The Millionaires by Brad Meltzer

see him trail me down the grimy subway stairs or follow me through the turnstile—there’re
     way too many commuters crisscrossing through the urban anthills to notice any one person. But as I reach the subway platform,
     I swear I hear someone whisper my name.
    I spin around to check, but all that’s there is the typical Park Avenue post-work crowd: men, women, short, tall, young, old,
     a few black, mostly white. All of them in overcoats or heavy jackets. The majority stare down at reading material—a few lose
     themselves in their headphones—and one, just as I turn around, abruptly lifts a
Wall Street Journal
to cover his face.
    I crane my neck, trying to get a look at his shoes or pants—anything for a context clue—but at the height of rush hour, the
     density of the crowd’s too thick. In no mood to take chances, I head further up the platform, away from the
Journal
man. At the last second, I once again look over my shoulder. A few more commuters fill out the crowd, but for the most part,
     no one moves—no one except the man, who once again—like a villain in a bad Cold War movie—lifts the
Journal
to cover his face.
    Don’t get nuts, I tell myself—but before my brain can buy it, a quiet rumble fills the air. Here comes the train, which barrels
     into the station and blows my hair into an instant comb-over. Brushing it back into place with my fingers, I make my way toward
     the subway car and take one last peek down the platform. Every twenty feet, there’s a small crowd shoving itself toward an
     open door. I don’t know if he’s on board or gave up, but the man with the
Journal
is gone.
    I fight my way onto the already overstuffed subway car, where I’m smashed between a Hispanic woman in a puffy gray ski jacket,
     and a balding man in a flasher overcoat. As the train makes its way downtown, the crowd slowly begins to thin and a few seats
     actually open. Indeed, when I transfer at Bleecker and pick up the D train at the Broadway-Lafayette stop, all the downtown
     fashion plates wearing black shoes, black jeans, and black leather jackets make their way off. It’s not the last stop before
     we head to Brooklyn, but it is the last
cool
stop.
    Enjoying the extra space on the car, I lean up against a nearby metal pole. It’s the first time since I left the office that
     I actually catch my breath—that is, until I see who’s waiting for me at the far end of the car—the man hiding behind the
Wall Street Journal.
    Without the crowds and the distance, it’s easy to give him the quick once-over. That’s all I need. I plow toward him without
     even thinking. He lifts the paper a little higher, but it’s too late. With a sharp swipe, I rip it from his hands and reveal
     who’s been stalking me for the past fifteen minutes. “What the hell are you doing here, Charlie?”
    My brother ekes out a playful grin, but it doesn’t help.
    “Answer me!” I demand.
    Charlie looks up, almost impressed. “Wow—the full
Starsky & Hutch.
What if I was a spy… or a man with a hook?”
    “I saw your shoes, dimwit—now what do you think you’re doing?”
    Pointing with his chin, Charlie motions to the crowd in the car, all of whom are now staring. Before I can react, he slips
     out from under me, heads to the other end of the subway car, and invites me to follow. As we pass, a few people look up, but
     only for a second. Typical New York.
    “Now you want to tell me what this is about, or should I just add it to your ever-growing list of stupid moves?” I scold as
     we continue to move through the train.
    “Ever-growing?” he asks, weaving his way through the crowd. “I don’t know what you’re—?”
    “With Shep,” I snarl, feeling the vein throb in my forehead. “How could you give him our final location?”
    Turning my way, but refusing to slow down, Charlie waves a hand through the air as if it’s an absurd question. “C’mon, Oliver—you’re
     still in a huff over that?”
    “Dammit,