If he was going to spot anything, it was from here.

The Lincoln Continental back at the 49th Street lights had bothered him. He had been perhaps fifty yards behind it when the car had come to a sudden stop.

Bad driving, he had thought to himself. Nothing out of the ordinary for New York City.

It was only when he’d come to a stop next to the car that it had really caught his attention.

Dempsey thought of himself as an investigator. Others might describe him differently. Using words like ‘killer’ and ‘assassin’. And ten years ago they would have been right. But not any more. He would kill if he must. But death was no longer Dempsey’s purpose. It was an occupational hazard, and it only came to those who deserved it.

For all that, his life was no less dangerous now than it had ever been. And so spotting the unordinary was still an essential skill that helped keep him alive.

It was the passengers of the Lincoln that had caught his eye. Two men in the front, one woman in the back. All dressed professionally in black. Practical, unobtrusive hair styles.

Dempsey had seen Secret Service agents up close. Many times. He had even worked alongside them. As an organisation, they had his respect; no one on the planet was better at what they did. And that was why it concerned him to see three agents – because they were agents; Dempsey was sure of that – almost crashing at a traffic light on United Nations Plaza.

Something distracted them, he thought. Something distracted the guys who don’t get distracted.

It was the very basis of their training. Complete attention, twenty-four-seven. Always vigilant, never missing a movement. To protect their president, they needed to see every flicker, every hint of a threat, and then they had to assess it. To react, or to let it pass?

It required a skill level unmatched by anyone else.

A skill that does not miss traffic lights. Not without good reason.

So what was the distraction?

That curiosity had led him to study them. And that’s why he’d spotted it. The pretence of continued conversation. The rigid maintenance of position. The fixed stare and unmoving lips of the driver as he’d hissed his warning.

And the refusal to glance in Dempsey’s direction, even when it was natural to do so.

That’s when he’d known.

The distraction was him.

Ten blocks later and they were still behind him. A respectable distance. Changing lanes. Allowing other cars to occasionally come between them. Even an inconsistency in speed, to keep the distance varied.

Trained surveillance driving, Dempsey thought to himself as he passed East 63rd. If it wasn’t for their screw-up at the lights, I might not have seen them.

He kept his eyes on their reflection in his mirrors as both his Triumph and their Lincoln moved further north. His trajectory was dead straight, the two vehicles now connected by an imaginary line of which only they were aware.