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You have a long coat. You reach into your pocket and take hold of the gun. No one can tell, of course. If anyone bothered to look, you are but another pedestrian strolling with your hands in your pockets.
Your hand finds the gun—and when it does, when your palm slides onto the grip, when your finger threads its way onto the trigger, you feel the surge. It runs through you like a lightning bolt. You feel the power course through you—the power of life and death. Everyone who owns a gun, everyone who has ever even held a gun, has experienced this. Maybe it’s a small hit. Maybe it’s something bigger. There is a thrill to holding a gun. Don’t let the naysayers tell you differently.
Myron and Win continue to head east on 51st Street.
You know their destination. The Lock-Horne Building on 47th Street and Park Avenue. Will they cut through Rockefeller Center? Perhaps. You rush and get to a spot closer to their final destination, wait, take aim. Fire. The Lock-Horne Building is close to Grand Central Station. You could shoot, cause panic, run toward it.
You start to move, keeping your eye on the two men.
Then Win stops and turns around.
You are safe. You are disguised. You are at a great distance.
But you still turn toward another shop window so that there is no chance you can be spotted. Your heart thumps in your chest.
Not now, a voice inside of you says. There is too much risk involved. Too many pedestrians. Too much CCTV. And there is also Win. Even now. Even as Win starts walking again with that nonchalance, his sunglasses blocking his eyes, he seems to be looking everywhere at once, like one of those Renaissance portraits whose gaze follows you around the room.
You know Win’s reputation. You know what he did in Las Vegas.
Too risky.
Stick to the plan.
For Myron, the horror will soon be over.
For him, the nightmare will have just begun.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It was a fifteen-minute walk from Le Bernardin back to the Lock-Horne Building. Win threw on a pair of badass mirrored sunglasses that reminded Myron of his parents’ except for being in fashion terms the direct opposite. For the first few minutes, Myron and Win didn’t speak. They headed east on 51st Street.
Finally, Win said, “Interesting.”
“What’s interesting?”
“You don’t trust PT.”
Myron knew where Win was going with this. “You’re wondering why I didn’t say anything about Greg getting roughed up in that basketball game.”
“It could explain how his DNA ended up at the crime scene.”
“I think revealing that would be a violation of attorney-client privilege,” Myron said.
“And you want to save that information,” Win said.
“Yes. There’ll always be time later to say something.”
“Like as a courtroom surprise.”
“Probably nothing so dramatic,” Myron said, “but I don’t know the FBI’s agenda here, do you?”
“I don’t, no.”
“I don’t see why we’d give them a head start on this.”
“Even if it exonerates Greg.”
“If it does,” Myron said, “then we can be the ones who find it and control it.”
