NYPD Red(64)
“Is the door wired with explosives?”
A single grunt. Yes.
Every ounce of confidence and bravado drained from Kylie’s face. She had made all the calls—no bomb squad, no backup, just storm the castle and save the day on her own—and now it looked like every single call she had made was wrong.
“Zach…,” she said, looking as vulnerable and helpless as I’d ever seen her.
Suddenly saving Spence’s life was all on me. I shut my eyes and tried to picture every square on the chessboard.
“We have seventeen minutes,” she said.
No time to overthink.
“Spence!” I yelled through the door. “Can I come through the window?”
One grunt. And then…nothing.
Yes.
It was the answer I’d been hoping for.
“That’s it,” I said to Kylie. “I can get in through the window.”
She looked back at me—fear, disbelief, disappointment, and a slew of other negative emotions in her eyes. “Zach,” she said, “we’re seven stories straight up. How the hell do you plan to get in through the window?”
Chapter 73
GABRIEL HAD TIMED it perfectly. The catering crew had almost finished loading in, most of the guests were on board, and Trager’s yacht, the Shell Game, was ready to get under way.
He busied himself in the galley, artfully arranging mini crab tostadas, smoked salmon barquettes, and coconut shrimp on black lacquered trays.
“You do brilliant work, Armando,” Adrienne said. “Mamet is lucky to have you.”
“I don’t have the gig yet,” Gabriel said.
“You will. Till then, you can feed the rich and hungry. Buffet is at seven.” She walked behind him, gave him a pat on the butt, and whispered in his ear. “Dessert is at my place around midnight.”
“I believe this is what you Americans call sexual harassment on the job,” he said.
She smiled. “And what do you call it in Argentina?”
“Foreplay.”
He winked, picked up a tray, and carried it into the main salon, working his way slowly through the crowd, smiling and passing hors d’oeuvres as he went. The guests were a typical show business mix of men and women, young and old, straight and gay, but they had one thing in common. Every one of them knew how to dress for a cruise—except for the two swarthy Latino men who were both wearing brown blazers, Kmart ties, and cop shoes.
The Chameleon smiled. If this is Trager’s idea of private security, either he has no respect for me, or he wants to help me blow up his boat.
He walked up to one of the rent-a-cops and held out his tray. The man shook his head.
“Oh, please,” Gabriel said. “You don’t know what you’re missing. The shrimp are to die for.”
The guy shrugged, took a napkin, plucked a shrimp from the tray, looked left and right, then grabbed three more.
“I’ll be back,” Gabriel said.
He worked his way to the far end of the salon and stepped through a teak-framed glass door onto the main deck. There were a lot fewer guests out here, almost all of them smoking.
He found a quiet spot on the port side and got his bearings. The Brooklyn Bridge was behind him, which meant they were headed south toward Governors Island and the Red Hook section of Brooklyn.
They wouldn’t screen the TV pilot until dark, which meant the captain would sail all the way down to Sea Gate, or even Breezy Point, before circling back to catch the sunset over Liberty Island.
He had a little more than an hour to set the charges.
He found a door that said DO NOT ENTER, set down his hors d’oeuvres tray, and entered.
He took the two flights of metal stairs down to the engine room.
“Yo,” a voice called out. “Hold it right there, mate.”
Gabriel froze.
The man was a dark-skinned African-American, over sixty, wearing khakis and a faded denim shirt with the yacht’s logo on the left breast pocket.
“Hi there,” Gabriel said.
“Yeah, hi there,” the man said pleasantly. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Three.”
“Well, you’ve passed the vision test, so I’m assuming you saw the sign that said ‘Do Not Enter.’ Allow me to interpret it for you. This area is off-limits. So would you be so kind as to go back on deck where you belong?”
“It’s okay,” Gabriel said. “I’m with the caterer. Mr. Trager sent me down to get dinner orders from the crew.”
The man laughed. “Dinner orders? Maybe for the guys on the bridge, but Mr. Trager does not make a habit of serving dinner in the engine room.”
“My mistake,” Gabriel said, “but hey, man, we got food up the wazoo in the galley. You want me to bring you down a tray—shrimp, chicken, fillet of beef?”