Quake by Jack Douglas

hadn’t they?
    or the constant wailing sirens emanating from all around him now, he didn’t know. He stretched his jaw in a yawn and tried to clear his ears but the ringing continued.
    The voices beneath the ringing grew louder—and angrier—and Nick steeled himself for a confrontation. He felt some small comfort that Mendoza was right on his heels, but as the blurred scene became clearer he could see at least a half dozen bright orange figures standing in a semicircle at the mouth of Cardinal Hayes Place.
    Nick flashed on one of the first cases he worked on at the U.S. attorney’s office. It was thirteen defendants imprisoned and awaiting trial for plotting to bomb the United Nations, Hudson River tunnels, and other New York City landmarks. At the head of the list of co-conspirators was Sheik Omar Abdel Rahman, the blind Egyptian cleric, whose prosecution grew out of the investigation into the 1993 World Trade Center bombing.
    Behind bars at the MCC, one of the sheik’s co-defendants had the audacity to complain about the wait for a pair of prescription reading glasses to replace the ones he lost during his arrest by the FBI. Another complained that he had to work five hours a day swabbing floors or face twenty-three hours a day in solitary confinement. But the most surreal complaint came from a defendant named Ibrahim, who during an interview with a New York Times reporter, said that he despised the orange color of his jumpsuit.
    Again Nick thought of Feroz Saeed Alivi, wondered whether the madman was dead or alive, and had to tamp down the fury rising uninvited in his chest.
    The half circle of inmates tightened around what looked like a large metal box, and soon Nick was able to make out a seventh figure, a skinny man with dark skin and a white T-shirt saturated with blood.
    â€œPlease,” the man cried, “just leave me the hell alone.”
    One of the inmates stepped forward. “Hand over that fucking cart, Apu, and you can go wherever the hell you please. But if you think you’re leaving with our food and drinks, then you’re just another dead man standing outside the MCC.”
    â€œPlease,” the man cried again in what sounded like an Indian accent, “I will give you a drink— one , that is all I can spare. Then you must let me go. I don’t want any trouble.”
    â€œLook around, motherfucker. Ain’t nothing but trouble still standing down here. Ain’t no gods, ain’t no guards. And there sure as hell ain’t no law.”
    Nick squinted through the dense fog of dust and saw the Sabrett hot dog logo centered on the metal cart. Mendoza’s voice suddenly emanated loudly and clearly from behind him.
    â€œBetter be sure of that,” Mendoza said, stepping forward.
    The half circle of inmates loosened and Nick looked over at Mendoza and spotted the Glock 22 at the end of his right arm.
    Bad idea , Nick thought. There were at least six of them. They could rush Mendoza and get the gun. Sure, he might take out two or even three, but ultimately these guys would be able to wrestle the weapon away from him.
    Nick moved to a spot between Mendoza and the inmates and placed his arms in front of his chest, palms out.
    â€œNo need for this,” he said, eyeing each of the inmates, hoping not to recognize any as defendants he recently prosecuted. “Do you hear those sirens, gentlemen? They’re coming closer. The police will be down here to restore order within ten minutes. Right now, you have your freedom. If you want a chance at keeping it, I recommend you follow Park Row east until you hit Kimlau Square. Once you’re there, continue walking down East Broadway until you get to the Manhattan Bridge. Turn right onto the bridge, cross the FDR and the East River, and you’re in Brooklyn. Find yourselves a change of clothes and vanish. It’s your only chance.”
    â€œWho are you?” one of the inmates said as he inched