The Exile Read online

  Screams started to rise around me, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the truck.

  The driver made an agile exit from the crumpled driver’s door and stood right next to the truck. Over his face, he wore a red scarf with white starburst designs.

  He shouted, “Hawqala!”

  Chapter 3

  I stood in shock like just about everyone else near me. This was not something we were used to seeing on US soil.

  Eddie and Jane, crouching on the sidewalk next to me, both stood and started to move away from me.

  I grabbed Eddie’s wrist.

  He looked back at me and said, “We’ve got to help them.”

  Jane had paused right next to him as I said, “We don’t know what’s going to happen.”

  As I said it, the driver of the truck reached in his front jacket pocket and pulled something out. I couldn’t identify it exactly, but I knew it was a detonator.

  I shouted as loud as I could, “Everyone down!” My family knew to lie flat on the sidewalk and cover their faces with their hands. A few people in the crowd listened to me as well. Most were still in shock or sobbing.

  The driver hit the button on the detonator and immediately there was a blinding flash, and what sounded like a thunderclap echoed among all the buildings.

  I couldn’t turn away as I watched from the pavement. The blast blew the roof of the truck straight into the air almost thirty feet. I felt it in my guts. A fireball rose from the truck.

  The driver was dazed and stumbled away as the roof landed on the asphalt not far from him.

  Now there was absolute pandemonium. It felt like every person on 49th Street was screaming. The blast had rocked the whole block.

  The parade was coming to an abrupt stop. Parade vehicles bumped each other and the marching band behind the step van scattered. A teenager with a trumpet darted past me, looking for safety.

  The driver pushed past spectators on the sidewalk near us and started to run back down 49th Street where he had driven the truck.

  The ball of flame was still rising like one of the floats. Then I noticed a couple of the floats were rising in the air as well. The human anchors had followed instinct and run for their lives.

  Snoopy was seventy-five feet in the air now.

  Several Christmas tree ornaments as big as Volkswagens, with only three ropes apiece, made a colorful design as they passed the middle stories of Rockefeller Center.

  I glanced around, but didn’t see any uniformed cops close. The one young patrolman I had seen keeping people in place was frantically trying to help a child who had been struck by the truck.

  I had no radio to call for backup. I just had my badge and my off-duty pistol hidden in my waistband.

  There had been plenty of cops early, but now I saw that some of them had been hurt in the explosion, others were trying to help victims. It was mayhem, and no one was chasing the perp. I was it. I had to do something.

  Chapter 4

  When I stood up, my legs still a little shaky, I focused on the red scarf I’d seen around the driver’s face and neck as he fled the scene. The splash of color gave me something to focus on.

  I looked around at my family, making sure everyone was still in one piece. They were on the ground and I said, “Stay put.”

  I worked my way past panicked parade spectators until I was in the open street and could see the driver half a block ahead. I broke into a sprint, dodging tourists like a running back.

  By this point, no one realized the man running from the scene was the driver. The people this far back on the street didn’t have a front row seat to the tragedy. No one tried to stop him. Everyone was scrambling for safety, if there was such a place.

  I started to gain on the man because he hadn’t realized yet that he was being pursued. He had a loping gate as if one of his legs was injured. But he was also alert, checking each side and behind him as he hurried away.

  I wasn’t a rookie chasing my first purse-snatcher in the Bronx. I didn’t feel the urge to yell, “Stop, police!” I was silent and hung back a little bit so he didn’t pick up on me.

  He took the corner, then slowed. He looked around, as if he was expecting someone to meet him. I paused at the edge of a high-end fashion boutique and watched him for a moment. I still hadn’t drawn my pistol, to avoid attracting attention.

  Finally, the truck driver decided his ride wasn’t here and started down the street again. He looked over his shoulder one time as he approached a packed diner, and surprised me by slipping inside.

  I looked in the window as I came to the door of the diner. Every patron and server was glued to the TV in the corner of the room. News of the attack was mesmerizing. The room was silent as the news had just broken—the same TV parade footage was on a loop as the newscaster started repeating the information he was receiving. No conversation, no clinking of silverware, nothing.

  I immediately stepped to the cashier by the front door, held up my badge, and said in a low voice, “NYPD. Did you see where the man who just came in here went?”

  The dark-haired young woman shook her head. She mumbled, “I didn’t notice anyone.” Then she turned and looked back at the TV.

  Even though the attack had happened only a couple of blocks away, a few minutes ago, watching it on TV made it feel like it was another country.

  I saw the hallway that led past the kitchen. There was a sign that said RESTROOM, so I presumed a back door was that way as well. I hustled, squeezing past several tables crowded with extra patrons. Today was a big day for New York eateries.

  Just as I started to pick up my pace, I heard something behind me and turned. The man I’d been chasing was lowering himself from an awkward position above the door. What the hell? It looked like it was out of the movies.

  When he dropped to the floor and faced me, I realized he had led me into a trap.

  Chapter 5

  The truck driver and I stared at each other for a moment. He had taken off the scarf, having used it to trick me. Pretty sharp.

  He was about thirty, with neat, dark hair and blue eyes.

  I reached for my pistol.

  He reacted instantly and blocked my arm. That was from training. That’s not a natural move. Then he head-butted me. Hard. My brain rattled and vision blurred.

  I stumbled back and kept reaching for my pistol. Just as I pulled it from under my Giants windbreaker, the man swatted it out of my hand. I heard it clatter onto the hard, wooden floor—then the man kicked it.

  The gun spun as it slid across the floor and under a radiator.

  The man nodded to me and sprinted away. He didn’t want to fight, he just wanted to escape.

  I couldn’t let that happen.

  I was dazed and unable to reach my pistol, but I had to do something. I just put one foot in front of the other and followed the man.

  My head started to clear.

  A moment later, I found myself in the kitchen. The cooks and busboys weren’t paying any attention to us. They were watching the news, just like everyone else, but on one of their smartphones. The back door wasn’t at the end of the hall, like I had expected, but through the kitchen.

  The man was almost to the back door when he turned and saw me. He looked annoyed, and he turned his full attention on me and charged forward.

  I picked up a bottle of cooking wine and smashed it across his face just before he reached me.

  The driver teetered back. Blood poured out of a gash on his cheek. Just as I was about to subdue him so I could call for backup, his foot flew up and connected with my chin.

  That was the second time this asshole had made me see stars.

  This time he took the opportunity and ran. He was out the door in a flash.

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