“Now, here’s what’s going to happen to your friends if you don’t tell me—”
Cracking his neck, Nash stood, so suddenly that Cavendish pushed his chair back, clearly fearing an attack. As well he should, although not as he expected.
Manoeuvring his long handcuff chains to allow him to pick up his chair, Nash flipped it in the air and caught the leg to give him slightly more purchase.
“What do you think you’re going to do with that? There’s no lions in here, boy.”
Using every ounce of strength he possessed, Nash threw the chair, not at Cavendish, but vertically.
Building fire sprinkler systems are always “on”, as they have constant water pressure in their pipes. A heat-sensitive alcohol-filled glass tube holds the spray valve closed until fire heats the stopper enough to break it. Or until someone is reckless enough to break it of their own accord. For example, by throwing a chair at it.
The impact made a satisfying crack. By the time the chair landed on the metal table, an ear-splitting siren sounded and the fire system kicked in.
Standing legs akimbo, Nash realised just how smug he must appear as the water sprayed down. With barely contained wrath, Cavendish stepped forward, taking a syringe from the inside pocket of his jacket. So that’s how he intended to do it. Nash had no idea what it contained but assumed it wasn’t anything fun and would lead to a fast but naturally appearing death.
Two police officers burst into the interrogation room and the utterly drenched Cavendish was forced to hide the syringe beneath his jacket. Within seconds they were equally soaked. The older woman unlocked Nash’s handcuffs while the younger’s hand hovered over her service revolver, covering her partner. All four sploshed into the dry hallway where they were met by two more stern but less damp officers.
A grey-bearded officer gave Cavendish a review from boot to bouffant then asked, “Are you his lawyer, sir?”
Without replying, Cavendish pivoted and squelched away towards the lifts. However he’d managed to ensconce himself in the police station, that knowledge clearly didn’t extend to everyone, hence the fast, if somewhat soggy, exit.
As Nash was led away, he called over his shoulder to the departing Cavendish, “Don’t be a stranger. We simply must catch up soon. We have so much to settle.”
As the lift doors closed, Cavendish lowered his gaze. “We shall end this once and for all, mark my words.”
Nash had no doubt their next meeting would be their last. One way or another, this was all about to end.
Chapter Twelve
Nash understood he’d only won a momentary reprieve.
Cavendish had failed to murder him, but it certainly wouldn’t be the end of it. He’d never stop, never give in until one of them was six feet under. Nash hadn’t come this far to give up now. But for all this to end, he had to escape police custody. Far easier said than done. Sitting in his stark white holding cell, Nash didn’t see a whole mess of options available to him. The only saving grace was the realisation that Tartarus’s tentacles hadn’t infiltrated the NYPD, as far as he knew.
Nash had spent an hour in the white brick-walled cell after being given a set of bright orange Department of Corrections overalls, as his street clothes were soaking wet. He’d also been given a much-welcomed warm meal. He’d had no other interactions. Eva had been arrested along with him, so he had to assume she was somewhere in the building. Bishop may be too, but given the extent of his injuries, he had likely been taken to hospital. He hoped Sophia was safe and hadn’t run into Pinchot on her return to the van. Baptiste’s radio silence almost certainly meant he’d been killed. Nash could only assume Claude and Alaine were safe. But given Nash knew nothing of what had happened after they’d stopped the terrorists, that was pure speculation.
His real question was what Cavendish was up to. No doubt he was doing his best to spin the events to his favour, and plotting Nash’s demise. That was a lot of unknowns, and a whole lot of waiting and seeing. Nash wasn’t comfortable simply sitting around waiting for his fate to unfold.
A rattle of keys jolted him from his malaise. A fresh-faced officer opened the heavy steel door and poked his head in. He had a kindly demeanour, and the bulges under his blue uniform indicated he spent a lot of time at the gym.
“Hey there. Thought you’d like to know the DA’s decided to file charges. They’ll be presented in front of a judge for an arraignment this afternoon. If you want to contact a lawyer, now’s the time.” He leaned further into the cell. “Me and a few of the boys think that’s bunkum, having seen some of the socials from today. But I came here to tell you if you want to make a phone call, you’ll need to do it before you get passed over to DOC.”
“Did they arrest the two we took down? The guy in the red jacket and the woman wearing the denim jacket?”
The officer gave a sad shake of his head. “They got lost in the crowd, I’m afraid. There’s an APB out for them, so you never know.”
“What am I being charged with, exactly?”
“That’s not for me to say.”
“But you think it’s bunkum?” Nash was doing his best to sound as friendly as possible. “You must know something?”
“Article 490 of New York’s Penal Law,” he said seriously. “Terrorism, basically. For some reason it sounds like the DA’s really frothing to throw the book at you.” He waited a moment before adding, “Sorry about that.”
Nash gave him a forgiving wave of his hand. Not your fault. “I could do with the phone call, though.”
“Of course.” The officer stepped into the cell and thumbed behind him. “There’s a pay phone down the end of the hall.”
“There was a young woman arrested with me.” Nash stood. “She’s Australian, but don’t hold that against her. Do you know where she’s being held?”
“I don’t know, I’m sorry.”
“That’s fine.” Nash cracked his neck. “If it’s any consolation, I’m really sorry about this.”
“Sorry about wh—”
Nash’s fist connected with the officer’s jaw with a bone-crunching crack. The officer’s eyes rolled back as he fell. Landing face down on the metal bunk, he didn’t move. The big man was down for the count. Nash had to concede he was the world’s worst pacifist.
Looking down at the unconscious officer, he imparted another, “Sorry.”
Nash quickly undid the officer’s shoes, then unbuckled his pants and slid them down his legs. He was halfway through shedding his DOC overalls when he heard the cell door creak open, followed by, “Ahem.”
There was really no arguing his way out of this one. Nash straightened up and held his hands aloft. Hearing no instruction, he turned slowly towards the door and saw a beaming face. Eva’s face.
Casting her gaze towards the face down, pants-less officer on the bed, she raised an eyebrow. “Do you two need a bit of time to finish up?”
Nash leapt across the room and embraced her. She wore the same clothes she’d had on during their mission, jeans and a t-shirt, but now sported a smart business blazer. She gave the impression of an off-duty lawyer.
She returned the hug, then stepped back. “I don’t know how comfortable I am with a no-pants hug.”
