You've Been Warned

I break into a sprint, my eyes locked on the taxi, desperately willing it not to move.

With one last surge, I close the gap to a few steps. I wave my arms again and shout, “Taxi! Taxi!” There’s no way the cabbie can miss me.

Or so I think.

The light turns green, and the taxi lurches forward. “No!” I yell. “Wait! Hey, stop!”

It doesn’t. I’m steps away, and it’s about to pass right in front of me.

Over my dead body!

I jump right into its path. The cabbie slams on the brakes, the screech of bald tires piercing the air. By the time the substantial chrome bumper rocks to a halt, it’s inches from my kneecaps.

Ignoring the cabbie’s evil eye, I stomp around to climb into the backseat. But when I reach for the door, out of no-where comes another hand.

“Allow me,” he says.

Chapter 63

BEFORE I CAN RUN, the Ponytail grabs my arm with an iron grip. Then he swings open the taxi door and roughly shoves me in. I tumble onto the seat, and he slides in right next to me. I’m trapped!

“Shhh,” he immediately whispers, pulling back the lapel on his black sport coat. There’s barely any light, but I can still see it. His gun.

Through the Plexiglas divider, I spot the cabbie—a stocky bald guy like that actor on The Shield—glaring at me in his rearview mirror. “You’re lucky I didn’t run you over,” he says. “I almost hit you.”

“Sorry about that,” I answer while glancing at the Ponytail. “Finding a taxi around here can be murder.”

The Ponytail grips my arm again, even tighter. Ow! He leans in, close to my ear. “Don’t get cute. There’s nothing funny about this, believe me.”

“Where you headed?” asks the cabbie. “I’m not a mind reader, y’know.”

“Just drive,” says the Ponytail. “Stay in the general area. But drive.”

The cabbie flips the meter on and shrugs as if to say, “Hey, it’s your dime.”

And off we go.

I look over at my backseat companion. I don’t want to show fear, but I shudder anyway. His narrow, sharp-featured face is menacing up close. I see a scar beneath the three-day stubble on his cheek. I suspect it’s the kind you don’t get by “accident.” Why is he following me? Is he a cop? Is this about what happened at the Fálcon?

The cabbie fiddles with the radio, turning the volume up on a jazz station.

As scared as I am, there’s a part of me almost emboldened by the idea that my fate is seemingly out of my hands. I’ve got my Bronx up. Or, I should say, my Brooklyn.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Your worst nightmare,” the Ponytail answers, his voice a deep baritone. No accent that I can decipher.

“That’s a very crowded category these days.”

“Serves you right,” he says. “You did this to yourself.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve been a bad girl, Kristin. You must know that. You deserve what you’re getting. And it’s going to get worse.”

Another shudder goes through me. “How do you know my name?”

“Trust me; I know a lot more about you than just your name. I know when you moved down here from Boston and why. I know where you live and where you work.”

The conversation flows like the jazz on the radio. Fast and choppy. Also random. Where’s the Ponytail going with this?

Right for my jugular, it turns out.

“Do you love those two kids?” he asks. “Those cute little kids?”

Sean and Dakota?

“What does this have to do with them?”

“Everything, I expect. Those kids are very important in all this.”

“Don’t you dare hurt them,” I snap at him, and raise a fist.

“No,” he says. “Don’t you dare hurt them.”

“Ha! You’re wrong, then,” I say. “You don’t know anything about me.”

The volume dips abruptly on the radio. “Everything okay back there?” asks the cabbie.

It’s clearly not a courtesy question. There’s a note of suspicion and alarm in his voice. He can probably tell something’s wrong.

I don’t want to get this driver killed, but I know about the “panic button”—most every New Yorker does. It triggers a light on the back of the taxi that signals to police that something’s wrong, like a robbery or carjacking in progress.

Or whatever this is.

How do I tip off the driver to push the panic button without getting caught?

The Ponytail clears his throat. He’s not about to let me figure that out.

“Everything’s fine,” he announces.

The cabbie seeks out my eyes in his mirror. “Are you sure, lady?” he asks. “Everything’s fine?”

The Ponytail whispers fast and forcefully in my ear. The way he’s squeezing my arm really hurts. “Tell him to mind his own business.”

I take a deep breath and sigh. “We’re okay,” I say. “No need to panic.”

I don’t know if the cabbie gets the hint, but the Ponytail sure does.

Dumb move, Kris!

“I told you not to get cute,” he says, reaching inside his coat. “How many times do you have to be warned?”

Chapter 64

THE PONYTAIL’S GOING to kill me. Right now, right here. That’s what this is. Everything’s been leading up to my death, my murder.