The driver veered off into a lousy section of the Bronx. “Your husband has visitor on the way,” he stated. “FBI. More questions. Burbank weak. He talk. Stupid. Dangerous. We warned. He not listen. We punish. You die.”
Die? So much for Rosalyn keeping her cool.
“You’re wrong,” she responded, confused and desperate. “The FBI’s not coming by. And, even if they do, Matthew wouldn’t say a word. He didn’t last time. He won’t this time.”
“No trust. Too many talks between him and FBI. No more.”
The finality in his tone was absolute. There was no reasoning with this animal.
That did it. Rosalyn lunged forward, scrambling to climb into the front seat and wrestle away control of the steering wheel. As she did, she spotted the long, open switchblade on the passenger seat, and shuddered. The knife was covered with blood. She forced her gaze away, trying to climb over the center console, groping and clawing at the driver’s thick arm to break his concentration and yank his hand off the wheel.
He grabbed hers instead, bending her forearm sideways until blinding pain shot through her and she could hear the crunching sound of bones. She cried out, struggling to escape his grasp.
“Stay in back,” he ordered, shoving her off the console. “You can die quick. Or you can die slow. Your choice.” He released her arm, sending her sprawling into the back.
Rosalyn slid back into her seat. Her arm was throbbing horribly. Her life was on the line. And she had no idea how to save it.
Fate intervened.
The Explorer approached a red light. Her intended killer accelerated to run it. As he did, the wail of an ambulance siren reached their ears. An instant later, the emergency vehicle appeared and sped through the intersection.
Rosalyn’s abductor slammed on the brakes, swearing in Chinese. He and Rosalyn both lurched forward.
She didn’t miss a beat or pause to regain her bearings. Manually, she pressed open her door lock, yanked the handle, and flung open the door. She hit the ground running, heading for the first crowd of people she saw—a bunch of teenage boys shooting hoops.
Hands trembling, she unhinged the gate and rushed inside, slamming the gate as if it were some kind of protective wall.
The basketball game stopped. A half-dozen tall, muscled teens turned in her direction. A half-dozen pairs of wary eyes stared at her. She twisted around, peering back at the street and the unmoving Explorer. The driver had leaped out and dashed around to the open rear door. Suspicious passersby, recognizing a stranger on their turf, were already pausing on the sidewalk to scrutinize him. He scanned the area for a minute. Then, he slammed the rear door shut, ran back around to the driver’s side, got in, and gunned the engine, disappearing around the corner.
Rosalyn sank down on the cracked and broken ground, leaning her head against the fence and trembling from head to toe. The pain in her arm was so sharp, she could scarcely breathe.
“Hey, lady, you all right?”
She looked up and gazed blankly at the sweaty teenager holding a basketball, who had come over when he saw her collapse.
“All right?” Her laugh was hollow.
“You on something?” he asked, seeing her glazed expression.
Oh, how she wished she were. “No.” She managed to shake her head, simultaneously reaching for her tote bag and remembering it was still in the car with her file. “A hospital…I need a hospital. My arm…” She winced. “My cell phone’s gone. Could you…?” Her voice trailed off.
“Here.” He groped in his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “Use mine.”
Kindness and charity still existed, and thank heaven for it.
“Thank you,” Rosalyn said gratefully, reaching out with her good arm and taking the phone. “Thank you so much.”
Matthew Burbank was reading the morning paper and drinking a mug of coffee when the doorbell of the apartment gave a quick ring.
He folded the newspaper and set it down with his mug, rising to head over and answer the door. It had to be Sloane. Roz had left a little while ago for a breakfast meeting. Anyone but her or Sloane would have been announced by the doorman.
Reflexively, he peeked through the peephole. His hand, already on the door handle, froze.
There was a distinguished-looking silver-haired man in a suit standing outside—one he recognized right away. It was Special Agent Richard Williams, the FBI agent from the Art Crime Team who’d interviewed him about the Rothberg.
What the hell was he doing here?
Fighting a surge of panic, Matthew inhaled slowly, trying to calm himself. When he felt sufficiently composed, he opened the door. “Agent Williams. This is a surprise.”