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  Frank got in. Straight away, the familiar smell of leather filled his eyes and nostrils with moisture. He sneezed and gave the driver the address.

  "Are you all right, sir?" the cabbie drawled. "You don't sound too good."

  Frank wiped his eyes and blurted out he was allergic to leather.

  "Oh!" The driver glanced in the mirror. "Sorry to hear that." He took one hand off the wheel, reached into the glove compartment and produced a packet of tissues. "There, sir. Take this."

  "Thanks a lot," Frank mumbled.

  He took the packet, tore off the plastic flap and blew his nose into a fresh tissue. When he raised his head he saw his reflection in the rear-view mirror. His allergy might just do him a good turn. He could blame it for hiding his face behind a tissue.

  They soon reached the post office address on the receipt. Frank was back in Manhattan now. The rain had all but stopped but the clouds still clung to the sky. He gave the driver a generous tip, thanked him for the tissues and got out.

  Once inside the post office, Frank looked around, all the time sniffling and covering his face with a tissue. At that hour, the benches along the wall had no customers waiting, and the Collection counter looked deserted. The figure of a teller loomed in the farthest booth from the door. Stacked on plastic shelving behind his back, lay yellow boxes taped with red scotch tape, envelopes of all sizes, and plastic bags.

  Frank approached the counter, sneezed, wiped his nose and produced a new tissue.

  "How can I help you?" A gaunt middle-aged man behind the glass rose and leaned against the counter. His electronic bracelet flashed orange. The manager's silver name tag glistened on the lapel of his jacket.

  Damn. Frank coughed to conceal his awkwardness. Just his luck. He pulled himself together, produced the badge and showed it to the manager. Then he handed him the receipt.

  "Excuse me," he mumbled, his nose running, his eyes streaming. "Excuse me," he wiped his face and went on more clearly, "I am Detective Freeman from Police Department. I'm here to collect some mail. Here's the receipt." He showed the paper to the manager, spat into the tissue, took out a fresh one and covered his face with it. "Damn this allergy. Everything to please…"

  The manager inspected him through the glass.

  "Have you heard what happened in West Side today?" Frank asked him.

  The man twitched his head. Was it a yes or a no?

  "I'm talking about the murder. Kathleen Baker," Frank added, just in case.

  "I have."

  "The mail is evidence. A very important piece of evidence. I'm here to retrieve it."

  "I understand that. In order to give you the mail, I need to make a phone call to the station first. Detective Freeman — what did you say your first name was?"

  "I didn't," Frank mumbled behind the tissue. "It's Ed."

  "Very well," the manager picked up the phone, popped his glasses on and started punching in the number.

  Fucking paper-pusher. Frank blotted his eyes and tried to gauge his own body. He could breathe much better now. Looked like the allergy bout was nearly over. What wasn't so good was the news that the old manager was about to hear at the station. Most likely, Freeman was dead. The bullets had hit him in the chest and the shoulder. He'd told Frank to duck in, saving his life. Frank should now use this chance the detective had given him. He had to obtain the package whatever it cost, but without giving himself away.

  "This package, is it very big?" Frank spoke. "You think I can manage it on my own?"

  The manager winced, hung up, took his glasses off and turned to the shelves. After a brief search, he showed Frank a box the size of a small pack of Oreos, put it on his desk and reached for the phone again.

  That was better. Frank could grab the box now and escape by breaking a window. The manager dialed the police department again when the door swung open behind Frank's back.

  "Put the phone down!" a voice growled from the doorway.

  Trying to look calm, Frank turned around. Two men stood by the door, tall and fit, their faces unfriendly, their eyes deeply set and the skin, unnaturally smooth and drawn tight over their bones. One was bald, and the other wore a knitted cap, but Frank was almost sure there was no hair under it, either.

  The pair reminded Frank of the airport cabbie who'd been so eager to drag him into his cab. He'd looked very much like these two.

  "National Security Agency," the bald man produced an ID.

  They approached the booth, walking in step. Frank covered his face with a tissue and stepped aside.

  The two didn't look like federal agents, but they did look like the station attackers. Only these two had no helmets, no masks and no bulletproof jackets. They wore thick black jackets, combat trousers with side pockets, gloves and combat boots. Frank could bet his bottom dollar they had guns hidden under those jackets.

  The one in the knitted cap glared at Frank, his bald-headed partner, at the manager. The latter squinted at all three men. An awkward silence hung in the air, broken by the manager.

  "How can I help you?" he flustered in a shaking voice.

  The bald one leaned against the counter's edge under the window, lowered his head like a young bull preparing to charge at the glass, and said,

  "There must be... mail… from Kathleen Baker… general delivery..." he seemed unable to spit out more than two or three words at a time which made him sound like an information machine. "It was sent... to your office."

  The manager let out a nervous little cough and glanced at Frank.

  Now Frank had little doubt that these were two of the attackers, two of the force which was hunting him down. Now they'd come to collect Kathleen's package.

  At that moment, the guy in the knitted cap gasped, recognition in his eyes.

  "He-" he pointed his finger at Frank who couldn't wait any longer. Frank's right fist collided with the man's chin and, once the jaw snapped, his left one went for the ribs. The man heaved and collapsed at Frank's feet.

  The second man unzipped his jacket in one well-practiced motion. His hand reached under his arm. But Frank failed to reach him: the bald man retreated a few steps and pulled out his gun. His actions were much better organized than his speech: his thumb pushed the safety catch, and the breechblock clanged under the palm that covered the weapon. When the gun was about to go off, Frank felt a blow to his knee, and another one that hit his calf. His legs gave way in agony, and a powerful figure rose in front of him. Frank barely had time to cover his head when a headbutt from the knitted cap sent him flying against the wall.

  The bald man's partner — who'd scrambled off the floor — had blocked the line of fire. Pure luck. He bared his bloodied teeth, grabbed a collapsed Frank by the collar — and received another blow as Frank buried his knuckles into the man's Adam's apple.

  The man's throat made a hoarse noise, and Frank's face was showered with spit. Frank doubled up, pulling his bent legs into his stomach, and kicked knitted-cap toward his partner. The latter stepped aside in a fluid motion, letting his brother-in-arms hit the empty benches. Again Frank was at gunpoint and couldn't reach the shooter.

  Doubtful he'd be as lucky second time round.

  Something bright and yellow, the size of a football, shot out of the counter window. The bald one swung round to face the manager and pulled the trigger twice.

  Although deafened by the shots, Frank leapt at the bald man. The shattered glass was still rattling behind his back and the yellow box, pierced by a bullet, was still falling, when he karate-chopped the hand holding the gun. His other hand was stopped mid-air by a counterpunch as the man struck back.

  Frank turned his body to the right and stepped forward to minimize the distance. The other one's fist brushed past his ribs. The man's eyes glistened when Frank's elbow collided with his cheekbone. Another knee kick to his hip, topped up with a fist to his nose, and Frank knocked the man to the ground.

  He didn't have a chance for a breather: the knitted cap guy had come to and was trying to get u
p, leaning against the bench with one hand and trying to reach for his holster with the other. Frank stepped closer. The man attempted to shield himself with his elbow but failed and got kicked in the jaw.

  The man yelped. His head tilted backward. He collapsed, hit his chin against the bench and became silent.

  "The package!" Frank gasped as he turned to the counter. "You-" he strode across the office, "You all right?"

  The old manager lay between the shelves in the heap of boxes and plastic bags that had tumbled down. He breathed fitfully, his eyes wide open, his hand clasping the wound in his chest. Dark blood, almost black, was oozing between wizened fingers.

  Frank looked back at the door, then at the motionless attackers.

  "Shit!"

  He reached through the broken glass window and took Kathleen's package, then reached for the phone.

  "Shit!"

  He dialed the rescue service.

  The manager erupted in convulsions, opened his mouth, sucked in air with a wheeze — and stopped moving.

  "What kind of emergency are you having?" the receiver resounded with the answering machine's mechanical voice. "Press one for the fire brigade; press two for ambulance; press three for police…"

  Frank hung up and gingerly started for the door.

  He nearly stumbled over the stunned attacker and stepped over him. Seeing his hat on the floor, he dropped the phone to pick it up. After a moment's hesitation, he pulled the knitted cap off the man's head — damn it, he was bald, as well, — and ran to the door.

  He should have taken the back exit, but Frank had no time left to go looking for it. A blond, cold-eyed man was mounting the steps to the front door. He wore the same gear as the false security agents who now lay on the post office floor. Amazement flashed in the blond man's eyes. Just for a split second, he slowed down — and immediately reached under his jacket.

  Frank shouldered him off the steps and onto the sidewalk. He wanted to dash across the street when he noticed yet another black-clad, bald-headed goon appearing out of a Jeep parked on the opposite side of the street. A second Jeep had just pulled up behind the first one. Seeing the reinforcements arrive, Frank dashed along the sidewalk to the nearest intersection. He ran into a passerby, very nearly falling and dropping the package, lunged forward to regain his balance and stumbled on, stomping his way through the puddles. As he reached the corner of the building, he slipped on the wet tarmac, turning to face his pursuers.

  The blond man and the bald-headed goon were following him. Tires screeching, the second Jeep pulled out. The first one was already snaking onto the road, honking for other drivers to let him into the right lane.

  Police sirens wailed. Frank turned the corner hoping that his pursuers wouldn't use their guns on the street busy again now that the rain was over. Mistake. A police car swung out into the intersection. More tire screeching. Shots rang out.

  It took Frank some time to realize they didn't target him. He looked back. The blond man and his partner stood on the corner emptying their guns into the arriving patrol car. They simultaneously snapped their clips, removing them, inserted new ones and continued firing.

  Most passersby panicked and sought cover by the building walls. One froze in his tracks, lost. Somebody screamed. A Jeep shot out into the intersection. It rammed the patrol car throwing it toward an edifice on the opposite side of the street, and stopped. A door opened, letting out yet another masked goon. On his shoulder he carried a thick green tube.

  The screech of brakes forced Frank to recoil back to the wall. Another patrol car approached the intersection, blocking the street in front of him.

  Frank glanced at the goon with the tube. The man lowered himself onto one knee, and Frank bolted in the opposite direction. A deafening clap resounded behind his back, followed by a whizz; then an explosion. The blast wave knocked him off his feet. The hot wind burned the back of his head and blew away his hat. Frank's knees and elbows hit the sidewalk; he grazed his chin but didn't let go of the package.

  His head rang, his ears rumbled with the impact. The street was quickly submerging in thick smoke coming out of the burning car.

  Frank scrambled onto his feet and staggered along the wall, reaching for his hat on the way, when still more shots rang out behind.

  Bullets hit stones overhead, showering him with splinters. Fear and danger made Frank disregard pain. He ducked between two parked cars. On the other side of the street was a subway entrance where passersby now took cover from the bullets.

  If he could just make it! Frank craned his neck to peer through the car windows at the junction covered in smoke. Two vague figures were sneaking toward him along the building wall. A cop jumped out onto the road. He, rather stupidly, called out to them and raised his gun. They turned on him and shot almost simultaneously.

  He couldn't wait much longer. Frank dashed across the street to the subway entrance. He ran down the stairs into the tunnel and bumped into another cop who tried to stop him. Both fell onto the mosaic floor. Frank dropped the package and landed on top of the cop as his radio squalled. The speaker crunched, hissed, then squalled again. The duty officer's voice came through the white noise, ordering all squads to detain Frank Shelby and giving his new description. He ended the message saying that a group of terrorists under Shelby's command had opened fire on civilians in the city center.

  Frank got up on all fours, grabbed the parcel and met the cop's glare. Still flat on his back, the man reached for him. Frank smashed him on his chin, blocked his hand and pressed his knee down on the man's stomach in order to get up. But the cop's other hand grabbed his trousers and pulled him down.

  Frank swung and kicked him in the head. The man weakened his grasp. Frank finally rose and ran to the ticket gate. They were busy as the crowd tried to take cover inside, shouting and screaming. A woman was wailing.

  Frank pushed a man aside, hit another in the ribs, made his way to the gate, jumped over its steel bars and ran down the stairs to the platform.

  He glimpsed the crooked face of a woman whose cheek had been struck by a bullet. Her blood squirted onto Frank's clothes, making him recoil. He looked back just in time to notice a shooter behind the nearest column and bolted after a departing train.

  He managed to catch up with it. He pushed himself off the edge of the platform and launched himself onto the footplate of the last carriage right under the windscreen. His feet slid off the narrow plate. Frank yelped and grabbed at a wiper, barely holding on to it. His sweaty palm kept slipping. The wiper started bending. If he wanted to use the other hand, he would have to drop the parcel first.

  At the risk of falling under the wheels, Frank grabbed at the handrail below. Sleepers flashed by underfoot, and the fear of falling paralyzed his mind and body. He screamed. To his one side, columns and people gleamed in the lamp light. The train gained speed and was about to disappear into the dark tunnel.

  His knee hit a bulge of some kind. Frank made himself look down. The trailer coupling was protruding a few inches from under the car. Frank placed his foot onto it, pulled himself up, sat himself down on the footboard and let out a sigh when the train rolled into the tunnel.

  Chapter Five. Nowhere to Run

  The view of the Manhattan skyline filled a wall-to-wall window. The wind had changed and was now sending the thunderclouds toward the ocean. For a split second, they drifted apart revealing a scarlet strip of sunset and flooding the roofs and the gigantic construction site on the coastline with red.

  Captain Bud Jessup closed his eyes and turned away. Two men sat at the desk in front of him. One was Russell Jefferson Claney, a member of Congress and Honorary Chairman of Memoria's board of directors. The other, Joe Binelli, the corporation's chief executive.

  The door into the council chamber opened. The secretary brought in a trayful of fresh coffee. She started passing the cups around while the gray-headed Jessup watched Claney. He couldn't help wondering why this ageing bald-headed man, a good fifteen years his senior, st
ill looked so good. His complexion was smooth, with the exception of a few negligible crowfeet in the corners of his eyes. His scalp and cheekbones looked almost polished, like the precious walnut paneling of the council chamber's walls.

  Jessup rubbed his stubbed chin and looked at Binelli. Compared to Claney, the executive was a mere wreck: an obese pig oozing fat all over the chair. He was larger than even Freeman, God rest his soul, with his neck concealed by folds of multiple chins, his droopy cheeks and his constant panting. Binelli grabbed at the edge of the desk as if expecting them to take him to the slaughterhouse any minute. Skittish, as opposed to a composed Claney with his eyes glistening like steel spikes, ready to bare his shark's teeth.

  Jessup sensed Claney's stare. The secretary wondered if they needed anything else. The Congressman gave her a dismissive nod. He sat up in his chair, crossed his legs and clasped his fingers round his knee. Cold-headed and in control, ready to handle whatever came his way.

  The captain didn't like either of them. He wasn't sure which one he'd rather deal with. Still, he had little choice. The city attorney hadn't issued a search warrant for the Memoria's HQ — insufficient grounds, apparently, — but confirmed the directors' consent to Jessup's examining Kathleen Baker's desk — already long after local security had snooped around her work place. Nothing to glean there.

  Jessup was beside himself. He'd rather turn the whole building inside out, confiscate their computers and servers, visit the laboratories and question the staff. He was almost a hundred percent sure that the Memoria's dons stood behind the girl's murder. After all, someone had hacked the police frequencies and entered the information that Frank Shelby was the head of a terrorist group which led to confusion in the department and patrols. Before her death, Kathleen had managed to send Shelby a package of some kind. Once he's escaped during the attack on the police station — and most likely, he'd been the one the attackers had wanted to eliminate — he'd been the first to make it to the post office. Had the suspect's friend the bartender not called the police, Jessup wouldn't have known anything about the parcel. But the attackers, armed to the teeth, had also followed Shelby into the center of Manhattan to start yet another massacre. Three officers killed on the spot, two more in a bad way, and yet more civilians killed.