The 5 train is a block away, the Fulton Street station. Made positive I had the briefcase. Opened it up in the bathroom.

Downstairs I have Iveta wait by the elevators, while I scope the lobby. Don’t know who I’m looking for, but I don’t think I see them. The place is dead save the desk attendant, who appears to be sleeping, and a seated Saudi couple in traditional dress. As we pass by them I notice the man is reading an old issue of the Economist. The woman is veiled, and wears Miu Miu stiletto heels and a delicate gold ankle bracelet. Thick lashes and dark peepers clock me, slide over to Iveta in her new dress, giving her a solid once-over, that energy exchange specific to all the world’s beautiful women.

Out into the evening, the burnt-plastic air. Coming up on midnight, wonder if the trains are running. Sentries are posted at the dual entrances to the 4/5, leads me to believe they’re in operation. Poses problems. Can’t utilize my laminate, as it’s likely to get flagged. I’m sure Daniel would like to have a word at this point.

There’s always the Donny Smith ID so I’d be okay, maybe, but I’m concerned about trying to run Iveta past a checkpoint. From what I’ve learned today, no doubt Daniel has a stop order on her as well.

No train then. We take a left off Fulton onto Broadway. Iveta is with me, quiet but watchful.

For the umpteenth time I steal a car, this one parked in front of St. Paul’s, yet another goddamn Prius. Candy apple red. Like it wants to be a sports car when it grows up.

FDR Drive down and around the bottom of the island, then all the way up to the RFK Bridge, a bridge the architects of 2/14 didn’t even have on their radar because who gives a shit about people up here, right?

Clocking the rearview. A blue Nissan has been with us since the financial district. Almost certainly a tail.

Behind the Nissan, a black Navigator.

Could have been with us back downtown too. Brian and company. Another tail. A tail on the tail.

It doesn’t matter, so I don’t mention it.

There’s a squawk of feedback. We both jump and I almost lose control of the car. Goddamn these cars, the crap handling. The radio phone, in my pocket.

A woman’s voice: “Echo 3, Echo 3. Diaz. Stanley. What’s your 20, over.”

I’m fumbling at the thing …

“Diaz, what’s your—”

I kill the call.

“What was this?”

I shake my head. “Nothing. I picked up a radio. Signals get crossed all the time.”

Sense her staring at me in profile. I don’t turn. “Okay. Scared me,” she says.

Check the rearview. Hakim Stanley rides quietly in the back, his single eye. No. I look through him. The Nissan and the Lincoln are hanging back but certainly with us. Convoy style upriver.

Iveta is peering out the window. “I have never been to Bronx.”

278 to the Bronx River Parkway, the Nissan and the Navigator still a good ways back. Exit 9 to Gun Hill Road.

Here comes the prodigal son.