Page 60 of Shadowed Agenda
Regan turned right as she exited the alley. The hotel was to her left. As expected, a crowd of reporters had gathered out front. There were a few television cameras.
Keeping pace with the pedestrians arriving for work, Regan made her way down the sidewalk, fighting the urge to run. She couldn’t afford to draw attention to herself while the reporters could still spot her.
The light at the end of the block turned red at her approach.
Come on. Come on.
Regan irrationally willed the light to change. She’d read somewhere the signal timing cycle for busy Manhattan streets was two minutes. It felt like two hours.
Regan sped up, having lost two precious minutes waiting for the lights. Halfway down the block, she decided she’d put enough distance between her and the hotel. Regan darted around pedestrians and ran full out. She darted across the last street as the amber light turned to red. In the distance, the silver metal structure of the kiosk stood out.
Covered in sweat, her pale blue silk blouse clung to her, drawing a few questioning looks from people passing her. She looked down at her cell as she walked toward the kiosk, expecting a call from the kidnappers. The deadline was only a minute away.
Regan scanned the street as she walked toward the kiosk. A steady stream of pedestrians flowed on either side of the road in zombie-like precision, headed for work. Traffic was stop and go. Drivers sipped coffee and drummed on their steering wheel. Some were in animated conversations using hands-free mode on their phones, using the time to conduct business. No one stood out, but Regan had no idea who she was searching for.
The deadline had passed. Where was her daughter? Her cell phone rang. It was the same number as the text message. Regan tapped accept and held the phone to her ear.
“Look across the street,” the voice was garbled.
Regan looked across the lanes of traffic. A man held Emmeline high in the air, his face obscured by her body.
No.
The standstill traffic in front of her moved. She didn’t care. The cars were creeping along. They’d stop for her.
Regan stepped off the curb. Horns blared, and the car coming toward her screeched to a halt. She felt hands wrap around her waist and pull her back onto the curb.
Chapter twenty-eight
“Whatthehellareyou doing?” Pavlo turned Regan around to face him. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? You’re no longer in Kansas. Pedestrians do not have the right of way in Manhattan contrary to the law.”
Pavlo hugged her tight and kissed the top of her head. He’d reached her in time. The heavy pounding of his heart in his ears faded.
“Emmeline,” Regan said, on the verge of being hysterical and twisting in his arms. She pointed across the street. “He has Emmeline. Black hoodie.”
Pavlo released her and looked across the street. A man in a black hoodie was walking away from them, struggling to hold on to the small child squirming in his arms. He glanced in their direction and spotted Pavlo. He quickened his pace.
“Wait here. Don’t you dare move,” Pavlo barked and sped down the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians as he tried to overtake the man on the other side of the road.
He reached the end of the block a second before the light for the oncoming traffic turned green. Horns blared. The walk sign had already turned, and he joined the masses crossing to the other side of the road. Pavlo broke into a run once he’d reached the sidewalk.
The kidnapper’s gaze was focused across the street, looking for him. He glanced behind him. Pavlo was impossible to miss. Dressed in a suit, no one would mistake him for someone out for a run.
The guy picked up his speed, but Pavlo had an advantage. He didn’t have to hold on to a struggling, screaming child. There was no way the guy could evade him.
Pavlo swore as the passenger door of a black luxury sedan with dark-tinted windows flew open. The car had its flashers on, indicating a breakdown. Two emergency cones sat on the pavement behind the car. Emmeline’s kidnappers had prepared their escape route in advance. Vehicles behind the sedan were moving into the lane to the right.
The kidnapper got in and slammed the door, cutting off Emmeline’s wailing. The driver turned off the flashers and moved forward, following the traffic flow.
Manhattan’s morning traffic was always slow. Pavlo ran after the car, confident he could keep up with it. The car made it through the amber light, increasing the distance between them. At least he’d been close enough to make out the car’s license plate, make, and model.
Pavlo shot across the crosswalk the second the walk light appeared. A block later, he’d caught up to the sedan as it turned left. Pavlo followed, hoping for a red light. He’d have only one shot.
For the first time that day, Pavlo was grateful he’d put on a suit so he could use his shoulder holster. It was a quicker draw. He would need to be fast if he wanted to take the assholes in the sedan by surprise.
Shooting the tires would have been an option, but the streets were crowded. With the way his luck had been running, some hero would probably tackle him and try to take him down.
Three blocks later, the traffic picked up, and Pavlo knew they were headed into less congested areas so they could lose him. The traffic light turned red one block later, and the sedan stopped.