Bump over 5th Avenue, traffic lights blinking yellow, yellow, yellow . . . you still see a working light from time to time. Hard rain slaps the windshield.

  Let’s say you’re the mark, and you buy it. Eliminate that vehicle as a possible target for whatever it is you’ve got in mind. You’re going to reckon you’ve got a 50/50 chance you’re gonna to pick the correct vehicle out of the remaining two.

  But bitches—this is not mathematically correct. In fact, you have a 66.6 percent chance (two out of three) that your next selection will be the wrong vehicle.2

  It’s human nature to fall for this one. It’s a short con with a lot of solid psychology at play. The brain and the heart want to believe we have not been nudged into a tighter spot, want to believe the odds remain the same once one unit is removed as a possibility. Interestingly, sociopaths and individuals whose “conscious” centers are somehow compromised tend to not be suckered by “Find the Lady.” Which must mean there’s hope for this black soul, cause in my youth I lost mad loot to some of those hustlers up on 149th Street.

  You’ve got to believe in the basic goodness of humanity to get duped by this here scam.

  Quite a digression. And all of course for naught should the mark just opt to . . .

  This idea sounding shittier by the minute. Clearly I am not myself.

  The Saudi-in-back’s radio squawks, I can’t quite make it out, but it’s clearly somebody in distress, a couple of numbers repeated franticly in Arabic . . . I gotta wonder what channel he’s on, cause I’m not receiving on my walkie. An uneasy sensation.

  “God protect us. The first car has been destroyed by an explosive.”

  As I was saying, you always have the option of just flipping all three cards. Or in this case . . .

  See, I wouldn’t put me in charge of some way-heavy shit like this. I model my grand plan on a tourist scam? This is a setup.

  Me saying, “Fuck. Hit it, hit . . .”

  Making some on-the-spot adjustments to my shitty “plan” in light of this new development. Stitch-up detector at max. Nobody should have sanctioned this. I was in an altered state when I made the proposal. It’s madness.

  Swerving crazily to dodge a massive crater in the middle of Madison Avenue, two wheels up and off for a heartbeat, then on all fours again, regaining 34th Street . . .

  “Left, left, stay left, man . . .” not wanting to buck the System, not ever and especially not now, under these circumstances. “If you gotta duck something, stay left.”

  Chip throws a look at me. He was of course aware of my preferences in terms of System-adherent travel, but in this situation he’s reckoning yours truly is certifiable. He’s not wrong.

  Dig: didn’t actually believe somebody would try and hit us, hence my Tonka toy plan. Again: why was it allowed to be implemented? Was this whole thing really my idea?

  I spin and once again attempt to address the figures in the back flanking the panicking Saudi. I can’t read them at all . . . in Arabic, “Your Highnesses, I want to assure you, God willing, I will deliver you safely to—” Then I see us so close to Park Avenue, and I do a quick calculation to stay System-correct, realize I have to steer Chip, me talking fast, “Gonna have to take the left onto Park, another left at 35th, and back around headed south . . . then at 33rd we turn into the underpass, ya heard?”

  Fly into the turn at Park, the armed man in back reckons he can bypass me and appeal directly to the driver . . . chin-wagging in snotty-assed English: “It’s very many laws of traffic, must we obey all this?”

  Then great misfortune befalls the man, as his radio crackles again, in Arabic I hear very clearly, “. . . about three minutes, then take out both of them.”

  The royals bug out, jabbering and spitting.

  Turn and regard the security dude, sitting between the two chattering mummies. Shit scared. Doing his best, I suppose, and it’s never been good enough.

  “Take out both of them?” I repeat, in Arabic.

  The guy opens and closes his mouth, his face filling with blood. Either he’s here to kill Chip and me, or to kill his own royals. Either way he’s shit out of luck.

  Reach up and turn on the interior light so we can all see each other better. One of the burqas is squawking a prayer of some sort.

  “So shocking that an ugly American can speak your language, habib?” Lift the HK, direct it between his eyebrows. Say in Arabic, “There are higher laws than traffic laws. How about the laws of Allah?” Drag out the words, make a presto-genie-in-a-bottle flourish. Smile, wide, saying, “Takbir, put down your gun.”

  He capitulates immediately, like a punk, letting the cumbersome rifle fall to the floor . . .

  The royals simmer down, still twittering. I try to vibe reassuring.

  “What’s your name, friend?” I say, congenial, focused now on the soldier.

  “Faisal,” says the man, peepers brimming.

  Folks chewing on this breaking development as we three-sixty back onto Park southbound, another hairpin curve and we go careening into the Murray Hill Tunnel in the center of the avenue that ferries traffic underground, then up, above and around Grand Central . . . We scrape the concrete embankment but remain otherwise unharmed.

  My man Chip recovers the road, accelerates down the incline and into the black of the partially flooded tunnel. Moving through two to four inches of water.

  “Stop midway through the tunnel, Officer Chip.”

  We pick up speed. What the fuck is this? Stomach shifts.

  “You heard? Pull over.”

  See him by the interior lighting, his jaw set, focus on keeping the vehicle moving as quickly as possible through this amount of water, no easy thing. Operating on higher orders. Still accelerating.

  Sigh.

  I withdraw my Beretta with my left hand, crossing my arms so I’m covering both the Saudi soldier and Chip, aware that by pointing a weapon at a Secret Serviceman I am now crossing over into unknown, yet sadly familiar, territory.

  Chip begins grinding his teeth. It’s the correct sound for this tableau.

  “Stop the car, son. Do it.”

  We’re not slowing down. The dip upward that will bring us above ground onto the Grand Central Viaduct proper (flying blind on that one, and hoping it’s still intact, I’m really hoping this) is maybe four hundred feet out.

  No choice but to go def con. Another sigh.

  Boom, squeeze one off across Chip, over the steering wheel, the report stupid loud in the cabin of the Escalade. Female shriek from the back, short and sharp. Bullet making a nice clean penny-sized exit hole in his side window.

  Good man, Chip, he doesn’t exactly lose control of the vehicle, but we duck and weave. His yap hangs open, say ahhh. I place the barrel lightly on his cheek, and he recoils a hair, disturbing a light dusting of dandruff on the shoulder of his blue poly blazer.

  “Pull. Over. Now.”

  He finally digs the wisdom of doing so. Still, not an easy maneuver, fast as we’re moving through this wet tunnel. Chip pumps the brakes as one should, still with that mouth ahhh, we’re turning slightly as we skid across the creek, thankfully less water here at the head of the steep incline, coming to a reasonably controlled halt against the concrete wall, the front of the Escalade crumpling with a sensational slow-motion crunch and a white shower of sparks.

  We’re all thrown forward, I go to stabilize myself on the dash, Officer Faisal taking this moment to attempt some heroics, carpe diem, the man grasping the barrel of my HK, eyes flashing wild and hot. Damnit. Me saying, “Yo Faisal, my man. Cool out, that’s just a bad idea.”

  Trying to reason with the guy, he’s gotta know he has no control over this situation, jerking the pistol around like a tiny dog with a big bone. Another female shriek, the two hooded Saudis attempting to get as far away from Faisal as possible, tough in the confines of the backseat.

  Chip wades into the action, getting his hand on the pistol too, though it’s not clear what his intentions are. Me saying, “Et tu, Chip? Come on, y’all. This gonna affect everybody, so just . . .”

  The Saudi gets his ring finger inside the trigger guard, wearing a determined grimace, I’m alarmed that dude may honestly be attempting to get himself killed, me trying to engage the safety with my thumb, my index finger trapped . . . but it’s too late—as he gets another digit in the guard the hammer drops, boom goes the pistol, and Faisal leans back in the seat, hands folded neatly across his gut.

  He’s still got that cracked grin slapped across his mug, pair of burqas (burqi?) in the back both howling now, one frantically pawing at the lock on the door. An astonishing amount of blood is surging out of Faisal’s midsection. Always more blood than you’d think.

  Me thinking, Fuck. “Chip, we got any towels?”

  Chip wags his head no, no, a fine cloud of skin cells coming off his scalp . . . I note he is clutching his leg.

  “No towels?”

  He leans forward, apparently wracked with pain. A knife handle protruding from his leg.

  “Man, what happened there?”

  Chip grimaces.

  I flash on it. “What, you gonna stab me, son? Don’t look like that panned out. I thought we were compadres, Chip. Saddens me. Reckon you hit an artery too.” Consider grabbing his blazer, but instead I’m cursing and pulling off my jacket (my nice suit jacket, mind you. My really nice jacket.). I ball that fly stuff up, lean over the seat, and press it into the Saudi’s stomach. “Hold that there, really fucking put pressure on it.”

  Faisal just takes the coat, lifts it parallel to his face, and looks at it, blood heaving out of his tummy. Okay, it’s his life to lose, people, did I not try to do the right thing?

  Turn to Chip once more and the jackass has a red cylinder in one hand, futzing with it . . . I recognize it as a thermite grenade and snatch it easily from his loose grasp.

  “What is wrong with you fucking people?” I say this to the universe, really. Truly dismayed. I thought I had some kinda crew, but na.

  Gotta get us out of this vehicle presto pronto. Holster my Beretta, pocket the grenade, and disengage all the door lockswith a heavy clunk, saying, “Everybody out.”

  Don’t need much prompting. The duo of burqas go tumbling into a calf-high lake of rainwater and Christ knows what else. One is still sobbing, the female, and sinks to her knees. The other moves to attend to her, speaking fast and quiet in Arabic.

  Well this is just fucking lovely. Vintage Decimal, setting alight both ends of the dynamite at once, cartoon Wile E. Coyote style. Either way—me and everybody else get burned. And inevitably I fuck up yet another buttery suit. Funny the stuff you think in moments of crisis.

  Quick. Gonna have to corral the Saudis, a glance back at Faisal tells me the boy is nearly bled out. Gut shots are rough, pretty much sure to drain a man. Shucks, that’s a real shame—but player had to go and be a funny guy, didn’t he?

  The female is having some kind of anxiety attack, and the male jaws rapidly at her. I address them both as I pull down my mask, lift my goggles, PurellTM out . . . fuck, standing water. Malaria . . . shake it off, me rapping to the twins, “Wouldn’t y’all be more comfortable if you got those hoods off?”

  Them cowering, female mewling . . . Me reckoning they can suit themselves. Come on, Decimal, speed it up.

  “Listen, Your Highnesses—cool if I call y’all Your Highnesses?”

  The pair appears to be bobbing their heads, yes, good.

  “Getting on the same page. Reckon we all saw that, right? With your escort. That was raw and unfortunate and all, but it was some accidental shit. Dude more or less shot himself, can we agree on that?”

  More skull-wagging.

  “No international incident–level stuff, pretty clearly just some bad luck, people not thinking a situation through . . . Am I telling it like it was?”

  Continuing to bob their heads, the two fall into perfect sync, which looks a little silly. Holding out my hands, I pull on some fresh gloves. “Your Highnesses, I’m gonna ask you to hang tight while I get a handle on the lay of the land up in here . . .”

  Okay, they’re not going anywhere. Splish splash. Que pasa? I wheel (left), and it looks like Chip is out of the car and making a break for it.

  Apparently he has quite severely damaged his right leg, which prevents him from really getting anywhere, struggling with that thing flaccid and heavy . . . it’s a pathetic sight, the guy in far worse shape than me—and despite my limp I easily run his ass down before he even gets close to the incline leading out of the underpass.

  Got the recently fired HK floppy in my fake hand, I just show it to him, grab him by the collar, spin (left), and drag him back to the fucked-up Escalade like a puppy. Slam him on the collapsed hood. Windshield wipers still swinging uselessly, side to side.

  What to do with Chip, who is looking shaky but relatively together, save the skewered leg? Sets his hands on the back of his head, turning onto his cheek, breathing through his mouth. Boy seems to be expecting some handcuffs, so I oblige. Snap one end on his right wrist, pull him gently back into the cabin, and attempt to secure the other ring around the steering wheel.

  When the boy realizes where I’m taking him, he digs in his heels to prevent me from doing this. That he wants away from the truck—this alone tells me mucho. Red lights ahoy.

  Hurry it up. Pop a pill, bust out more PurellTM. Lowering my mask, I lean on the motherfucker, saying, “You really thinking you gonna stab me? What’s the story with you, son?”

  Chip looking the other way, unresponsive.

  Sigh. I proceed. I can’t really hate on young Chip, I know I should but I always thought he was okay and the boy is clearly just trying to carry out a set of orders like the rest of us. “So, Chip, man of few words, I’ll make it simple. Yo, jiggle your head yay or nay. Dig?”

  Curt nod from the Secret Serviceman, no nonsense. He won’t make eye contact. I wrench his wrist backward and get it clipped to the wheel. Kid makes a noise.

  “Chip, look at me.”

  He does it. Can’t be more than midtwenties, pimply mug. Shame about his skin. He’s hyperventilating.

  “Breathe easy, man. Just kick back, once we figure this out it’s gonna all be good, I promise you that.”

  He seems to release his jaw muscles a bit.

  “You got family? You got people?”

  Chip searches my face for a moment, then nods, hesitant-like, as if it’s a trick question. I readjust my goggles, cough. Tough to get oxygen.

  “Wanna see them again?”

  Nod.

  “There a bomb on this car?”

  Chip swallows, blinks. Reckon that’s a yes.

  “What makes it go boom, son?”

  He’s resolutely attempting to bring his training to bear. I can actually see him make the decision to not answer me. Mind you: he’s a hard case, any motherfucker who gets a big sensitive muscle cut out of their mouths for God and country and holds it together, call him righteous hard. Or a head case.

  Or a fanatic, which makes him more or less the same as the cat who got Chip’s tongue.

  I look to the Saudis, wiggle my flipper, shooing them.

  “Y’all do me a favor and start walking back the other direction. Get away from the car, heard me? Bomb in the car.”

  They’re scrambling through water, robes heavy and soaked at the hem. Return to Chip, continue, speaking low and quick, “Me, I don’t care one way or the other, heard? What I don’t appreciate is folks trying to clown me, cause it’s insulting. What’s the trigger on this bitch, Chip?”

  Nothing from Chip, his mouth a tight slit.

  “I know you ain’t holding the button, cause you’ve got that live-long-and-prosper vibe, you’re a dog fighter and fuck if you’d go down with the ship. I feel you, Chip. Let me kick it to you from another angle. You work for the senator?”

  Chip auto-wags his noggin, yes sir. Hurry up, Decimal.

  “This the senator’s gig then?”

  Chip thinks about this tricky one, gives me a no sir. Hurry up.

  “How’d you know about the bomb, son?”

  Extending his jaw. Grinding his teeth.

  But I think I’ve put it together. GPS remote monitoring, some such elementary tech. I think about the surface-to-air hoo-has the Cyna-corp kids had sitting around back at the pier. Lord, I’m a jackass. Blame myself.

  Chip’s a rock. Fuck this. Straighten up, replacing my mask.

  “That’s all right, Chip. Remember, kid: walk toward the light . . .”

  I turn on him (left), leaving him hanging from the twisted steering wheel, commence stepping. Got the PurellTM out again and I’m giving myself a good going over, get about fifty feet and the boy takes up a horrible calflike keening. Mind you, dude is short a tongue so it’s a uniquely unpleasant sound.

  Turn back to the boy. He’s digging one-handed inside his sportcoat.

  Sigh. I lift the Sig.

  “Okay, star,” I say, “let’s not push it, I’m letting you drift as it is, cause I’m soft touch.”

  Chip continues fumbling around, withdraws what looks like a leather wallet. I cock my pistol, really not wanting to have to cap this child.

  “You know what? You hang on to that there thingy. Think it through, dog.”

  Fuck if young’un doesn’t chuck the wallet toward me, I’m thinking some kind of explosive, it arcs through the shitty air, I’m gearing up to shoot him but he saves me the effort . . . Cause before I can say, Who’s your daddy? Chip has his own .38 revolver out and in his mouth, barrel to the soft palate. Chip groaning, making gargly sounds.

  My mouth opens too, me saying, “No, man, Chip, come on—”

  The leather object lands with a plop in the shallow lake, about the same time Chip pulls the trigger on himself, bang, gray and red pulp Pollocking the interior of the driver’s door of the Escalade. Goes broken-puppet slack into the water.

  Me thinking, Goddamn it. Motherfucking shame.

  What gives with everybody popping themselves? Starting to vibe like a bad trend.

  Relative silence, save the rain, which continues to slap at this wounded city. Then about one hundred feet back the female Saudi re-ups her shrieking.