The Steel Kiss (Lincoln Rhyme 12)

"More people on site," she repeated to the patrolman and disconnected. Then said into the mobile: "Call Rhyme."

He answered immediately. "Sachs. Where are you?"

"Just onto the Brooklyn Bridge... Hold on."

She veered around an idiot on one of those low bicycles you recline upon, a flag fluttering over your head. It wasn't much of a skid; the surface of the bridge gripped her tires well, and she turned sharply into it. The Ford righted itself. Then she had a clear field ahead of her and sped up again.

"Lon's already called COC. Nothing yet. Checking subways too."

"Good. And... Oh, Jesus Christ."

Clutch in, brake full, shift to second just in case you need it, hand brake up, take a skid to buy some space...

"Sachs!"

The Torino stopped two feet behind a taxi, forty-five degrees in the lane--well, lane and a half, since she was, yes, at an angle. A massive traffic jam extended past the cab she'd nearly slammed into.

"Traffic's stopped, Rhyme. Damn it. Completely stopped. And I'm in the middle of the bridge. Can you have Mel or Ron get me a route once I get off? One without traffic?"

"Hold on." Rhyme shouted, "Lon, I need a clear route from the east end of the Brooklyn Bridge to Amelia's mother's place."

She climbed out of the car and peered ahead. A sea of vehicles. Motionless.

"Why now?" she muttered. "Why the hell now?"

Her phone hummed with a number she recognized. The patrolman she'd been speaking with not long before. She put Rhyme on hold and took the call. "Officer, what've you got?"

"I'm sorry, Detective. Got a dozen RMPs en route and ESU's sending a truck. Only weird. Traffic's totally fucked up. Sorry. Totally screwed up. The Heights, Carroll Gardens, Cobble Hill. Nobod

y's moving."

She sighed. "Keep me posted." She flipped back to Rhyme's call.

... you there, Sachs? Can you--?"

"I'm here, Rhyme. What's the story?"

"You're going to be stuck for a while. Looks like five bad accidents all around the same time. Near your mom's place."

"Shit," she spat out. "I'll bet it's him. Unsub Forty. Remember what Rodney said? He can fuck up cars with the controller. That's what he did. I'm parking here and getting a train. Tell Lon to have a crew pick up my wheels. Keys'll be under the back floor mat."

"Sure."

Not bothering with the walkway, Sachs started east along the bridge. Two trains and a jog later--a half hour--she was at her mother's town house, charging into the living room, nodding to the officers, the medics. Then she paused.

"Mom."

"Honey."

The women embraced. The mother's flesh and bones troublingly frail under the daughter's grasp.

But she was all right.

Sachs stepped back and examined her. Rose Sachs was pale. But that was probably from the fright. She'd suffered no physical harm from Unsub 40--the medics were here because of her heart condition. A precaution.

It had been, however, such a very close call. Rhyme had explained to Sachs that when they'd realized Rose was a possible target, he and the team had speculated that the unsub had--possibly--rigged some kind of electrical trap in her house since they'd found evidence of stripped electrical wires.

At first they hadn't known how to handle it--other than telling Rose to get out. But the woman wasn't picking up the phone. And the neighbor Sachs had called wasn't home. They'd been trying to guess exactly what the perp had done to attack Rose, when Juliette Archer had blurted, "We have to do what Amelia did with that saw in the Theater District. Cut the power. The grid! Just cut the entire grid for her block."