Collateral Damage (Stone Barrington 25)

They sat there quietly in the dark for another seven or eight minutes, then the lights came back on, but the train still did not move. She looked out the window and saw flashlights playing on the wall of the tunnel, and a moment later the door to the car behind her opened, and four men, two of them uniformed policemen, came into her car.

“Listen up, everybody.” He held up a badge. “We are New York City police officers, and we are going to check the ID of everybody on this car,” he said. “Now sit quietly and keep your hands where we can see them. Get out your ID and be prepared to show it.”

Jasmine took the wallet from her large purse and removed the New York State driver’s license from it. The cops worked their way down the car, checking IDs, and finally stopped in front of her.

A detective took the driver’s license from her hand and compared the photo on it with her face. “What’s your address?” he asked.

“Five-ninety Park Avenue,” she said, reciting the address on the license.

“Where did you get on the train?”

“At the last station.”

“Where were you before that?”

“At Bloomingdale’s,” she said, holding up her shopping bag.

He dipped into it and came up with a cashmere scarf and some panty hose. “Handbag?” he said.

She opened her handbag and held it up to him. He rummaged in it for a moment. Then stepped away. “Thank you for your cooperation,” he said, then moved on to the next passenger.

Another half an hour passed before the train began to move again. Jasmine picked up a discarded New York Post from the seat beside her and began to read it. She was safe.

—

She got off at the specified stop and looked around. A young man lounging against a Toyota sedan stood up straight and looked at her. She walked toward him.

“Ms. Avery?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

He held open the car door for her, and she got in.

He turned right at the next corner. “We’re going over to the West Side Highway,” he said. The East Side is all screwed up with traffic.”

“I understand,” she replied.

The driver made his way across town slowly. “The traffic is always like this,” he said. “Nothing unusual.”

“Fine.”

—

Twenty minutes later, he drove past the safe house slowly, and they both looked for signs of police. He let her off at the next corner and she walked back to the house, careful not to hurry. She went to the basement door and rang the bell.

The door opened almost immediately, and Habib let her in. “Everything all right?”

“Perfectly normal. There was one surprise: they stopped the subway train. It must be part of their plan after an attack.”

“That’s new to us.”

“The Bloomingdale’s bag was a brilliant idea. It may have saved me from further interrogation.”

“Thank you. I believe we’re safe in this house, no need to move you again.”

“I’ll take a day or two off before we begin again,” she said.

Holly was awakened by the flight attendant, who was holding a tray. “Some lunch?”