A Danger to Himself and Others: Bomb Squad NYC Incident 1 by J.E. Fishman

familiar sensation in his chest, a sensation that he may or may not like, but to which long ago he’d become accustomed.
    Without thinking further, Diaz lifted his left leg and scrambled over the jersey wall. There were only a couple of feet between the curved concrete of the wall and the solid white line of the shoulder. He hewed to the wet, narrow space, absorbed the rush of air from passing cars time and again, ignored their occasional horns.
    This was crazy, he knew. But the feeling! It made him high—as high as any drug—and as he walked abreast of danger, all of his worries melted in the intensity.
     
     
    IN FRONT OF A BUILDING in the financial district, the stalker spotted Gavin Littel at last. The time had gotten past nine o’clock. The stalker knew the time as well as anyone, having checked his watch every fifteen minutes for more than two hours. He’d come to the corner of Wall and Hanover Streets at seven o’clock because Littel worked late most nights, no point in freezing one’s ass off any longer than necessary. Already the stalker’s fingers were stiff and achy, his raincoat wet through. A few degrees colder and it could snow.
    Gavin Littel walked out the grand front entrance of his office building and up the sidewalk. The stalker followed thirty paces behind. If he lost his target he’d just come back tomorrow and start again. He was eager to get on with things, but aborting the mission would be better than getting too close here and running the risk of raising suspicions. Littel worked as some kind of vice president in the bowels of Powers Bank. That much the stalker knew, but he didn’t know precisely what the man did up in that tower all day. The means of employment didn’t figure much into his calculations. He only guessed that Littel worked a job befitting his name. He wasn’t an investment banker or a big-money trader. He didn’t have the look. Button cuffs wouldn’t cut it in that crowd and the tie didn’t seem lush enough and the suit just didn’t hang the same way as the ones on the guys who rushed in and out of limos all day long.
    When Littel went down into the subway, the stalker had to close the gap. Fortunately, there were plenty of people down there, even past rush hour. The stalker hid in the crowd on the Number 3 subway platform and in a few minutes they were on the train heading in the direction of New Lots Avenue.
    Littel paid the stalker no mind, stood there leaning against the pole in his raincoat and working the toggle on his Samsung with his good hand. The stalker grabbed the last seat and faded into it, unnoticed. Just another drone. But when Littel exited the station at Utica Avenue in Brooklyn, things got trickier. Many of the people getting out were Hasidic Jewish men dressed in black with black hats and side curls. Most of the rest were African-Americans. The Hasids mostly headed west. Littel and the stalker headed east, two of only a few white guys in a stream of darker faces.
    The stalker hung back again and had to allow Littel to turn off of Eastern Parkway onto Utica before wading after him into the larger crowd by the commercial strip. He spotted him again a quarter-block down, a man of medium height with a head of thick light brown hair cut conservatively. Littel’s walk was measured and strong, even athletic, and you would only perceive a slightly unnatural swing in the shoulders if you were looking for it.
    The stalker was in fact looking for it. That hitch affirmed that he had the right man.
    Littel went into a pub near the corner of Utica and Prospect Place. Through the window, the stalker watched him hang his raincoat on a peg and take one of two open seats at the bar. The rest of the place appeared to be three-quarters full, which was perfect, so the stalker went inside and slid into the banquette by a table for two. Speaking in a pronounced New York accent, Littel ordered tap beer and some food. In more neutral inflections, the stalker did the same,