Page 71 of NYPD Red 7: The Murder Sorority

The blood drive was taking place near the main gate. A grove of trees separated us from them. It was the perfect cover: dense enough to keep us out of sight, but with plenty of gaps to let us watch it all from a thousand feet away.

I picked up my binoculars and scanned the area. It was late morning, but at least a hundred people were milling about—some to give blood, others who just showed up to enjoy thecircus-likeatmosphere. Music, peanuts, popcorn, a souvenir stand, and, of course, the team mascot, Mr. Met—a man in a Mets uniform with a large baseball for a head.

Our radio came on. It was Louie Ziffer. “Leader, this is Team Alpha. We just parked our car, and we’re headed for the registration table.”

“We’re in position,” McSpirit radioed back.

“You mind if I take a look?” Rayborn said.

“Be my guest,” I said, handing him the binoculars.

Sarah Herman’s job was to wander around while her boyfriend was signing up to donate blood.

“I have a positive ID on our subject,” she said over the radio. “There are four nurses—two female, two male. Ours is the one in the dark purple scrubs. Right now he’s with a donor, center row, third table from my right. She’s wearing blue shorts and an orange MetsT-shirt.”

“Got him,” McSpirit said. “And that’s a positive ID on the male nurse in the dark purple scrubs.”

“No question,” Herman said. “He looks old enough to be the other nurse’s grandfather.”

“Team Alpha, you’re clear,” McSpirit said. “We’ll take it from here.”

That was the signal for Louie to zero in on one of the questions on the intake form. Have you gotten a tattoo in the last three months? If you answer yes, you’re rejected immediately. It’s the law in New York.

“Excuse me,” I heard him say to the woman who was signing him up. “Why are you asking about my tats? I’m giving blood, not skin.”

I never heard her answer. The radio was drowned out by the sound of Clayton Rayborn bellowing.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit! Shut down the operation. Call it off. Now!”

Kylie turned in her seat. “What the fuck, Clayton? This is going down. You can’t change your mind here.”

He handed her the binoculars. “Look at the guy with the white hair, khaki pants, plaid shirt. He’s got two kids with him.”

She took the binoculars and dropped them on the front seat. “What about him?” she said.

“He’s my boss!”

“I thought you were the boss.”

“I’m head of Security. That’s Mason Asher, the president of the fucking hospital. He’s a big Mets fan. That’s him with his two grandsons. They can’t get caught up in the middle of this. Radio McSpirit. Abort the mission while we still can.”

He pulled out his phone.

“Clayton,” Kylie said, leaning over the seat so that her head and shoulders violated his space. “Put that fucking phone away, or I swear to God, I will arrest you for obstruction and drag you back to the precinct you used to run. In cuffs.”

CHAPTER 48

At his core, Rayborn was still a cop. He knew that Kylie’s ultimatum was not an idle threat, and he made a quick decision. Back off or suffer the consequences. He slid his phone into his pocket and slumped down in his seat.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s understandable,” I said, my voice calm, my demeanor relaxed—my usual counterpoint to Kylie’sin-your-facestyle. “Seeing all these civilians is unnerving, but you of all people know how skilled Violent Felony is. If you’re storming a fortress in full battle gear, you call ESU, but if you have to surgically remove a threat like Barnett Drucker or Wesley Varga or whatever Barbara’s real name is, there’s nobody better than Ed McSpirit and his team. They’ll get it done. I know they will.”

He nodded, accepting what I’d said, although I doubt that he believed it. I couldn’t blame him. I had lied. Or at best, I’d overpromised. Barbara had been killing for decades and was still going strong at ageseventy-one. IhopedMcSpirit and his squad would get it done, but the truth was, I didn’t know shit. None of us did.

I picked up my binoculars and trained them on the tent. There was a donor at every one of the donation stations, and the four nurses kept busy moving from one to another.

I scanned the crowd. Shabel, Dupré, Bock, and McSpirit were slowly drifting toward their assigned spots closer to the bloodmobile. The rest of the team was also moving into position. Louie Ziffer, who had seemingly bounced back from his disappointment of being turned down as a donor, was now soaking up the party atmosphere with Sarah Herman. The two of them snapped pictures, checked out the souvenir stands, and updated us with a running commentary of all the activity under the tent.

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