Kill Me if You Can - James Patterson [70]
“Tough guy,” Chukov said. “You’re not just some art student, are you, Mr. Bannon?”
“I would be if you assholes would leave me alone. I want my girlfriend back.”
“And I want my diamonds,” Chukov said.
“I have them right here,” I lied. “I’ll trade you. You can have your goddamn diamonds—just give Katherine back to me. Untouched. Unharmed.”
“Now you’re getting smart,” Chukov said. “There’s a self-storage warehouse under the Williamsburg Bridge—”
“No. I’ll bring the diamonds to the exact same place where I found them,” I said. “The main concourse of Grand Central.”
“Too crowded,” Chukov said.
“I like a crowd,” I said. “It’s safer. We’ll do it after rush hour. Ten p.m. It’ll be quiet, but there’ll still be people around. If we both behave, this can be a civilized exchange. Nobody gets hurt; everybody’s happy.”
“I’m happy right now, Mr. Bannon,” Chukov said. “You know, your girlfriend has a beautiful ass.” I heard a smack and Katherine screamed.
Chukov belched out a sickening laugh. “Ten o’clock, Bannon.”
Chapter 82
I HAD SET the grand finale exchange with Chukov for the main concourse—center stage at Grand Central Terminal.
Chukov wasn’t too happy about it, but he agreed. He probably believed that Matthew Bannon the art student would feel safer surrounded by people walking through the terminal.
But the reality was that Matthew Bannon the Ghost had picked the spot because it offered the best field of fire.
Adam and Zach were already scoping out the building when Ty and I arrived. Then we worked together to map out the best possible combat plan.
Ever since the night I threw those smoke grenades and turned Grand Central into total pandemonium, security had been beefed up. This meant that four strapping ex-Marines standing in the middle of the main concourse on a recon mission would definitely attract cops.
So we opted for aerial surveillance. A table for four at Michael Jordan’s Steak House on the north balcony of the terminal, overlooking the rendezvous spot. It was an excellent vantage point. Plus, we were all starving.
We ordered, then sat there and quietly studied the traffic patterns below. When you’re standing in the middle of the terminal, it seems like people are crisscrossing the concourse without rhyme or reason. But from twenty feet up, the perspective changes, and they begin to look more like a colony of ants, each one racing about with purpose.
Very few people come to Grand Central to stroll through it aimlessly. Everyone is on a mission—headed for a stairwell, a train, a Starbucks, an exit. If the concourse floor were a giant lawn instead of a vast expanse of polished marble, you’d be able to see where the steady stream of travelers had trampled the grass and created distinct pathways.
“Right down there,” I said, pointing at an area where almost no one had walked for fifteen minutes. “That looks like the smartest place to make the exchange.”
Adam nodded slowly. “The exchange,” he said, a sardonic little smile crossing his lips. “Which exchange are we talking about? The one where Chukov trades us Katherine for the diamonds, or the exchange of bullets that will start flying as soon as he realizes that he just gave up his ace in the hole for a bagful of worthless glass?”
I couldn’t show up completely empty-handed, could I? So in the afternoon, we had found a theatrical prop shop on Twelfth Avenue that sells loose rhinestones for twenty-five dollars a gross. Zelvas’s medical bag was now filled to the brim with them.
“How long do you think it will take Chukov to realize he’s been played?” Ty asked, digging into a bowl of Louisiana Crawfish Chowder. The rest of us were chowing down on the only thing you go to a steak house for: meat.
“They look like the real thing from a distance,” I said. “That’ll help me get close to Katherine, but I guarantee that Chukov will know they’re bogus as soon as he gets his hands on them.”
“And I guarantee you that as soon as he does that,” Adam said, “he and his squad of Russian goons will start shooting up Grand Central Terminal.