Run for Your Life (Michael Bennett 2)

We pulled onto Route 46, a run-down industrial strip. I stared out at the old motels and warehouses, with patches of deserted desolate Jersey swampland in the spaces between them, trying to assess whether the slower speed and lack of traffic might work in my favor. If I jammed the car into a fishtailing spin, would that throw Meyer off balance long enough for me to grab Chrissy and run? It’s hard to hit a target, especially a moving one, with a handgun.

But this guy was incredible with a pistol, there was no doubt about that. Just my luck.

Run or fight—both bad choices, but the only ones I had. Oh, God, help me save my daughter, I prayed. What the hell do I do?

“Look, Daddy,” Chrissy said, and an instant later, a violent roar shook through the car. Stunned, I thought maybe I’d actually hit something this time. For an insane instant, the thought of a roadside bomb even flitted through my mind.

It took me a couple more seconds to realize that the noise was from a plane coming in low over our car. As it dropped into sight ahead, I saw that it was a small, sleek corporate jet, landing on a runway behind the high chain-link fence on my left.

What the hell was an airport doing here? Newark was miles farther south down 95. Then I realized that this was Teterboro, a small private airport that a lot of corporations and jet-setters used when coming into New York. It cost a fortune, but it was only twenty or so minutes into the city, and there were no strip searches or waiting in line.

“Slow down and turn in here,” Meyer said as we approached a stoplight.

I made the turn carefully, swiping again at the cold sweat now stinging my eyes. Whatever this son of a bitch had in mind, the addition of an airport somehow made it a thousand times worse.

Chapter 88

THE AIRPORT ENTRANCE ROAD called Industrial Avenue was lined with private jet management firms—small two-story buildings with hangars behind them and fenced, guarded parking lots in front. The guard booths were manned with uniformed Port Authority cops, I noticed.

Was this the time to make my move? Would they figure out what was happening before Chrissy, I, and maybe they, too, ended up dead?

I hung on once again, figuring I’d be better off if I knew what Meyer had in mind.

“Stop here,” he said when the road dead-ended. “Listen good, Bennett, because you’re going to get only one chance. Turn around, then pull into the first hangar on the way back. They’ve got only one guard, and that’s why I brought you. You’re going to use some of that on-the-job cop juice. Flash your badge and get us in.”

“What am I supposed to tell him?” I said, wheeling the Chevy around in a U-turn.

“Get creative, cop, and make it good. Your daughter’s life depends on it.”

The Port Authority cop in the guard booth was a young Asian guy, who leaned out his window when we drove up.

“NYPD,” I said, flashing my shield. “We’re in pursuit of a homicide suspect that we believe might have climbed the fence off Forty-six, and could be inside this area.”

“What?!” the young officer said, squinting in at me. “I haven’t heard anything about that. Homeland Security had us put sensors on the wire after 9/11. They should have picked the guy up.” His gaze moved toward Meyer and Chrissy in the backseat.

I tensed, silently praying that he would deny my bizarre request, or even drop all pretence and go for his gun. My Chevy looked like what it was, an unmarked cop car. A passenger riding in the backseat would have looked extremely suspicious even by himself, let alone with my four-year-old daughter beside him.

Meyer would be distracted, and I could fling myself over the backseat on top of Chrissy. At least shield her with my body, and maybe get her out of there. Run like hell, somewhere, anywhere. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was looking like the only shot we’d get.

Instead, the cop’s face turned even more perplexed.

“Who’s the little girl?” he said.

“Her daddy was the one who got killed,” Meyer piped in over my shoulder. “Give us a break already with the twenty questions, cuz. This is a homicide we’re talking about. Time’s a-wasting.”

“I can’t believe I wasn’t notified about this,” the Port Authority cop said almost to himself, with a shake of his head. “Okay, come on in. Park over by the hangar while I radio my sarge.”

“Nice work there, Mikey boy,” Meyer whispered as the stick gate rose. “I appreciate it so much, I’m going to give you and your brat five more minutes of life.”

As we drove the twenty yards to the hangar, Meyer sneezed violently, then wiped snot off his face with his wounded hand.

“Your goddamned kids got me sick,” he said.

As if on cue, something in my stomach heaved, and I doubled over and vomited all over the passenger footwell. So my dry throat and cold sweat weren’t only from my bone-numbing terror, I realized, wiping my chin on my sleeve. The flu had finally caught up with me, too.

“That makes two of us,” I said.

“Yeah, well, sick or not, the show must go on. C’mon now. Me, you, and the girl are going out. You listen to me, you two might just make it out of here.”