Fog of War (Justin Hall # 3) by Ethan Jones Page B

black dress and a Cashmere coat, and a matching purse hanging around her left shoulder. She was saying something to him, but the surrounding street noise was drowning out her words. Justin waved back and hurried his steps.
    A silver Escalade SUV parked in front of Da Marino—an Italian restaurant across from the Ambassador Theatre—caught Justin’s eye. Two black men dressed in orange leather jackets—which Justin noticed were two sizes too big for their thin bodies—and blue baggy jeans were arguing with a third man, who was in brown khaki pants, a white shirt, and a brown cap. He looked like a parking attendant. The back of the SUV stretched over the entrance to the Crowne Plaza Hotel parking garage. The parking attendant was shouting and pointing at the Escalade, but the two men were largely ignoring him, throwing furtive glances down the street and toward the theater.
    Justin was now a few steps away from Anna. He moved out of the way of a man running in the opposite direction, then walked around a young woman carrying large shopping bags. A second later, he noticed flashing lights coming from behind him. He turned his head and saw a white-and-blue NYPD police cruiser driving toward the theater. Justin glanced across the street. The arguing by the Escalade stopped at the sight of the police. One of the black men broke into a fast sprint through the parking garage. The other man just stood there, frozen in place, his hands deep into his jacket pockets.
    Justin’s eyes caught his look—a blank, distant look—and he recognized the man’s face. He was a known member of al-Shabaab believed to be hiding in New York. Justin realized what the man was holding in his pocket. He also realized the purpose of the illegally parked Escalade.
    “Anna, get down, get down! Everybody down, down!” Justin shouted, darting forward toward Anna.
    “Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!” the man screamed his battle cry.
    The noise from the ensuing explosion covered his cries and all other sounds. An orange glow and black smoke appeared as the SUV turned into a firebomb. A city bus—which happened to drive by at the unlucky moment of the explosion—was torn to pieces. Other cars next to the SUV bomb were thrown around like toys. The bus saved Justin’s life, but he was still tossed through the glass windows of the Colony Records store close to the theater as the blast wave washed over him. Glass slivers and debris covered his face and his body. Dead bodies littered the sidewalk, while severely wounded people struggled to get back to their feet and move away from the explosion.
    Justin felt a pair of hands lifting up his head. A soft voice said, “Justin, Justin. Can you hear me?”
    He recognized the voice, even though it sounded worried, weak, and distant. “Justin, can you . . . can you hear me?”
    “Yes, yes, Anna, I can . . .” He stopped to clean his mouth with his hand. It was covered with white powder. “I just can’t move.”
    “Oh, thank God.” She sighed. “I thought you were . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she didn’t finish her words.
    “No, I’m not dead. I’m not that easy to kill.”
    Anna frowned. “Not funny. Stay still. A couple of shelves have fallen over your legs. Let me see if I can move them. How’re you feeling?”
    “OK, I guess. I’m finding it hard to breathe.”
    He coughed and spat out dirt and blood. He raised his head and saw dust and smoke. Sharp sirens echoed in the distance.
    “There’s smoke and dust everywhere. The ambulances will be here shortly,” Anna said.
    She grunted as she lifted and pushed away two plastic shelves and a few boxes.
    Justin lifted his back slowly, his bruised hands seeking purchase against the debris next to him. He moved his right leg, then his left. “Nothing seems to be broken.”
    “Your face is full of cuts and bruises,” Anna said, sitting next to him. She leaned over him in a tight embrace.
    “What about you?”
    “I’m fine. Your shouting saved