Chapter Sixty-Six

B O RAN FASTER than he had in a long time, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and his feet numb. He'd been aiming for a subway station, but he decided against it. He didn't have his MetroCard — it was still in his wallet sitting in his apartment. Sure, he had the stranger's wallet, but he hadn't exactly had time to take a look through it.

He stopped at an alleyway, sliding on his icy feet around the tight corner. He crashed to the ground, and lay there, his energy depleted. But at the very least, he couldn't hear anything from his pursuers. Granted, the bulk of what he heard was the thudding of his heart, but there weren't shouts or footsteps. Or most importantly, gunfire.

Bo crawled across the alley until he got behind a dumpster, then leaned against the brick wall and sucked in lungfuls of the freezing air. He pulled the wallet out, and looked through it.

Finnegan Bestow from New Hampshire.

White people names , Bo thought, shaking his head.

He rifled through the credit cards — nothing particularly interesting there. Photo of a wife and kids, bland and generic enough that Bo seriously wondered if the picture had come with the wallet. A bit of cash, a few receipts, all from restaurants and coffee shops in the city.

"What are you doing so far from home?" Bo asked the wallet.

A siren sounded at the exact same time as a spotlight flashed up on Bo.

"Shit," Bo said, hands up in the air. He tried to be sly and drop the wallet, but he felt reasonably sure the cops would see.

"Just wait there," one of the cops yelled.

Bo squinted into the light, but thought he saw glints off the barrels of guns. He'd been in this position before, and he knew what he needed to do. Nothing. Lay on the ground, cooperate, accept the potential violence as a better option than death.

At least my feet won't freeze off, Bo thought.

The cops approached slowly, tactically, guns out and aimed at their perp.

"What are you doing out here?" one of the cops asked.

"Just hanging out," Bo replied.

"In the middle of the night?" the cop asked.

"Little bit of cold air to refresh my senses."

"Is that why you've got no shoes on?"

"Might be."

"Any connection to the gunfight a few blocks back?"

"I ran from it."

"So you were there?"

"Yes."

"Want to get up and turn around?" the cop asked.

"I thought stop-and-frisk stopped."

"Yeah, well, we're not stopping you are we? You're already stopped. We're just frisking you."

Bo got to his feet slowly and turned to put his arms up against the brick wall.

He heard the cop move to directly behind him, and the cop forced Bo's feet wider and wider until the cop was sure Bo wouldn't be able to make any sort of violent movement.

Then, Bo felt the hands running up and down his body.

"No wallet?" the cop asked.

"Left it at home."

"No ID, then."

"It's in my wallet."

"GUN!" the cop shouted, pulling the weapon out of Bo's belt, and moving away, clearing the line of fire for his partner.

"You want to tell us why you're armed?" the other cop shouted.

"Easy," Bo said, "I'm—"

"SHUT IT!" one of the cops yelled. They weren't waiting for an excuse, choosing, instead, to handcuff Bo, and frogmarch him to the car.

"Wait a second," Bo said, trying to keep his head upright against the firm push of the man behind him. "I'm with the BEA. Just call the BEA and they'll tell you that I'm with them."

"Sure," the cop said, "watch your head." He forced Bo into the squad car, and slammed the rear door shut. "I'll call the DEA first thing."