Robert Ludlum's the Bourne Evolution - Brian Freeman Page 0,55
looking for us?”
“I don’t think so, but something’s going down.”
Bourne leaned back and checked inside Villiers with his binoculars. Gattor had his phone in his hand now. He tapped out a text. The lawyer waited, and a few seconds later, his face broke into a smile of relief. He took his trench coat and slipped his arms into the sleeves. He shook out his umbrella on the floor.
“Gattor’s getting ready to go,” Jason said. “He got a text with new instructions. I want you out of here, Abbey. Right now, before Gattor leaves.”
“What? Why?”
“Things are about to get violent. I don’t want you in the middle of it. I want you safe.”
“These kids? They’re Medusa?”
Bourne shook his head. “No, they look like street thugs, but them showing up now isn’t a coincidence.”
“I’d rather stay with you,” Abbey said.
“That’s not an option. Listen to me. There’s an apartment complex near Gramercy Park that Nova and I used once. We can stay there tonight. A block away, you’ll find a twenty-four-hour bistro on Park and Twentieth. Take a cab there, and wait for me.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Get some answers for us. Now go. Please.”
Abbey hesitated, obviously reluctant to leave, but then she got to her feet and walked with her head down, back along Tenth the way they’d come. He kept an eye on her until he saw her flag down a cab and head safely away. Then he returned his attention to Villiers, where he saw Carson Gattor walk out of the wine bar into the rain. Jason slumped against the shop wall. Through slitted eyes, he watched what was happening at the intersection. Gattor crossed the street, his umbrella up, heading down Seventh. The lawyer paid no attention to Jason, who was sprawled on the sidewalk like one of the city’s homeless. As Gattor passed him, Jason saw the two men at the corner checking their phones and signaling to the others.
Gattor was definitely the one they wanted.
All five of them followed. The three men on the west side of Seventh stayed half a block behind the lawyer, while the two women kept pace on the east side of the street. Jason sprang to his feet and fell in a few steps behind them. Halfway down the block, Gattor veered to the other side of Seventh, and the three men did the same. The lawyer never looked back, not seeing the five thugs in his wake. In a gap between the traffic, Gattor hurried past the Stonewall monument and disappeared down the steps into the Christopher Street subway station.
As soon as the lawyer was out of sight, the five young people who were following him donned black bandanas and masks. Two produced knives from their pockets; two had chains; one had a length of lead pipe. They ran for the subway. Jason held back until the five of them had reached the steps, then ran to catch up. Rainwater poured down the stairs into the station, and a dank smell billowed from the underground. As he entered the station, Jason could see Gattor heading through the turnstile toward the northbound tracks. Four of the five masked attackers took off in the same direction, but the fifth was slow. Jason slid out his gun and came up behind him and cracked the barrel sharply over the thug’s skull. The bald man with the neck tattoos crumpled to the ground, and Jason pocketed his gun again and jumped the turnstile to follow the others.
He approached the bottom of the steps cautiously. Ahead of him, on the northbound platform, Carson Gattor checked the station clocks as he waited for the number 1 train. The tiled walkway was brightly lit, but the tracks between the platforms were dark, divided by rows of green steel I-beams. Jason saw four black-clad aggressors converging on Gattor. The lawyer was preoccupied and didn’t even notice them until they were practically in his face. Then, when he spotted the bandanas and masks, his expression twisted with confusion and fear, and he backed away down the platform. But there was nowhere for him to go.
“Look what we have here!” the Asian man shouted from behind his mask. “A piece-of-shit white nationalist who thinks he can hide behind his nice suit. Hey, Nazi, you want us to show you what we do to fascist pigs?”
Gattor’s eyes widened. He looked over his shoulder at the tracks, but there was no train coming to give him an escape. “What are you