“Give me a name!” I demanded.
The driver smiled darkly.
“Who’s next? Who’s your next target?” I pressed my hand against his broken ribs, and the sudden jolt of pain brought the getaway driver out of his stupor.
“You’ve failed, American,” he moaned. “You’ve failed.”
I was hauled off the dying man and heard one of the uniformed cops utter the words, “You have the right to remain silent,” as hard steel was tightened around my wrists.
CHAPTER 35
“WE ARE THE Ninety-nine. Elizabeth Connor’s time is at an end and her riches will go to others. We will continue to strike at the one percent, and you must choose: your money or your lives. If you want off our list, unburden yourself of your deadly wealth. We are the Ninety-nine and we shall punish all those who live so greedily while others starve and suffer.”
The masked man sat in front of a large anarchy symbol, a new innovation since the last video. His voice was disguised and the table in front of him prevented an accurate assessment of his size and weight.
Rick Tana, the NYPD detective leading the investigation into Karl Parker’s murder, minimized the window and pushed the tablet computer to one side. We were in the same interview room in One Police Plaza that I’d been taken to after the shooting at the Stock Exchange.
“Hotel surveillance footage corroborates your story,” Tana said. “And this video has sent the media into a tailspin. Fringe groups like the League of Radical Communists are saying this is the beginning of a second American revolution.”
“It’s bullshit,” I replied. “It’s a smokescreen. The assassin is methodical and highly trained, and the getaway driver was an expert in martial arts. This Ninety-nine cover is designed to confuse and divide.”
“Well, it’s working,” Tana remarked. “Talk radio is full of people calling in saying these guys have a point. How come so many people have so much?”
“My buddy worked his whole life for everything he had,” I snapped. “Just like me. Just like you.”
I took a breath and tried to let go of my anger at the divisive politics.
“We’re working on identifying the getaway driver, the motorcyclist who died outside the Stock Exchange, and the three killed in the helicopter crash, but so far we’ve come up blank,” Tana said.
“Did the getaway driver say anything to you before he died?” Tana asked.
The Russian had passed away en route to the hospital.
“No,” I said, inwardly cursing myself for not having done more to prevent the guy jumping.
Tana sighed. “Since your story checks out, there’s no reason for me to hold you.”
“I told you that three hours ago,” I countered, but some of my pent-up tension ebbed away. Tana wasn’t a bad cop; he was just doing his job.
“If you keep showing up at murder scenes, we’ll keep bringing you in,” Tana said.
“I like our little talks, but maybe try to catch the killer next time?” I said, getting to my feet.
Tana walked me through the building to central booking, where Justine waited with Jessie Fleming and Mo-bot.
“Are you OK, Jack?” Justine asked. She looked far more composed than when I’d last seen her.
I nodded.
“Stay in touch, Mr. Morgan,” Tana said, before walking away.
“The Ninety-nine claimed responsibility again,” Jessie said.
“I think that’s a smokescreen. The guy I fought was trained in martial arts, and he spoke with a Russian accent,” I responded. “It feels like a foreign intelligence operation.”
“This little doohickey you found would back up that theory,” Mo-bot said, producing the small black device the getaway driver had dropped. “It’s a satellite communicator, encrypted and daisy-chained to a network of other devices.”
“English,” I said a little too tersely.