Blindside (Michael Bennett 12)

I gathered my thoughts. “I really don’t see what legal authority you have to send back a tourist. I’m not here on official business.”

“Bullshit. You NYPD guys think you can do anything and go anywhere because of your Intel unit. But we have legal authority to be here. You don’t. That’s why you’re getting on a plane tomorrow and heading back to New York, before you cause any problems.”

The younger guy, Miller, grabbed me by the upper arm like I was a suspect being led away in cuffs. I had to admit he had a serious grip.

Fiore fell in on the other side of me as they started marching me toward the main exit.

CHAPTER 56

IT FELT LIKE I was being marched to prison. Had my mission failed so quickly and completely? Maybe someone in the Intel unit disagreed with me going to Estonia to look for the mayor’s daughter and had tipped off the FBI. Maybe it was someone in the mayor’s office itself. Either way, my heart sank. I walked along silently. I didn’t see what I could do at the moment. I couldn’t even ask to speak to someone at our embassy. It was my own government detaining me.

I wasn’t about to hurt another US cop, no matter how much he annoyed me. All I could do was walk along. I was trying to resign myself to the situation.

A younger man in a FILA jacket walked past and bumped into Bill Fiore. Then he turned around and started shouting at the FBI agent in what I was sure was French. And he sounded pissed off.

To my surprise, Fiore answered him in French. And he sounded like every other annoyed Bostonian I had ever heard. Except he was speaking French.

Their voices echoed a little in this less busy section of the airport. A young woman closing up her newsstand for the evening looked on silently.

Fiore faced the man and stepped toward him. The tubby FBI agent had no fear, that was for sure.

Then someone else came from the side and bumped into the younger FBI agent, Miller. He bumped into him hard enough to knock him off his feet. Apparently this guy had a hard time staying upright.

I wondered if I would have to help my captors in some sort of confrontation. Then a pair of strong hands grabbed me from behind and started leading me toward the front door.

A voice from behind me said in English, “Just keep walking. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Not doing something stupid was always my goal. I had found that I was not always able to accomplish that goal. For the moment, I moved along with my new captors. But I was looking for an angle. Something that would help me if I fought or if I ran.

I couldn’t believe it, but suddenly I was worried about the two FBI agents’ safety. I had no idea who these new guys were, but I didn’t want them to hurt any cops.

Outside, a beat-up red Fiat skidded to a stop right in front of us. I didn’t like the looks of this at all. If I got in that thing, there was no telling where I would end up. Or, more important, who I might end up meeting. I had to do something.

I started to turn and look back into the terminal. A strong forearm kept my head from turning and shoved me forward. That was one plan out the window.

Where were the uniformed cops in this airport? If something like this happened in JFK, there’d be a dozen cops pouncing on us right now. Here, about to be shoved into a car headed to God knows where, I had to think of something else fast.

CHAPTER 57

AS SOON AS I was shoved into the back seat of the Fiat, I swung my elbow back. I had no idea where I would catch the person behind me, but I was hoping it’d be the face. My plan got hazy after that.

The man behind me blocked my elbow. Hard. His forearms felt like steel. Then he surprised me.

The man called out, “Whoa, hold on, Ace. I’m on the job.”

I froze at the combination of a Brooklyn accent and the code for a plainclothes NYPD officer. “I’m on the job” goes back decades. The origin is unclear, but it means “I’m a cop.” So I listened.

The Fiat sputtered away from the curb. The airport building faded from the side-view.

I glanced out the rear window to see if the FBI agents were following. It looked like we were in the clear, although I had no idea what the FBI would drive in Estonia. In New York, if they weren’t in a Crown Vic or a Taurus, they were in some weird seized vehicle, like a Land Rover or Cadillac.

I sat back in the seat. The man next to me settled down, too, giving me space like a zookeeper would with an agitated animal.

He said, “That’s better.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Barry Davis, NYPD.” He grinned as if he’d just told a joke.

I took his hand and assessed him. He was a powerfully built man, about forty-five, with a crew cut that had gone gray.

I realized my hand was on my elbow where I had tried to strike Davis. It still throbbed a little, but I wasn’t going to admit it. I controlled my breathing, then pushed my hair back into place. I was stalling as I accepted my new surroundings and companions.