Chapter 15
Joseph was nearly shaking with excitement. The commander had sent for him! Surely, he must be pleased with his performance. He looked out the window of the bus, imagining the heroic tasks that might lie ahead. Perhaps the commander would allow him to drive a car regularly, as Ibrahim did. He could be so much more useful if he wasn't always riding a bus, doing minor errands.
He checked his watch. The commander had told him to arrive at the house at one o'clock sharp, but he was much too excited to wait until then. Surely, arriving early would only be impressive, showing how eager he was to serve. All the lonely days he'd spent in this cold, miserable city, the hours of learning the profane tongue of these Americans, all that could be forgotten. Today, today he would be important. His parents, his brothers would honor his name.
The bus had barely pulled to a stop before he bolted off, eager to be on his way.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hopewell. You've been a big help." Eames sighed. Thank God, for little old ladies who like to garden, but you sure couldn't rush them. They still had two more locations they'd need to check out, but it would be easier to drive the few blocks. She motioned to Goren. Maybe it was time to call in a few other teams and start a serious house to house.
Goren started toward her, but turned away. Another neighbor, two doors down from Mrs. Hopewell, had come out onto her porch. Eames settled back. Bobby could handle this one. Down the street, Eames noticed a slight, dark-haired young man walking hurriedly in their direction. Feeling incredibly fatigued, she hung back, waiting for the newcomer to come nearer before approaching him.
Joseph noticed the woman dressed in jeans. He'd never seen her before, and she didn't seem very threatening, in fact, she looked much like the students at the community college he was supposed to be attending. Not that he'd been inside a classroom, despite what his student visa said. Besides, he had more important goals than classroom attendance.
He was nearly abreast of the woman when she started speaking to him. Joseph couldn't quite follow the words, other than several questions. Then Joseph froze. The woman was holding something out to him – a badge. This woman was an official of some kind. In his excitement, he hadn't been paying attention. How many times had the commander lectured them? He knew every word by heart: approach slowly, don't walk directly toward the house until the area was clear, don't call attention to yourself. How could he have been so stupid?
In total panic, Joseph turned and ran.
"Goren! Goren, we've got a runner!"
Goren wheeled at the sound of his partner's voice. Eames was in headlong pursuit. Goren had no idea why, but if the guy was running, that was reason enough to stop him and ask a few questions. The guy had a good lead. Eames wasn't slow, but with that distance, in this neighborhood, they could easily lose him. If Eames could at least keep him in sight, maybe he could get to the car and cut him off. In fact, the guy was running in the direction of the car.
The thought had barely formed when Jeremy came flying out of the truck, laying a tackle worthy of the NFL on their runner. The guy went down flat on his backand didn't move. Eames got there first, with Goren right behind.
"Did I kill him?" Jeremy shouted, trying to untangle himself.
Eames put a knee firmly in the man's back. "NYPD – stay down. It's okay, Jeremy, he just has the wind knocked out of him." Eames pulled their surprise guest to his feet and pushed him back towards the side of the car. The man was struggling for breath, his eyes wide in panic.
Goren held up his badge about two inches from the guy's nose. "NYPD. What's your name? What are you running from?"
Eames was patting him down. Apparently she'd felt something, because she was digging through the guy's coat pocket. Goren came up into the man's face and kept up the questioning. They weren't getting any answers.
"Oh, my God. That's my dad's."
It was Jeremy, staring at a leather object in Eames's hand. His dad's ID case, the case he'd given to him, had come out of this guy's pocket. Jeremy threw himself forward, swinging wildly. "You son of a bitch! Where's my dad? Where's my dad?"
"Jeremy, stop! Stop!" Bobby managed to get Jeremy in a hold and pulled him a few feet away.
"That's his ID case. I gave it to him." He lunged again, barely held in check, shouting and sobbing. "Let me have him. How'd you get it? Where is my dad?"
Still struggling Bobby handed Jeremy off to Eames. He took the few steps it took to reach their suspect – suspect of what, he was sure – and hauled the cringing man up by his collar with a shake.
"You're under arrest," Goren said crisply to their prisoner. He hauled the cringing man up by his collar with a shake. "I'm not feeling patient. Start talking."
They were going to kill him. He was sure of it.
Joseph lay against the door of the SUV trying to distance himself from the big man who had thrown him into the backseat of the vehicle and the young boy in the front seat who was waiting to pounce. Their conversation had been so confusing. Could this truly be the policeman's son? How could this be? Certainly, certainly, he was a dead man.
His stupidity was beyond comprehension. He vaguely remembered picking up the case from the parking lot. It had fallen on the ground when he'd thrown the coat, and he'd forgotten about it. Why hadn't he thrown it away? How could he been so stupid?
There were more men coming, big angry men. They were searching each house. It was only a matter of time. They would find the police captain. If they found him alive, would they release him? Surely, the commander had executed the infidel by now, and they would do the same to him.
He started to struggle and was pushed down. He could sense their anger, the hate radiating from his captors. He relaxed again, realizing the hopeless nature of his predicament. The son would avenge the father. He could understand that, as a matter of family honor.
Besides, if these men didn't kill him, the commander would.
"He's got to be close by."
"I agree." Powell looked at his meager team. Goren, Eames, and Mike Logan. More officers and detectives would be there as soon as they were realeased from other duties, but until then the five of them made up the entire search team. "I don't want to wait. House to house. Teams of two, and stay together, no exceptions. I don't want anyone alone."
"We'll knock on every door," Mike said grimly.
"If no one answers, knock the door down," Powell said emphatically. He ignored their shocked looks. "I want every house searched."
"Warrants?" Eames asked.
"For now, that ID case is my warrant," Powell said forcefully. "They can bust me down to patrolman, or fire my ass. Ross is here somewhere, I can feel it. Someone else can worry about legality."
"We're going to get killed in court," Mike muttered.
"So be it. I could care less at this point about building a case. I want him back. Alive."
They split up, Powell and Logan working together. They leapfrogged houses, working as quickly as they dared. If the house was empty, they searched. If someone was home, they apologized and searched anyway. They didn't get many sustained protests.
Eames could hardly keep pace with her partner. Goren was totally focused. On their third house, there was no answer. Goren kicked down the door, entered the house and stopped dead in the dingy hallway, reaching back for his sidearm.
"Goren? What?"
"Do you smell that, coppery, sweet and salty ... blood." Once you've smelled freshly spilt blood in quantity, you never forget it or mistake it for anything else.
Eames ran out into the yard and shouted for Powell and Logan. They came on the third call. "Goren has something." Eames ran back to follow Goren deeper into the building, confident that the other two men were right behind.
She found Bobby on the second floor, throwing kick after kick at an already battered door. This was an old home and the doors were solid wood. This one had a reinforced metal lock plate housing a brand new deadbolt. Someone really didn't want visitors in there. Finally, the jamb cracked slightly under Goren's furious assault. Mike, who had just arrived with Powell, threw all his weight at the door. On Goren's next kick, the bolted door exploded inward. Goren crashed through the debris into the room. A lone figure was sprawled on the floor.
"Captain!" Goren went to his knees, to help the captain to sit up.
"Logan, get an ambulance," Powell shouted. "Now!" He joined Goren at Ross's side.
Ross groaned. "Jeremy – did they get Jeremy? My boy…"
Goren helped him raise up slightly. "Easy, Captain, easy. Jeremy's outside, he's fine. He's been with us the whole time."
"Thank God," Ross breathed, leaning back into Goren's arms.
"Who did this, Danny?" Powell asked.
"Don't know." Ross grabbed at his old friend's shirt, trying to pull himself up. "Terrorists. Wanted a tape – wouldn't –"
"It's okay, Danny," Powell said gently. "It's over. We're here now. Just rest."
"Nooo!" Ross pulled frantically, weak as he was, barely getting the words out. "Bombs – today – they left to - they're attacking today. Find them!"
Sergeant Powell looked soberly at his friend, "There's already been an attack, Danny. In Philadelphia. Last night."
Sadly, Danny nodded his understanding, but continued frantically, "Another – today. Different agenda. Another – target, here in the city."
"Oh, dear God," Eames whispered. "I'll call it in."
Ross lay there, anguished, as if they still didn't understand. "Not here. Warehouse. They left to go there. Back – back pocket – gloves."
Carefully, Goren pulled a paper from Ross's pocket. He unfolded it carefully, reading aloud. "Try to escape – it's instructions." He looked at Ross, who was nodding. "Did the kidnappers put this up?"
Ross managed a nod. "Took it – prints – on the tape."
"Go, man!" Powell said. "I'll stay with Ross. Get us a lead, Goren. Not this time, not in our city. We need to get these bastards." Goren transferred Ross to Powell's hold and dashed for the door. He nearly collided with Jeremy, who rushed headlong past him.
"Dad!" He slid across the stained floor on his knees. Painfully, Ross wrapped one arm weakly around his son. Battered and aching, but for the first time since he'd been jumped in the alley, Danny Ross relaxed.