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  Cole guessed that officers from the 19th would respond first. After evacuating the Met and securing the crime scene, they’d close the 79th Street Transverse, the road through Central Park that connects the east and west sides of Manhattan. So when she’d told the Uber driver to go farther north and cross the park at 84th, she was betting that the more northern crossing would still be open. She’d bet right. As she slid out of the car, two officers were setting up a barricade to block off the road.

  “Turn around!” one of them shouted at the driver, waving his arms. “No more cars through here.”

  The driver pulled a u-turn as Cole approached the cop—an acne-scarred twenty-something Cole figured she could work. Most of the young ones weren’t yet jaded against reporters, not having had time to develop the every-one-of-them-is-an-asshole-until-proven-otherwise mindset so common to veteran cops. “The 79th Street crossing was closed, too. What’s going on?”

  “Police business, ma’am.”

  The other officer was older and, Cole assumed, a little wiser. He pulled another barricade off the police truck. “Move along, lady.”

  She didn’t recognize either of them. Grunts from the 19th, most likely. But they might have information. Her competitors—mostly cute twenty somethings with huge social media followings—would blow right past these two and not think twice. But low-level cops were often willing to talk.

  On the ride from the office Cole had learned everything she could about the shooting, which wasn’t much. A handful of blurry pictures had appeared on Twitter, along with rumors about Ambani’s murder, but nothing credible. So far, the police had released no official statements. No video of the shooting or its immediate aftermath had emerged—a surprise since multiple TV crews had been covering the event, and every person in Manhattan carried a digital video camera in their pocket.

  She made eye contact with the acne-scarred cop who’d returned to the barricades—large blue sawhorses connected by blue 2x4s and stenciled in white lettering that read NYPD. “I’m Jane Cole from The New York Sun. Mind if I ask you a couple questions?”

  He stepped toward her aggressively, his face turning cold. “Cole, huh? You wrote the hit job on Warren.”

  She stepped back. “I reported a brutal attack against a suspect who had already been apprehended, yes.”

  His smile wasn’t friendly. “Then, no. No you can’t ask us any questions. And not only that.” He took out his phone and waved it in her face. “I’m gonna text every reporter at the Times, the Post, and the Daily News to give them a heads up on Ambani. Our precinct captain will sit for an hour on the record with the damn NYU student newspaper just to make sure you fall behind.” He spat at her feet. “Rob’s one of the best. That story made New York less safe.” He turned and muttered, “Stupid bitch.”

  Cole grimaced and walked away. The animosity was nothing new, and she let it disappear into the void as she crossed the street. The Fifth Avenue sidewalk was blocked by police barriers, so she walked east, circled around on Madison, and approached the Met from 83rd, scanning every face she saw. A block ahead, three blue and white police vans were parked sideways across the traffic lane. A large crowd had formed. Necks craned to peek between the vans and a few dozen onlookers sat on people’s shoulders, trying to peer over them.

  “The shooter was on the roof,” a man said as Cole passed.

  He had wavy salt and pepper hair and wore a tan wool coat over a custom-tailored shirt. He’d been speaking with a woman who also looked rich. Local residents. “Where’d you hear that?” Cole asked casually.

  “Didn’t hear it.” The man’s haughty voice matched his outfit. “I know it. I live up there.” He pointed to the top of a townhouse on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 83rd. “Furnace was stuck on high again, so I had my window open. Heard the shot, looked out...crowd was already scattering.” He pointed to the steps of The Met. “I ran down, but it was too late. I’m a surgeon—not trauma, but still...” He studied the ground. “Never seen a head so...damaged. What was left of it.” The doctor raised his head to meet her eyes again. “Anyway, by the time I tried to get back to my apartment, the whole area was on lockdown. Cops said the shots could have come from my building, but I’m pretty sure they came from next door.” He pointed up again, this time to the limestone townhouse next to his.

  Cole studied him. He had shallow lines around his eyes and an even tan. His face was stiff, but earnest. A rich guy, guilty about his wealth, who needed everyone to believe he was an honest, good person. The kind of guy who staved off the darkness by remaining above reproach at all times. He wasn’t lying.

  The fact that he was telling the truth didn’t mean he was right, but it was a good start. She nodded at the townhouse. “That one?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “What did it sound like?”

  “Kind of a shallow pop, not a huge bang.”

  The townhouse was five stories of old limestone that had recently been resurfaced. Typical Upper East Side home for millionaires or billionaires, though nicer than average due to the prime location. It was a townhouse that would cost eight to ten million dollars on a side street, but was probably worth double that because of the Fifth Avenue address.

  She reached into her small hip purse—which her colleagues derisively called a “fanny pack”—and retrieved a business card. She held it out confidently. “Jane Cole, New York Sun. Okay if I follow up with you about this?”

  The man frowned—a common response when people learned she was a reporter—but he took the card and pulled out one of his own.

  “Dr. Martin Horowitz?” she asked, reading it. “The heart guy?”

  “I’m a heart guy.”

  The woman next to him tugged at his sleeve playfully. “You know what she means, dear. You’re the heart guy. On the East Coast, at least.”

  Cole stowed the card in the pocket of her black slacks. “Didn’t you do the mayor’s triple bypass?”

  The doctor smiled proudly. “I did.”

  The woman next to the surgeon beamed. “He does all the important people because he’s the best.” The woman tilted her head and leaned in toward Cole. “But he works on poor people, too. Pro bono.” Her lips curled slightly at the mention of ‘poor people.’ Cole crossed her arms. The work may have been pro bono, but it was all about projecting an image of compassion. Again, the need to be seen as good. “I’m Mrs. Horowitz, by the way, pleased to meet you. Martin and I are big fans of—”

  “Thank you.” She deflected the handshake and cut her off. “I’ll follow up on that info.”

  An officer she vaguely recognized was making his way from the steps of The Met back to the police van barricade. She’d met him at Shooter’s, but his name escaped her. Kenny? Or maybe...Remy?

  Too bad she’d been three shots into a bottle of tequila when she’d met him.

  4

  She jogged up to him as he passed between two police vans. “Reggie?” she called, making her best guess. He turned, one eyebrow raised, but didn’t say anything. “Jane Cole. From Shooter’s. Remember me? The other night?”

  He waved off another officer and gestured for Cole to follow him around the side of the van. “It’s Benny, and yes, I remember. Patrón neat, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I shouldn’t be talking with you.”

  “You look good in your uniform.” She wasn’t lying. He was about ten years younger than her, with a clean-shaven babyface that belonged on a boyband poster.

  “Thanks, but you were at Shooter’s with Danny, right?”

  She flashed him a warm smile. “It’s casual between Danny and me.” She wasn’t proud of using flirtation as a reporting technique, but most men were stupid enough to fall for it. And when she was after a story, she didn’t leave anything off the table.

  Benny narrowed his eyes, then smiled back. “C’mon, you’re just working me for a story.”

  “About me and Danny—ask him yourself.” She kept her smile as bright as a hea
dlight high-beam for another second before letting it fade. “But you’re right. I am working you for a story. I don’t need you, though. I already know where the shot came from.” She pointed at the roof of the townhouse. “Are you reviewing the building’s security cameras?”

  “Surrounding buildings, too.” Benny stepped away. “But I really shouldn’t be talking to you about it.”

  “I’ve been around crime scenes, Benny. I’m not asking for state secrets here. Of course you’re checking video.” She pulled out her phone and pretended to read from the screen. “Twitter says the shooting was racially motivated.” She looked back at Benny but kept the look on her face open, as though it was an innocent question and not a technique to pry a crumb of information from the guarded officer. “Any comment?”

  Benny reached for the phone, but Cole pulled it away. She didn’t like lying—she wasn’t very good at it—but sometimes that’s what it took to get people talking.

  He sighed. “Who the hell would say that? We don’t even have a suspect yet and—”

  “A hundred people on the steps when Ambani’s head burst like a balloon and no one saw anything? C’mon, Benny, don’t piss me off today.”

  “Ramirez!” An angry voice boomed from twenty yards away. “What the hell you talking to her for?”

  Benny smiled. “See what you did? Now I’m in trouble.” He leaned in close, too close, and inhaled deeply, like he was smelling her hair. “You owe me now. What are you doing tonight? Buy you a shot at Shooter’s?”

  Cole recoiled internally, but flashed a smile he was too dumb to know was phony. “I don’t date sources.”

  “I’m not a—”

  “Yes, you are,” she called over her shoulder as she walked away.

  On her way back through the crowd, she began composing her story in her head, but a series of shouts half a block south interrupted her.

  “Get outta here!”

  “Screw you!”

  She hurried in the direction of the argument and found a lanky officer, arms folded stubbornly to serve as a barrier to another tall, well-built man, who seemed determined to get past the police barricades. The more solidly built man wore plain clothes, but his bearing suggested he, too, was an officer. He stood taller than six feet and his back and shoulder muscles filled out his blue button-down.

  She sidled toward them, careful not to get too close, listening but not looking at them.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” the lanky officer said. “You know that.”

  “I can help.” His voice was deep, and something about it was familiar.

  “Then call the Captain. You know he has your back.”

  “And you know he can’t take my calls.”

  “We all have your back, Rob, but until this thing plays out…”

  Cole stopped in her tracks. Rob?

  She held her phone over her head, pretending to look for a signal. From the corner of her eye, she glanced in the direction of the two men. The man in plainclothes had a thick, muscular neck and a gleaming bald head the color of onyx.

  It was Robert Warren.

  The man whose career she’d destroyed.

  5

  The old man breathed in the greasy, fish-fried air as he slid the barrel of the rifle into the dumpster. Checking the alley one last time, he placed the gloves into a garbage bag full of fish skeletons, then mashed the bag down over the gun barrel. Tomorrow was trash day, so the final pieces of the weapon and the gloves would be in New Jersey by eight in the morning.

  He hadn’t touched the ammo or components of the weapon with anything other than leather gloves. Killers had been convicted by one strand of fiber, by a speck of clay on their boots matched to a scene by a unique chemical or molecular fingerprint. Every perpetrator brings in and takes out trace evidence at the scene. The less you leave behind, the better your chances of not getting caught.

  Exiting the alley, he shot a look through the window of Trần’s Fried Fish. He smiled at Duc, the owner, who waved for him to come in. He could go for an order of his lemongrass-fried cod right about now, but he didn’t have the time. He’d spent the last hour stashing pieces of the weapon in storm drains and dumpsters across the Lower East Side. Now he needed to post the message.

  He unlocked the faded red door of his apartment building and climbed three floors to his studio, one of two on the top floor of the narrow brick building. He examined the piece of hair he’d stuck to the doorknob plate with his own saliva. Had it been missing, he’d have known someone had been inside, or was inside waiting for him now.

  Closing the door behind him quietly, he scanned the apartment. At a metal desk in the corner, he opened a black laptop and checked the security camera log. No activity had been registered since he left that morning.

  It was silly, but a twinge of something, an insecure feeling, made him check the four corners of the room. Even though he had the physical and digital proof that no one had been in his apartment, he didn’t completely trust the technology. Each camera stood guard in its place in the corner, resting on a brace and peering down to capture any movement.

  He crossed the floor and opened the lone window. Outside, a rusty metal fire escape led down to the alley behind Trần’s. The smell of fried fish wafted in, stirring his belly.

  He walked to the kitchenette, a small space enclosed by a sliding wooden door. At the movement of the door, Jefferson looked up. He had the face and body of a bulldog and the black-and-white spots of a dalmatian. The man unhooked the chain that bound him close to the stove. “Jefferson, it’s all over. Don’t worry. We got him.”

  The dog, too weak to stand, set his head back on the floor.

  “I’m sorry, Jefferson.” He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a pack of bologna, then slapped a piece on the floor in front of the dog. “Eat up, boy. It’s over now. No more closet for you.”

  Jefferson didn’t move.

  “Eat the bologna.”

  Jefferson’s eyes moved to the man’s angry face, but his chin didn’t lift from the floor. His energy was low, his eyes tired.

  “Eat it!” He grabbed the bologna from the floor and pressed it into the dog’s mouth.

  Jefferson chewed it a few times half-heartedly, then spat it out.

  “Stupid dog. I should have named you Hamilton.”

  He limped back to the desk, shoving slices of bologna in his mouth as he sat. Opening the anonymous Tor browser through his personal VPN, he navigated to DogLoverSupplies.Com, one of the many websites he and his brothers used. The NSA, CIA, and other government agencies monitored dark web chat rooms. Hiding their conversations deep in run-of-the-mill websites gave them several more layers of protection. Not that he was too worried about federal law enforcement or military intelligence. Most of the agencies who’d be after them were incompetent anyway. They’d lost Bin Laden for nearly ten years before finding him by random chance, hiding in plain sight. He’d often joked that the motto of U.S. intelligence and federal law enforcement should be “better lucky than good.”

  He navigated to the chat room buried deep in the backend of the site, where his brothers would be waiting. Undoubtedly, they’d already heard the news, but protocol required that he share it formally. The chat room was a simple black box with a blinking cursor. As he typed, his words appeared in plain white text on the screen.

  T-Paine:

  1/9

  (NBC’s Hero)

  X

  An international brotherhood, united by General Ki to carry out a singular mission: to bring an end to the great replacement, to restore the sovereignty of nations, to birth a new era of freedom.

  1/9

  (NBC’s Hero)

  X

  He pressed “Enter” and waited, mashing the bologna around in his mouth. The expected response came a minute later.

  Kokutai-Goji:

  2/9

  (The Silver Squirrel)

  Initiated.

  An international brotherhood, united by General Ki to
carry out a singular mission: to bring an end to the great replacement, to restore the sovereignty of nations, to birth a new era of freedom.

  2/9

  (The Silver Squirrel)

  Initiated.

  The formalities over, congratulatory responses flooded in.

  Gunner_Vision: Saw it on the “news.” Way to go, my U.S. brother.

  Tread_on_This!: Step one, man, step one.

  He leaned back, lacing his hands together through his thin, greasy hair. For the first time since the war, he was a success. He was a contributor—an actor, not a spectator. “C’mere, Jefferson. Come celebrate your daddy. We did a big thing today, buddy. Come love him. Come on, boy.” The dog opened its eyes, but didn’t move.

  The old man looked at the screen, where a dozen new messages had appeared.

  It’s_Our_Country: Cheers from across the pond. BBC running with the story.

  8/15/47: Had it coming. His parents were deserters.

  As he read the messages, he stood and took an old wooden baseball bat out of a glass case on the wall above his computer. Signed by Roger Maris, he’d received it from the player himself during his record-setting 1961 season. Despite the pain in his back, he swung the bat, mimicking Maris’s beautiful left-handed swing as best he could.

  He felt a stirring in his chest, a feeling he hadn’t known since he was a boy staring out at the green grass of Yankee Stadium. It was as though a wide open space had opened inside him, a space large enough to fit any possibility.

  Freedom_2019: It’s happening.

  End_the_Great_Replacement: They will know your name.

  He’d done it. Years of frustration had inspired months of planning, and now he’d done it. The world would one day celebrate him. More importantly, the world would celebrate this day as a new Independence Day.

  For the first time since he could remember, he was free.