Kisser (2010)

pilot executed a ninety-degree turn toward Park Avenue and pointed the machine downtown. They had moved only a few blocks when Stone looked down and saw the egg-decorated Mercedes.
    “There,” he said, “in that traffic backup by the construction site.”
     
     
     
    DEREK SHARPE SAT in the traffic jam and began to sweat. He wasn’t worried about Sig Larsen leaving without him, since it took both of them to withdraw or transfer funds from their offshore account, but he was anxious to have this over and done with. He longed for a beach and a drink with an umbrella in it.
    Finally, traffic edged forward, and he broke loose of the jam and headed downtown at a good speed.
     
     
     
    STONE WATCHED as the Mercedes moved quickly down Park Avenue. “He’s going to turn west toward the Lincoln Tunnel,” he said to the pilot.
    “I’m ready,” the man replied.
    At Forty-seventh Street, the Mercedes made its turn and began the slow process of driving west on a crosstown Manhattan street. The pilot hung back a block or so, keeping the black car in sight.
     
     
     
    “HE’LL TURN LEFT on Eleventh Avenue,” Stone said. “Then we’ll pick him up on the other side of the Hudson when he comes out of the tunnel.”
    “Got it,” the pilot said as the Mercedes turned left on Eleventh Avenue. “Shall we cross the Hudson now and get ahead of him?”
    “Sure,” Stone said.
    The pilot turned right and headed toward the river. “Did you see that guy put the Airbus down in the river?” he asked Stone.
    “I saw it a dozen times on TV, and I’m still amazed that everybody walked away from that one,” Stone replied. “The pilot said he was just doing what he’d been trained to do, but he did it awfully well, didn’t he?”
    “Sure did,” the pilot said. “Here comes the other end of the tunnel.”
    “Let’s gain some altitude,” Stone said. “I don’t want him to spot us when he emerges.”
    The pilot flew the machine a little way south and hovered at five hundred feet looking back at the tunnel. “Traffic’s moving well at this hour of the day,” he said. “He’ll pop out of there soon.”
    A black Mercedes appeared. “There,” Stone said, pointing.
    “Not unless he stopped at a car wash,” the pilot said. “No egg on that car.”
    “You’re right. Cars are pouring out of the tunnel; he should be out of there by now.”
    They hovered for another couple of minutes.
    “Something’s wrong,” the pilot said.
     
     
     
    SHARPE HAD BYPASSED the tunnel entrance, just in case he was being watched, then turned downtown on Ninth Avenue. Just a few more blocks, he told himself. He joined the West Side Highway at Thirty-ninth Street and headed downtown. Nearly there. He left the highway at the West Side Heliport and parked the car next to it. He could see the chopper on the ground with Larsen standing next to it. The rotor was already turning, and Hildy and Larsen’s “wife” would be inside.
    Sharpe had nothing in the car he needed to take with him. He hated to abandon such a nice car, but the lease was up in a couple of months, so what the hell? He jogged toward the waiting helicopter.
    Larsen was holding the door for him, and he jumped in and gave Hildy a big kiss. The chopper rose, rotated a hundred and eighty degrees and began to fly north along the Hudson VFR corridor.
    Larsen was pointing down. “What’s that on top of your car?” he asked.
    Sharpe looked down and saw the egg splatter on the car’s roof. “I don’t know,” he said. “Vandals, I guess.”
     
     
     
    “HE’S NOT coming out of this tunnel,” the pilot said, “because he didn’t go into it.”
    “You’re right,” Stone said. “We’ve been had.” Then he looked across the river and saw a helicopter take off from the West Side Heliport. “Uh-oh,” he said, pointing. “Head over there.”
    The pilot turned the machine and started toward the Hudson. “There’s one that just took off,” he said, pointing at a helicopter making its way north.
    “I want to see the parking lot,” Stone said, then he pointed. “There’s the Mercedes with the egg on top.”
    “The chopper going north is the only one I see in the air,” the pilot said.
    “Follow it,” Stone said. “He’s headed for Westchester Airport.”
    The pilot made the turn north. “Well,” he said, “I hope it’s the right helicopter.”
    “So do I,” Stone said.
     
     
     
    “IS THE AIRPLANE going to be waiting?” Sharpe asked