The Lost Key (A Brit in the FBI 2)

A woman fell in front of Nicholas, and he yanked her to her feet as he passed, shouting to the man, “Stop, FBI. Stop running now!”

Of course the man ignored him, continued running south. Where did he think he could go? Battery Park at the end of Manhattan? If he tried to jump on the Staten Island Ferry, Nicholas had him, no way he’d be able to speed through the throngs of people. But if he caught the tube—no, the subway—then he’d be gone.

Mike, where was Mike? He glanced over his shoulder, she was two yards behind him, her stride smooth and fast. His mobile rang, but he ignored it. The man turned a corner, and Mike shouted, “Turn right, turn right now, there’s a street across to Broadway, Exchange Place, cut him off. I’m going straight, we’ll box him in.”

Nicholas was nearly hit by a wildly honking cab, heard the driver cursing him, but he never slowed. He burst out onto Broadway, nearly behind Mr. Olympic. Ten yards, five—Nicholas could smell his sweat—yes, now he had him. Nicholas reached out an arm to snag the man’s shoulder when he turned, something in his hand, and he pointed it at Nicholas—

And Nicholas was on the ground, doubled over, pain shooting through his body. His muscles jerked and jittered, his teeth clenched, his entire body cramped in on itself until he was sure it was all over for him. He couldn’t breathe—then the pain stopped.

His breath came in short gasps. He shook his head to clear his brain. Slowly, he rolled onto his hands and knees.

Mr. Olympic was long gone. Nicholas saw a small rectangular black box on the ground five feet away. It was a Taser. Frigging Mr. Olympic had Tasered him.

Then Mike was on the ground with him, hands running over his body. “Where are you hit, where are you hit?”

“I’m all right, really, I’m all right.”

“Then what happened? Where’s our guy?”

Nicholas pointed at the Taser.

Mike couldn’t believe it. She stared at the small black Taser, her heart still kettledrumming, pumping blood and fear through her. “I saw you go down. I thought he’d shot you, the way you were jerking around on the ground, but I didn’t hear a shot. Thank heaven it was only a Taser.”

“Yes, only a Taser,” he said as he ripped the Taser barbs out of his side. At least it was getting easier to think and put words together.

“Can you walk, or do I need to carry you?”

He wanted to laugh at that visual but couldn’t get any spit in his mouth. He slowly got to his feet.

Agent Ben Houston’s voice crackled from the walkie-talkie Mike carried in her jacket pocket.

“We’re here to back you up. We’ve spotted the suspect. He’s on foot heading north on Trinity Place. Mike, Nicholas, he’s parallel to your position. We’re moving to intercept. Cut across Rector and stop him.”

Nicholas was rolling his shoulders. “What? Did Mr. Olympic hang around to see what would happen next?”

“Come on, come on,” Mike shouted, pulled on Nicholas’s arm and took off again. “Can you do it?”

“I can. Bloody hell.” Nicholas shook off the last of the Taser effects, felt his adrenaline kick in, and triangulated the area in his head, grateful his brain was back in working order. If they cut up to Rector they could intercept, especially if Ben could drive the man toward the box. Then a phalanx of agents could converge on the target from four sides.

He rushed after Mike, slower than before, but found the more he moved, the better his body parts worked. One block gone, now two. Shouts from the walkie as they closed in on three sides.

They turned the corner onto Trinity and there he was. Nicholas wanted him badly and pushed to his limit, shoving people out of the way, ignoring shouts, cries, curses. Mr. Olympic ran into the street to get away from the hordes of people and took off, one fast disbelieving look at Nicholas. Nicholas followed, heard Mike shouting, “Push him south, push him south.” He glanced back, saw her coming fast, knew how determined she could be. He signaled for her to duck to the left and he’d turn Mr. Olympic right into her waiting arms. He hoped she’d deck him.

This time it went right. Mike flanked him, ignoring the shouts and screams, the honking cars and taxis, and Nicholas pushed on the last of his speed, launched himself and tackled the man hard.

They were locked together, pummeling each other, as they rolled into the street right in front of an oncoming NYPD patrol car. Nicholas saw the bumper coming and shoved Mr. Olympic to the curb. He rolled as the patrol car slammed on its brakes and came to a stop an inch from Nicholas’s leg.

5

Nicholas lay there for a heartbeat, not believing the car hadn’t hit him. He sat up slowly, sent a prayer of thanks heavenward. But there was no time to rejoice that he hadn’t been smeared across the street. He grabbed Mr. Olympic’s leg and landed on top of him. No way was he getting away again.

The idiot tried to twist around to hit him, but Nicholas clipped Mr. Olympic in the jaw with his elbow, stunning him. Perfect. Nicholas jumped to his feet and pulled the man up with him. He thought of the Taser and how he’d been sure he was dying and slammed Mr. Olympic hard against a parked Audi, face-first.

Mike grabbed his arms behind him while Nicholas frisked him. He found an H&K MK23 pistol, a mobile phone, and two long-bladed stilettos, one of them still stained with Mr. Pearce’s blood.

Nicholas jerked the man’s head back. “Listen to me, we’re federal agents. What in bloody hell are you up to, mate? Why did you kill Mr. Pearce?”

A sneer, nothing more.