identifying them. Changing direction would show them they had made a mistake. People like Stephens never made the same mistake twice. Next time, they’d be a lot more careful and harder to spot.

He decided to stay on Nineteenth Street. The longer this played out, the more likely they would make a mistake. If there was a ‘they’ at all.

As Broadway traffic slowed to a crawl, Hicks took a final drag on his cigar and dropped the butt down a storm drain grate at the corner. He unzipped his jacket and shook out the sides as if he was getting warm. His Ruger was still tucked in the shoulder holster under his left arm. The padded liner of the jacket kept it out of sight.

The light changed and he joined the crowd of people who began threading their way through the tangle of cars and trucks and buses and taxis blocking the crosswalk. He continued walking west when he got to the other side of the avenue. He kept an eye on the rusting white van that had barreled through traffic and parked next to a fire hydrant outside a vacant storefront. The sliding door was open and the engine was still running. A thin trail of smoke escaped from the exhaust.

He also saw a black man in a brown leather coat holding a cell phone up to his left ear. He looked like anyone else on the street except for one detail: Hicks recognized this man from the file the Dean had emailed him.

The man on the phone was Mark Stephens, Beekeeper—Defense Intelligence Agency.

Hicks recognized the set up. The open door of the idling van. Stephens on the street to his left and Shadow Man behind him. It was the same kind of Snatch-and-Grab operation Hicks had run dozens of times throughout the world. One man buffaloes a target from the back, another hits the target from the side, and both men push the target into a waiting vehicle. The door slides shut and the van pulls away before anyone can do anything about it. It was low-tech. It was old school and effective. If the operatives timed it right, there was no fuss or foul, especially if the target doesn’t see it coming.

But Hicks
had
seen it coming. And it made all the difference.

Stephens flinched as Hicks suddenly stopped short of the storefront entrance.

In one motion, Hicks pulled the Ruger from his holster and brought back his right elbow, slamming it into the throat of Shadow Man who had rushed to grab him from behind.

Hicks ducked behind the gagging man and wrapped his left arm under his neck, jerking the taller man backward and off-balance. He aimed the Ruger at Stephens, using Shadow Man as cover.

And Stephens was already aiming his nine-millimeter Glock at Hicks.

Pedestrians screamed and scrambled out of the way as Hicks pulled the gagging man back a couple of steps. To Stephens, he said, “You fucked up, Ace. Lay the gun on the deck, climb in the van, and drive away.”

But Stephens stayed where he was. “That’s not going to happen. Let my man go before you get hurt. All I was told to do was bring you in. No one has to die here today.”

“That’s not going to happen either.” Hicks tightened his grip on his hostage’s neck and made the man gag. “You can either go back to your bosses empty handed or you can get shipped back in a rubber bag. Makes no difference to me either way.”

The wail of an approaching police siren echoed through the streets. Stephens barely flinched at the sound, but he did flinch.

And Hicks saw it. “I’ve got nothing to hide from the cops. Do you?”

Stephens tucked the Glock in the back of his pants and moved toward the van, keeping his hands visible as he went. The sirens grew louder. “Okay, mister. You win. Now, let my man go and we’ll be on our way.”

Hicks struggled to keep the gagging man off balance as he used the Ruger to track Stephens from the store to the van. “Tell me who you work for.”

Stephens stepped up into the back of his van; still keeping his hands visible. “You already know.” Stephens looked in the direction of sirens, which had grown louder. “This shit is between professionals, so let’s keep it professional. I did what you wanted and stowed my weapon. Now let my man go.”

Hicks released his grip on the man’s neck and shoved him toward the van with a boot to the ass. He kept the Ruger level as Stephens pulled his stumbling operative into the van and slid the door shut.

As the van tried to pull out into sluggish crosstown traffic, Hicks holstered the Ruger and pulled his handheld device from his pocket. He held it up to the van and thumbed another innocent looking icon on the lock screen. The camera automatically scanned the van for the ID chip placed in most new vehicles. The
ping
came back positive. It had found the chip before the van pulled out into traffic and headed west. OMNI would now automatically track the van via the University satellite parked high above Manhattan.

Hicks pocketed his handheld as he quickly turned around and began retracing his steps, walking back east along Nineteenth Street. He was careful not to run, but moved quickly through the crowd. No one tried to stop him, but he fought the urge to bolt. Running would have increased his chances of tripping and injuring himself. Running would also bring more attention from more people when he got to the corner. The police sirens were too close to risk it.

He saw a few of the people in the crowd were taking his picture and filming him with their smart phones as he passed. There was nothing he could do about it. He’d have OMNI scan the area and alter the images on their devices later. For now, he needed to get the hell out of there before the cops showed up.

He crossed Broadway again and kept walking at a steady pace until he hit Park Avenue, where he hailed a cab heading uptown. He checked the interior for a passenger camera before he climbed inside, but didn’t see one.

He shut the door behind him and told the driver to take him to Grand Central. One or two people had followed him to the corner and were still aiming their smart phones his way. He was sure they didn’t work for Stephens. They were regular civilians trying to be helpful, or profit from the footage they would sell to a news agency.

He knew they had taken pictures of the ID number on the outside of the cab, but it didn’t matter. He planned on losing himself among the horde of commuters boarding and getting off the trains and subways that ran through the Grand Central Terminal complex. It wasn’t a foolproof plan, but it was the best he could come up with given the time.

As the cab began driving north, Hicks activated the secure feature of his phone. For the first time in his career, he tapped the Priority One/Code Red button on the screen.

Tapping that button triggered an immediate, automatic emergency message of his location to the Dean, the Varsity, stating James Hicks was in immediate danger and his cover had been compromised.

An automatic, more general alert immediately went out to all Faculty Members and Adjuncts in the University’s New York office, putting them on High Alert status until further notice.

Within a few seconds of pressing the button, his handheld buzzed from an incoming call. He expected it to be the Dean. He was surprised to see it was Jason, the Dean’s former right hand man—called a Dutchman—who had since replaced Hicks as the head of the University’s New York office.

Hicks and Jason had never been on good terms, but friendship wasn’t necessary in their line of work. Hicks gave the all-clear sign by answering, “This is Professor Warren. Thank you for returning my call.”

Jason broke protocol by asking a direct question. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Good. I have Scott and his men scrambling as we speak,” Jason said. “We have your position and also the position of the van you pinged. Where do you want Scott to go?”

Although they were speaking over OMNI’s secure network, a direct question under a Code Red was against University protocol. Hicks remained on script. “The other one would be best.”

“I’ll let him know.” A few clicks of the keyboard, followed by, “Do you believe this incident had anything to do with yesterday’s tracking incident? Was it Stephens?”

If Jason had been an experienced field agent, he would have known better than to discuss specifics on the phone. OMNI had never been compromised before, but the University had never gone up against the CIA and the NSA before. OMNI would prove difficult to hack, but no system was impossible. Given the circumstances, he answered the question. “It had everything to do with it.”

“Did you injure any of them?”

“No. I’ll tell you all about it when I’m back in the office on Friday.” The term ‘Friday’ was University code for ‘as soon as I’m clear.’

But Jason still didn’t get the hint. “I can see you’re in a cab. If I can see that, Stephens and his people might be able to see it, too. Get back to your place the safest, least direct way possible.”

Hicks resented the Dean’s former office pet telling him how to conduct himself in the field. “That’s the idea.”

“In the meantime,” Jason went on, “I’ve already got OMNI scanning all the signals in your previous area to disrupt any postings of the images on social media. So far, we’ve intercepted twenty accounts of the incident and five videos. We’ll also alter…”

Hicks cut him off before he gave out more of OMNI’s capabilities over a possibly compromised line. “Great. Talk to you later.”

Hicks killed the connection. When the phone buzzed twice, he figured it was an indignant text message from Jason about Hicks hanging up on him. The little prick had always been a last word freak. But it wasn’t a phone call.

It was a text message from the Dean:
WAS IT STEPHENS?

Hicks’ kept his text reply as brief as if they were having a phone conversation. Text messages were as easy to intercept as calls:
YES.