DAYBREAK: a gripping thriller full of suspense (Titan Trilogy Book 3) by T.J. BREARTON Page B
Authors: T.J. BREARTON
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touched her neck. She could picture Staryles standing in the unlit studio in Manhattan, placing the tiny white vial on the floor. “We really have no idea where he is or what he’s doing right now. But I’m sure it’s not good.”
CHAPTER SIX / WEDNESDAY, 3:13 PM
He drove the Cutlass into a low-ceiling parking garage off Thomas Street in Manhattan. He parked, got out of the vehicle, and shut the door with force, listening to the slam reverberate off the mortar. His hard-soled shoes echoed as he walked out into the sizzling daylight.
He turned right and walked to the corner of Thomas and Hudson Street. Hudson was one-way heading north, and Staryles took that direction. There was minimal traffic; mostly small trucks — a Fed Ex, a white cube truck, one small tractor-trailer reading Skyline Windows . A few cabs bounced on soft shocks up the road, these merging to get around the half of the road that was blocked off. Concrete barriers and a four-foot-high chain link fence sheathed in green plastic separated two whole lanes. In the middle of the segregated area was a large yellow excavator with the word LIEBHERR written across the long hydraulic arm. Beside the excavator were large rectangular dumpsters for construction refuse. Piles of gray brick. A squat, yellow KAESER generator. There were no workers out this afternoon; the piles of material and the hulking excavator sat unattended. A sign hung from the fencing read “Crosswalk Closed Use Other Side.” The air was dry and smelled of dust and oil.
Staryles crossed to the other side. Through his Ray Bans, he looked up at the expanse of the 55-63 block opposite the construction zone. The block was bracketed by Jay and Duane Streets. The building was nine stories tall, classic red brick construction and large multi-paned windows. A fire escape zigzagged up one side of the face, air conditioners rattled and dripped from windowsills. Staryles looked up at the top floor. Then he entered the building.
The first floor was the Downtown Arts Development. A frigid blast of air hit him, in sharp contrast to the baking heat of the city outside. A pretty young woman was sitting at a high desk just inside the doors, which served as both a foyer for the Arts center and the lobby for the elevators. There was another desk, much smaller, just a podium, really, in between the two sets of elevator doors and a security guard standing there, watching Staryles.
Staryles ignored the guard at the back of the room and smiled at the young woman. He flirted with her for a moment, making idle chat about the hot weather outside, asking her if she had ever eaten at Caliu , a restaurant further up Hudson Ave. She had, and she’d really enjoyed their traditional tapas, and then she asked him if he was interested in the Downtown Arts Development, if he was a collector. He looked like a collector, she said.
Staryles beamed. However, he was not, he informed her, an art collector, though he had the eye for the market. What he was, he said, was curious about the history of the building. What did she know about it?
The young woman, who said her name was Jimena, blushed and stalled for a moment, glancing around the empty foyer before launching into what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech, something she’d recited when interviewing for her front-desk position.
“Well,” she began, “Sixty Hudson has long been a major communications hub. The building was completed in 1930. It started off as the headquarters of Western Union.”
“Wow,” said Staryles.
“Yeah. It was Western Union until . . .” she turned to look at the guard, who was a distance away, by the two elevators. “Randy, when was Western Union out of here?”
“Seventy-six,” said Randy in a monotone. His dark skin contrasted with the whites of his eyes, which were locked on Staryles.
“Seventy-six, right, yup, that’s it.” Jimena smiled prettily. “But, all during the time Western Union was here, the building’s
CHAPTER SIX / WEDNESDAY, 3:13 PM
He drove the Cutlass into a low-ceiling parking garage off Thomas Street in Manhattan. He parked, got out of the vehicle, and shut the door with force, listening to the slam reverberate off the mortar. His hard-soled shoes echoed as he walked out into the sizzling daylight.
He turned right and walked to the corner of Thomas and Hudson Street. Hudson was one-way heading north, and Staryles took that direction. There was minimal traffic; mostly small trucks — a Fed Ex, a white cube truck, one small tractor-trailer reading Skyline Windows . A few cabs bounced on soft shocks up the road, these merging to get around the half of the road that was blocked off. Concrete barriers and a four-foot-high chain link fence sheathed in green plastic separated two whole lanes. In the middle of the segregated area was a large yellow excavator with the word LIEBHERR written across the long hydraulic arm. Beside the excavator were large rectangular dumpsters for construction refuse. Piles of gray brick. A squat, yellow KAESER generator. There were no workers out this afternoon; the piles of material and the hulking excavator sat unattended. A sign hung from the fencing read “Crosswalk Closed Use Other Side.” The air was dry and smelled of dust and oil.
Staryles crossed to the other side. Through his Ray Bans, he looked up at the expanse of the 55-63 block opposite the construction zone. The block was bracketed by Jay and Duane Streets. The building was nine stories tall, classic red brick construction and large multi-paned windows. A fire escape zigzagged up one side of the face, air conditioners rattled and dripped from windowsills. Staryles looked up at the top floor. Then he entered the building.
The first floor was the Downtown Arts Development. A frigid blast of air hit him, in sharp contrast to the baking heat of the city outside. A pretty young woman was sitting at a high desk just inside the doors, which served as both a foyer for the Arts center and the lobby for the elevators. There was another desk, much smaller, just a podium, really, in between the two sets of elevator doors and a security guard standing there, watching Staryles.
Staryles ignored the guard at the back of the room and smiled at the young woman. He flirted with her for a moment, making idle chat about the hot weather outside, asking her if she had ever eaten at Caliu , a restaurant further up Hudson Ave. She had, and she’d really enjoyed their traditional tapas, and then she asked him if he was interested in the Downtown Arts Development, if he was a collector. He looked like a collector, she said.
Staryles beamed. However, he was not, he informed her, an art collector, though he had the eye for the market. What he was, he said, was curious about the history of the building. What did she know about it?
The young woman, who said her name was Jimena, blushed and stalled for a moment, glancing around the empty foyer before launching into what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech, something she’d recited when interviewing for her front-desk position.
“Well,” she began, “Sixty Hudson has long been a major communications hub. The building was completed in 1930. It started off as the headquarters of Western Union.”
“Wow,” said Staryles.
“Yeah. It was Western Union until . . .” she turned to look at the guard, who was a distance away, by the two elevators. “Randy, when was Western Union out of here?”
“Seventy-six,” said Randy in a monotone. His dark skin contrasted with the whites of his eyes, which were locked on Staryles.
“Seventy-six, right, yup, that’s it.” Jimena smiled prettily. “But, all during the time Western Union was here, the building’s
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