The Ultimatum by Wolf Dick

Author:Wolf, Dick [Wolf, Dick]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Mystery, Contemporary Fiction, Thrillers & Suspense, Contemporary, Thriller & Suspense, United States, American, Thrillers, Literature & Fiction
ISBN: 0062286838
Publisher: William Morrow
Published: 2015-06-16T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 25

Fisk wrestled the wind for control of the Metropolitan Correction Center door, pulling it open just enough for Chay to slip out sideways onto a rainy and prematurely dark Park Row. Traffic, like activity in general, was minimal for six o’clock, a function less of the downpour, he thought, than of plans canceled for fear of the drone.

Chay started to thank him for holding the door when a sheet of rain hit her with a force seldom seen outside of a tsunami—or during routine rainfall within one of downtown Manhattan’s many wind tunnels. Looking back at him, she arched a brow. “You saw that coming, didn’t you?”

“Don’t tell anybody this,” he said, stepping onto a section of sidewalk sheltered by an overhang. “Intel controls the weather.”

He’d hoped for a smile, but instead she looked down to avoid the rain, which reflected the glow of a bright, neon-green sign. Before he could get a better look at her, his focus was captured by illuminated medallion numbers on the rooftop sign of a cab, meaning the cab was free—a commodity on a night like this. He started toward it, then watched helplessly as the medallion number stayed lit for only the few seconds it took for its passenger to exit, her place taken by the two businessmen who’d been waiting beneath a newspaper kiosk. The nearest subway, the 4 train at the City Hall station, was a four-block walk, or, effectively, a four-block swim. Up and down Park Row, people huddled in doorways and beneath overhangs, angling themselves so as to keep their phones dry. Another option presented itself to Fisk via the green neon.

The light was in the shape of a four-leaf clover, part of a sign that protruded from a pub up the block. Fisk was reminded that, other than the Krispy Kreme doughnuts Chay brought to his office, he hadn’t eaten in a day and a half. Pointing that way, he asked her, “Want to shadow me there for a quick bite?”

She nodded. “I was beginning to think you didn’t do food.”

They ran. She sprinted and he did his damnedest not to fall too far behind. His coat and dress shirt were almost immediately soaked through, leaving his chest and arms stinging from the chill. Spinning tires raised puddles, soaking the rest of him. He looked up to find her holding the door.

He tried not to pant. “Thanks.”

Entering the dark tavern, he was enveloped by warm air. On the blank order form taped above the frosted-glass panel in the door, someone had handwritten sorry folks, no a/c in ink that bled down the glass. Still, the warmth felt good. The hint of stale spilled beer was oddly comforting too.

He’d never been here, although, in a way, he had. They were a dying breed, these pocket pubs, always called something that included the word “blarney” or “clover” or just the possessive form of an Irish last name, with tables and chairs and walls coated with worn, dark wood, and lit primarily by the brewery promotions.

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