Forged security passes were found near a laptop computer paused in the seventh inning of a three-week-old broadcast of a Yankees–Braves game. The issuing name was traced to an apartment in Bensonhurst, where a young caterer’s assistant named Elian Martinez and his wife, Kelli, were found murdered.

FISK SUFFERED A LEFT ULNA FRACTURE. Damage to his ulnar nerve, the largest unprotected nerve in the human body—when bumped, it is often referred to as the funny bone—was negligible. He was fortunate in that the round had passed through a wall before striking him, lowering its velocity. The attending physician, knowing Fisk was a cop, informed him that he came just millimeters from retirement.

He was to remain in the hospital for observation for twenty-four hours, the standard window of time when “compartment syndrome” could occur. Restricted blood flow to muscles and nerves due to pressure from an injury could lead to loss of the limb.

Fisk’s left forearm would be set in a hard cast in the morning. In sixteen weeks, the fracture would be repaired.

“Sixteen weeks of desk duty,” said the attending physician with a smile, thinking he was being funny.

CHAPTER 72

Cecilia Garza visited Fisk sometime before six o’clock.

Fisk said, “Don’t you have the dinner soon?”

Garza shook her head. “Called off. Everything has changed.”

“Of course,” said Fisk.

“I tried to call you,” said Garza.

“My phone . . . I must have lost it during the shootout. Maybe near that elevator.”

Garza nodded absently. “They will find it.”

“Sure.”

He watched her. There was something odd about her manner.

He reached for her arm with his good hand. “Where are you?” he asked.

“Right here,” she said.

“Adrenaline hangover,” he said. “I’ve been there. They gave me some painkillers, so I think I’m missing out.”

She looked at his arm again, wrapped in thick gauze. “You were lucky.”

“I was. We were.”

Garza smiled, but there was nothing behind it.

She spoke before he could ask her what was wrong again. “The dinner is essentially canceled. I suggested we move it to our consulate, where proper security can be guaranteed and the treaty can be signed in relative seclusion.”

“Obama isn’t still going?” said Fisk.

“No. Vice President Biden will be on hand for the signing, but will not stay for dinner.”

Fisk nodded. “Hey,” he said, reaching for her hand. “You got him. The man you came here for.”

Garza looked at his hand in hers, but her grip was slight. “That part does not seem real.”

“Is Señor León going to attend the dinner? Now that the bad guy has been killed?”

Garza squeezed Fisk’s hand once before letting go. “I made sure to extend President Vargas’s personal invitation.” She smoothed out a fold in the bedsheet near her side. “After the affair, we are returning home. Tonight. It’s been arranged.”

“Tonight?” said Fisk.

“President Vargas feels the need to get home. To be visible in the wake of this threat. And, I am sure, to be seen as victorious.”

Fisk studied her face. There was no victory in it. “Letdown, right?” he said. “It’s understandable. You’ve been searching for this guy for . . . how long?”

“Long time,” she said.

“It never feels like you think it will,” said Fisk. “Does it?”

“No.”

Her eyes dampened, and Fisk grew concerned. This was not like the Ice Queen at all. She had won. She had protected her president and triumphed over this killer without a face, this agent of terror.

Garza turned away, aware that Fisk was watching her eyes.

“Hey,” said Fisk. “Don’t make me worry about you, now. Take some time to process this.”

And then he realized what it must be. He was shocked he hadn’t thought of it before.

“The girls,” he said. “The kidnapped girls. You saw them?”

Garza nodded. “I saw them.”

“I understand. You’re thinking of your mother and your sister.”

She was still turned away from him. Fisk watched her hands ball into fists . . . and then release.

When she turned to him, he expected to see tears—but there were none.

“What was it you were telling me last night?” she asked. “At the hotel lounge. About catching Magnus Jenssen?”

Fisk swallowed, not expecting to go there. “I think I said that it is never the victory you think it will be.”

Garza nodded. “We have to be better than those we hunt. That’s what you said. That this is what defines us. People like you and me.”

Fisk nodded.

She went on. “You said that this cycle of murder and retribution, of terror and fighting terror . . . it sickens us all. Like radiation poisoning, just being near evil.”

Fisk nodded again. The last thing he had expected was to hear his wine-soaked words read back to him. He had a very bad taste in his mouth, and it was not from the painkillers.

“Time,” he said. “That is all you can hope for. That in time everything will be clear to you, and you can move on.”

“I have given it time,” she said. “So much time.”

Fisk was about to correct her, in that it had only been a few hours. But in the next moment he had forgotten all about that, as Garza leaned down and kissed him on the lips, softly but lingeringly, her hand caressing the side of his face.

She pulled away, their faces parting. Fisk was smiling, but in her eyes was a less certain expression. He waited for her to speak, but she never did. Abruptly she turned and pushed through the bay curtain, walking away.

CHAPTER 73

Intel chief Barry Dubin poked his bald head inside the curtain, eyes widening in relief. “Just walked in on some old woman by mistake.”

Fisk said, “What’s in the bag?”

Dubin was carrying a paper bag in the same hand that held his iPad. Dubin unfurled the top of the bag and reached inside. “Nicole said I should bring one of these for you.”

It was a sandwich inside a clear plastic triangle from the vending machine in the Intel break room. “Chicken salad.”

Fisk closed his eyes drowsily. “You’re taking that with you when you leave.”

Dubin dropped the gag sandwich back in the bag. “How’s the wing?”

“I’m going to make a full recovery.”

“Good. You want to sleep?”

“No.” Fisk opened his eyes.

“Hey, I’m glad you’re okay.”

Fisk said, “That’s not an apology.”

Dubin smiled, his gray goatee smiling with him. “Let’s see how all the evidence shakes out before we see who needs to apologize to whom.”

Fisk remembered something. “My phone. Lost it at the scene. Can you get someone to get it?”

“Sure. How many painkillers did they give you?”

“Not nearly enough,” said Fisk.

“I have some photos from the warehouse. From Chupa . . . the Hummingbird, however you pronounce it. His workshop apartment there. You want to see them, or wait?”

“Gimme.”

Dubin flipped open his iPad cover and turned it over to Fisk. “There’s a couple of short videos and high-resolution photos.”

Fisk looked at the oysters taken from their cartons, the hidden gun pieces. “Oysters, huh?”

“And guess what?” said Dubin. “The Mexican president has a shellfish allergy.”

Fisk looked at images of the two corpses, Chuparosa and the other man. Then the bloodied wall and floor, the site of the decapitations.

“I don’t get it,” said Fisk.

“What?” said Dubin.

“This plan was destined to fail. Assembling a gun inside the perimeter? Okay, points for that. Assuming he got it inside past the Secret Service’s millimeter wave scanner. But those agents around the president—either president—would have seen a gunman coming from twenty feet away.”