donkey to carry my load and blow up a donut shop. That sound okay with you?”
Drake fantasized for a moment about what he might do to Marsh when they captured him. “How long?”
“Oh, ten minutes should do it.”
“Ten minutes? That’s bollocks, Marsh, and you know it. Grand Central is over twenty minutes from here. Probably double that.”
“I never said you had to walk.”
Drake clenched his fists. They were being set up to fail and they all knew it.
“Tell you what,” Marsh said. “To prove I can be pliable I’ll change that to twelve minutes. And counting . . .”
Drake started to run.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Drake rushed into the road as Beau called up the coordinates for Grand Central on his GPS. Alicia and Mai ran a step behind. This time however, Drake wasn’t planning on making the journey on the hoof. Despite the impossibly crushing schedule Marsh had set the attempt had to be made. Three cars had been abandoned outside the museum, two Corollas and a Civic. The Yorkshireman didn’t give them a second glance. What he wanted was something . . .
“Get in!” Alicia was standing by the open door of the Civic.
“Not nippy enough,” he said.
“We can’t waste time standing here waiting for—”
“That’ll do,” Drake saw beyond a slow-moving horse and carriage ride that had just exited Central Park to where a powerful F150 pickup idled away at the curb.
He sprinted toward it.
Alicia and Mai took off behind. “Is he fucking kidding?” Alicia ranted at Mai. “No way am I riding a horse. No way!”
They slipped past the animal and made short work of requesting the driver lend them his vehicle. Drake jumped on the gas pedal, burning rubber as he shot away from the curb. Beau pointed to the right.
“Take that through Central Park. It’s the 79 th Street Transverse and leads to Madison Avenue.”
“Love that song,” Alicia barked. “And where’s Tiffany’s? I’m hungry.”
Beau gave her an odd look. “It isn’t a restaurant, Myles.”
“And Madison Avenue was a pop group,” Drake said. “Led by Cheyne Coates. As if anyone would ever forget her.” He swallowed with a flash of memory.
Alicia grunted. “Bollocks. I’m just gonna stop trying to lighten the mood. Any why is that, Drakey? Was she a tart?”
“Hey, steady on!” He swung the speeding vehicle onto 79 th , which was a single wide lane and lined by a high wall with trees overhanging. “A pinup maybe. And a remarkable front woman.”
“Look out!”
Mai’s warning saved their vehicle as a Silverado swerved over the inch-high central reserve and tried to ram them. Drake caught sight of the face behind the wheel—the last member of the third cell. He tramped on the gas pedal, jerking everyone back into their seats as the other vehicle spun and set off in pursuit. All of a sudden their race through Central Park took on a far deadlier aspect.
The driver of the Silverado drove with reckless abandonment. Drake slowed to ease past a scattering of cabs, but their pursuer used the opportunity to slam their rear end. The F150 jolted and swerved but then righted itself without issue. The Silverado side-swiped a cab, sending it spinning over into the other roadway where it smashed into the retaining wall. Drake turned sharply left and then right to pass a dog-leg of cabs and then accelerated along an open stretch of road.
The terrorist behind them leaned out of his window, gun in hand.
“Down!” Drake yelled.
Bullets hammered every surface—the car, the road, the walls and the trees. The man was wild with anger and excitement and probably hatred too, uncaring as to the damage he caused. Beau, in the back seat of the F150, pulled a Glock and shot the back window out. Cold air rushed into the cab.
A row of buildings appeared to the left and then several pedestrians sauntering along the sidewalk up ahead. Drake saw only the Devil’s choice now—the chance death of a passerby or be late to Grand Central and
Drake fantasized for a moment about what he might do to Marsh when they captured him. “How long?”
“Oh, ten minutes should do it.”
“Ten minutes? That’s bollocks, Marsh, and you know it. Grand Central is over twenty minutes from here. Probably double that.”
“I never said you had to walk.”
Drake clenched his fists. They were being set up to fail and they all knew it.
“Tell you what,” Marsh said. “To prove I can be pliable I’ll change that to twelve minutes. And counting . . .”
Drake started to run.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Drake rushed into the road as Beau called up the coordinates for Grand Central on his GPS. Alicia and Mai ran a step behind. This time however, Drake wasn’t planning on making the journey on the hoof. Despite the impossibly crushing schedule Marsh had set the attempt had to be made. Three cars had been abandoned outside the museum, two Corollas and a Civic. The Yorkshireman didn’t give them a second glance. What he wanted was something . . .
“Get in!” Alicia was standing by the open door of the Civic.
“Not nippy enough,” he said.
“We can’t waste time standing here waiting for—”
“That’ll do,” Drake saw beyond a slow-moving horse and carriage ride that had just exited Central Park to where a powerful F150 pickup idled away at the curb.
He sprinted toward it.
Alicia and Mai took off behind. “Is he fucking kidding?” Alicia ranted at Mai. “No way am I riding a horse. No way!”
They slipped past the animal and made short work of requesting the driver lend them his vehicle. Drake jumped on the gas pedal, burning rubber as he shot away from the curb. Beau pointed to the right.
“Take that through Central Park. It’s the 79 th Street Transverse and leads to Madison Avenue.”
“Love that song,” Alicia barked. “And where’s Tiffany’s? I’m hungry.”
Beau gave her an odd look. “It isn’t a restaurant, Myles.”
“And Madison Avenue was a pop group,” Drake said. “Led by Cheyne Coates. As if anyone would ever forget her.” He swallowed with a flash of memory.
Alicia grunted. “Bollocks. I’m just gonna stop trying to lighten the mood. Any why is that, Drakey? Was she a tart?”
“Hey, steady on!” He swung the speeding vehicle onto 79 th , which was a single wide lane and lined by a high wall with trees overhanging. “A pinup maybe. And a remarkable front woman.”
“Look out!”
Mai’s warning saved their vehicle as a Silverado swerved over the inch-high central reserve and tried to ram them. Drake caught sight of the face behind the wheel—the last member of the third cell. He tramped on the gas pedal, jerking everyone back into their seats as the other vehicle spun and set off in pursuit. All of a sudden their race through Central Park took on a far deadlier aspect.
The driver of the Silverado drove with reckless abandonment. Drake slowed to ease past a scattering of cabs, but their pursuer used the opportunity to slam their rear end. The F150 jolted and swerved but then righted itself without issue. The Silverado side-swiped a cab, sending it spinning over into the other roadway where it smashed into the retaining wall. Drake turned sharply left and then right to pass a dog-leg of cabs and then accelerated along an open stretch of road.
The terrorist behind them leaned out of his window, gun in hand.
“Down!” Drake yelled.
Bullets hammered every surface—the car, the road, the walls and the trees. The man was wild with anger and excitement and probably hatred too, uncaring as to the damage he caused. Beau, in the back seat of the F150, pulled a Glock and shot the back window out. Cold air rushed into the cab.
A row of buildings appeared to the left and then several pedestrians sauntering along the sidewalk up ahead. Drake saw only the Devil’s choice now—the chance death of a passerby or be late to Grand Central and
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