Brooklyn, New York By the time Howie returned, Jack had managed something of a recovery.
'You look white as a sheet, buddy, you okay?' asked Howie.
'Maybe a bit too warm in here, place lacks fresh air,' said Jack, keen to brush away the moment and get on with things. 'You got some keys for me?'
Howie fished in his jacket and threw over his car keys. 'Take it easy, eh?'
Jack nodded and headed out to the parking lot.
The clock was ticking.
They both knew they were in a critical race against time, in which the prize was a young woman's life.
Forty-eight hours max – that's what the doctor who'd seen the tapes had said that she had.
Just forty-eight hours.
Jack had no status in the Bureau any more, no shield and no gun; Howie would have to pull together the briefings and assemble the teams on his own. He would be updating Marsh, and they'd be making a call to the NYPD to bring their top brass up to speed. They in turn would assign officers from the ESU, their equivalent of a SWAT team, and ultimately there'd be an FBI-led joint Strike Team. Jack had also suggested bringing in Josh Benson and Lou Chester, two instructors who ran Rodman's Neck, the force's specialist training base in the Bronx. Chester was about the best sniper in the world and Benson ran the most gruelling of urban-training scenarios; when it came to storming buildings and saving hostages he didn't just have the T-shirt, he was the T-shirt. Officers would be canvassing all the areas that Jack and Howie had pinpointed as likely to afford BRK the kind of cover he needed. Jack, meanwhile, was on his way to Marine Park. It was a vast area that lay between Mill Basin and Gerritsen Beach, straddling NYPD's 61st and 63rd Precincts, and was pretty low on the crime stats. The place had originally been a Dutch settlement and was home to the first tidal mill in America. Since then, the huge tract of marshland, parkland, bog, swamp and agricultural fields had been shaped beyond recognition. The area had also become home for many of New York's Italians and Jews, who lived in housing that had been mainly built sixty or seventy years ago.
Jack headed north up Gerritsen, cruising around the corners of Cyrus, Florence and Channel. At the bottom he turned right on to Fillmore and snaked his way around East 33rd and 34th. He lost his way a little and found himself out towards the Kings Plaza Shopping Mall. He cursed a couple of times and then doubled back and went up and down Hendrickson and Coleman from where he could see golf carts trundling over the velvet greens of Marine Park's vast golf course. Jack was frustrated. He got out of the car and looked around. Despite the warmth of the day a strong breeze blew in from somewhere out towards Jamaica Bay, and he hoped the fresh air would do him good, would prevent that nauseous feeling creeping up on him again.
The area was civilized and decent, respectable and well groomed. It wasn't rolling in money, but it certainly wasn't dog-rough poor either. In short, it was the kind of neighbourhood where people minded their own business and kept themselves to themselves. He's not here, thought Jack, it's too open, too many houses, and too many windows to be seen from.
Jack's mind swam with thoughts; images of the naked, dying girl, suspended in the blackness of some fearful room – a room surely not far from where he was?
He sat back in the car and made notes, then started to drive back the route he'd come. He was cruising past a whole street of people out manicuring their lawns and washing their cars, when his cell rang. It was Howie.
'Got a possible for you.'
'Go on,' said Jack, pulling over again and grabbing his notepad.
'Fernandez has been through the letting agencies.' Nultkins, a very old agency in Brooklyn, has been letting the same place for almost twenty years. The landlord is a single man, and the tenants' records show he has only ever let it out to other single men. It fits your profile to a T.'
Jack felt a shiver of excitement run through him. 'I've got a pen, shoot me the address.'