Me.

I was “going for a ride.”

Chapter 33

SO THIS IS IT, I couldn’t help thinking. This is how I die. What a joke.

Not while fleeing an attack by the Janjaweed militia in Darfur, or by catching typhoid fever, as I did a couple of years back in India while doing a piece on the prime minister, Manmohan Singh.

No, I go down in my own backyard, New York City. All because of a recording I had never intended to make.

Christ, how did Eddie Pinero find out about me so fast? Then again, am I really that surprised? He probably has more people on his payroll than the NYPD.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked from the back of the windowless van. I was sitting on the metal floor. There were no seats.

There were also no answers forthcoming from my captors.

My escort in the Knicks sweatshirt was sitting sideways up front, riding shotgun. His dark sunglasses were fixed on me, and his mouth was shut tight. After he had demanded my cell phone – which I had reluctantly handed over – he hadn’t said another word.

Same for the driver, who was big and baby-faced, at least from his profile. He looked barely twenty-one. On his right arm was a large, seemingly new tattoo of a Harley-Davidson logo. The orange color was so bright, it made the ink look as if it were still wet.

Again I asked where we were going, and in their continued silence I realized that there might be something scarier than being told you were going to die.

Not being told.

For twenty minutes, I sat idle with only my thoughts, a panic beginning to feast on me. From the floor of the van I couldn’t see the windshield, but I could tell we were out of the city; we were going too fast. The van was old, the suspension shot. I could feel every bump, every pothole.

We’re going to some out-of-the-way, deserted landfill, aren’t we?

That’s where they were taking me, I was almost sure of it. Out to Brooklyn. Out to the middle of nowhere. I could almost smell it – some godforsaken dump with a stench so thick it hung like fog.

“On your knees!” one of them would order me. I could hear the words in my head, cold and without mercy.

Would they have me turn away, face the opposite direction?

Hell, no, not these sick bastards. Not if they worked for Eddie Pinero. They’d shoot me straight on, a bullet to the brain. Probably stare right into my eyes, too.

Oh, God. My eyes! Were they going to carve my eyes out?

I was sweating now, shaking a little, scared shitless a lot. Most of all, I was convinced I had to do something to try to get away from these two gorillas.

But what? They had my cell phone, and at least one of them was carrying a gun. So what could I do?

That’s what, I realized.

Tuck and roll! The sequel to the desert.

The handle to the sliding door of the van was there in front of me. If I could reach it before Mr. Knicks could stop me, I could jump for it, maybe outrun them and survive to write another day.

Of course, I had to survive the jump first. And this time I wouldn’t be landing on desert sand in Darfur.

Still, those odds had to be better than staying in the van, right? Those odds sucked. But I couldn’t make myself jump out of a speeding van, could I?

Yes – I had to do it.

So this is it.

This is how I don’t die…

I swallowed a deep breath and pushed the air down into my lungs, past my heart, which was beating so loud it was scary in itself.

Slowly, casually, I shifted my right foot so I could launch myself toward the sliding door. There would be no do overs, no second chances. I had to time this just right.

On three, Nick, okay? You can do this. You’ve done it before…

I counted backwards to myself, the adrenaline pumping through every vein in my body.

Three…

Two…

One…

Chapter 34

STOP!

The van suddenly made a sharp hairpin turn, the tires screeching and then skidding on what sounded like a slip-stream of gravel.

Mr. Harley-Davidson at the wheel didn’t just hit the brakes, he pummeled them into submission. Newton ’s third law of motion did the rest. I tumbled face forward in the back of the van, my head smacking the metal floor.

But instead of twinkling stars and Tweety Birds, it was a blast of sunshine I encountered next, as the sliding door of the van opened with a rusty grind.

Then out of the sunshine he stepped, a greeting party of one.

Eddie “The Prince” Pinero.

He motioned for me to exit the van. As I did, he extended a hand to help. A helping hand? That doesn’t mesh. What’s going on here?

The “here,” as I quickly saw, was the driveway of what I presumed to be his home. Check that. Estate was more like it. With its lush gardens and a water view contained behind wrought-iron fencing, monstrous stone walls, and a show of armed guards, the property reminded me of a cross between the Kennedy and Corleone compounds.

“Thanks for making the trip out to see me, Mr. Daniels,” said Pinero. “I appreciate it.”

“You say that like I had a choice,” I said, immediately regretting it.

But Pinero actually seemed amused. He smiled, anyway. “Hope I didn’t give you the wrong impression. I just wanted to speak with you in private,” he said. “Can I get you a drink? A Laphroaig, perhaps? Fifteen year?”

He knew what I drank. What else did he know about me?

“Okay, sure,” I said. “Laphroaig would be good.”

Pinero nodded at Mr. Knicks, who disappeared inside the enormous Tudor home that boasted a magnificent wraparound porch. A few minutes later, I was sipping a generous pour of Laphroaig from an etched crystal tumbler initialed EP.

For the first time since I got into the van, I allowed myself to think that I might actually live to see tomorrow. Still, I was far from comfortable. I wasn’t here with Pinero to discuss the weather or the series finale of The Sopranos. Did Tony get whacked or not? What do you think?

“Come, Nick, let’s walk. Bring your drink,” said Pinero. “I need to talk with you. Don’t worry, you’re not going to get hurt. You’re with me. You’re perfectly safe now.”

Chapter 35

I TOOK ANOTHER sip of Scotch only to notice that Pinero hadn’t joined me in a drink. I also noticed he wasn’t wearing one of his natty suits with the trademark black handkerchief. As for what he was wearing, it was impossible not to notice that. I followed Pinero, in his royal blue Fila tracksuit, to the water’s edge, the choppy waves of the Rockaway Inlet lapping against the breakwater of his property. He lit a cigarette and pulled a deep drag. Slowly, he exhaled into the breeze.

“So, Nick, that must have been some frightening scene that day at Lombardo’s,” he began with a slight nod. “It’s not every man who witnesses murder that close. Unnerving, isn’t it?”

“That’s definitely a good word for it,” I said.

“A good word? I’ll take that as a compliment, you being a big-time writer. So you were there to interview Dwayne Robinson?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head ruefully. “Sad story. All that talent, wasted. What a shame.”

I didn’t say anything to that. I was too consumed with trying to figure out where this conversation was heading. Pinero was obviously aware of the recording and how it implicated him. Instead of serving a little time for loansharking, he was looking at a murder conviction. So what did he want to talk to me about?

That’s when I decided to try to cut through the bullshit and just ask him. “Mr. Pinero, exactly why am I here?”

The man they called “The Prince” took another long drag off his cigarette, his eyes never leaving mine. I don’t even think he blinked. Then he calmly explained.

He didn’t want to kill me. He wanted to help me.

Or at least warn me.