As the guy raised the automatic toward them, Michael wrapped his arms around Leslie, picked her up, and dove over the row of trashcans next to them, and not a second too soon. He twisted in the air, and landed behind a small flip-top dumpster as he heard a muffled Pop! Pop! as bricks shattered in the wall behind him. They exploded in a cloud of red dust and sharp chards of cracked clay. He twisted in the air and landed hard on his back on the asphalt with Leslie on top. He continued rolling until he had her pressed up against the wall, where she couldn’t get up, but all he got for his efforts was a sharp elbow in the ribs.
Maybe he had had too many guns pointed at him for too many years during the war, but something inside him snapped and he was determined to hit back. Leslie kept trying to wiggle free, but that was something he wasn’t going to let let happen. “Stay down!” he whispered sharply, hoping she would listen, but that had always been a long-shot at best. Still, as long as they were screened by the dumpster, the fat gunman couldn’t see them. They were out of his line of fire for the moment at least, but they were trapped back there with no way out. Maybe he could make a run for it and draw the fat guy’s attention away from Leslie, but in the end, what good would that do? If the fat guy was any kind of shot at all, Michael would end up dead and the gunman would come back and shoot Leslie just as quickly. No, like it or not, the only way out was through the guy.
There was a gap between the dumpster and a trashcan. Michael saw that the big oaf appeared nervous. Maybe he was as new at this ambush thing as they were. He tried scaring them and shooting at them; but that didn’t work. He dropped into a crouch and took a first uncertain step forward, then another, waving that big cannon back and forth, blustering and threatening as he came. “Sal de ahi! Sal de ahi!” “Come out of there,” he said in Spanish, not in Arabic or Greek, forcing a toothy smile as he tried to sound friendly.
Michael saw the Spaniard raise the automatic again and fire another round. The bullet cut a deep gouge in the bricks above Michael’s shoulder, dusting him with even more red clay. Good, Michael thought, he’s getting frustrated. That made three misses, but it wasn’t likely he’d miss with all six. Michael heard a shuffling of feet on the other side of the dumpster and the gunman edged even closer, trying to see over the top. Clearly, the clown wasn’t very smart. He could end it in a heartbeat if he circled around the cans and came in from behind, but he didn’t. That gave Michael a thin sliver of hope.
Leslie jabbed an elbow into his ribs as she tried to get up, but Michael shoved her back down on the muddy ground and leaned on her. “Michael! What are you…” she mumbled into the wall, furious at him; but he kept her pinned there anyway. Quickly and quietly, his hands skimmed across the rough pavement searching for a weapon, something, anything! But all he found was a rotten head of lettuce and a bent soup ladle.
“Come out, my friend. And bring that little ‘Puta’ out here with you,” the fat gunman called to him in heavily accented English. “I’ll be nice, honest.”
“Puta? Did you hear what he called me? I know what that means,” Leslie mumbled as she got one arm free, grabbed the head of rotten lettuce from the pavement and threw it over the trashcan at the gunman. She wasn’t even close, but the head of lettuce banged into a trashcan on the other side of the alley, and that was all it took to stampede the cats. They’d ignored the diving bodies, the muffled gunshots, and even the shattering bricks; but assaulting one of their trashcans was another thing altogether. They howled and took off running, determined to put as much distance between themselves and these crazy humans as they could. The pack dashed around the Spaniard, screeching and howling with their sharp teeth bared and claws flailing. A particularly large one ran right between the fat guy’s legs, and that really spooked him. He turned the gun on the cats and began firing, screaming at them in rapid-fire Spanish.
Michael knew this might be his last chance. He drew his legs underneath him and jammed his shoulder into the side of the dumpster as if it were a tackling sled in high-school football. With a loud scraping noise, the rusty dumpster powered about three feet into the alley and then began to tip over. The Spaniard stood not more than two feet away, his head turned, yelling at the cats, and with that first quick look, Michael knew he had him. The gunman heard the loud scrape, but too late. His eyes turned as big as saucers as the dumpster began tipping over on him. If he had the presence of mind to ignore it, turn the gun on Michael, and pull the trigger, the American would be dead, but he was too stupid and too slow to do that. Instead, the gunman reached his hands out to stop the dumpster from coming down on him; and that sealed his fate.
The dumpster knocked the guy down and Michael jumped over the top, throwing himself on the Spaniard. After years of pent-up rage, it was no contest. Michael hit him with a straight right, dead on the button, with his shoulder behind it. That first punch should have been enough to put him down for the count, but it did not. The gun dropped from his hand and clattered harmlessly on the pavement, the guy’s knees buckled, and he wobbled backward, but somehow the fat guy continued standing there. Michael hit him again, even harder, catching him high on the cheekbone this time, and staggered him backward. His eyes glazed over, but he still didn’t go down. He shook his head and his eyes cleared, then he came lumbering forward toward Michael, intent on killing him with his bare hands if he had to.
That was just fine with Michael, too. They were four feet apart when he motioned to the fat gunman, "Come on!" he said, looking for another opening. That was when he heard the muffled Pop! of another silenced gun shot. This time, it was coming from behind them at the far end of the alley. This new bullet zipped past Michael’s shoulder and put a neat red hole in the center of the Spaniard’s forehead. A headshot? The fat Spaniard’s eyes rolled up in his head and he toppled over backward like a felled tree. But before he even hit the pavement, Michael heard the quick Pop! Pop! of two more silenced gunshots.
Leslie had rolled over and was starting to get up. Michael jumped back behind the trashcans, pushed her back down, and shielded her with his body. It had to be that bastard with the blue van, the painter, Michael realized as his fingertips skimmed across the rough concrete trying to find the Spaniard’s pistol. It had fallen on the pavement in the middle of the alley and had been kicked this way, so it had to be back here somewhere, he knew. Finally, his fingers touched the long gun barrel. He grabbed it, pointed the automatic in the general direction of the alley entrance, and pulled the trigger. Once, then a second time, and a third until it clicked empty. He did not aim, he did not count, and he had no idea who or what he was shooting at; but doing it felt damned good anyway.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
After the two bullets the Spaniard had fired whizzed past him, Kruger watched in total disbelief as the struggle unfolded down the alley. “That damned fool, Sanchez!” he swore as he ducked into a doorway. An unarmed man and a woman in exercise clothes? The whole thing should have been over in seconds. Instead, the fat Spaniard was in trouble, and Kruger was too far away to help. Then Kruger heard a third gunshot and another bullet ricocheted off the soft brick nearby. That fool! He was supposed to take the American alive, not kill him, and now Kruger could only watch in disgust as his plan spiraled out of control. He did not hesitate. He took three long strides down the alley to close the distance, dropped to one knee, extended his pistol with both hands, took careful aim, and squeezed off a single shot. Unlike Sanchez, Kruger did not miss. His bullet went exactly where he aimed it — dead center in the bloated cow’s forehead. Kruger felt no pity. Sanchez had been a minimally useful ally and an increasing liability. Now, he was a corpse.
Kruger could have easily shot the American if he wanted to, but Bormann wanted answers, not revenge. That stupid Sanchez! If he had only followed orders, it would have been easy to grab them both; but now, the opportunity was lost. Worse still, the element of surprise was gone. Those were all good reasons to pull the trigger, but Kruger took the shot because he was addicted to the high he got from taking a
nother life, from snuffing it out. It started early in the war when he saw his first combat. That was his coming of age, his awakening. What was it that fool Bruckner asked him in Königsberg? “Where do they get people like you?” Well, he chuckled, “they” did not “get” him, they forged him in the awful blast furnace they called the Eastern Front.
Before the Walther even finished its recoil, he tracked the barrel across until it was dead center on Randall’s back, right between his shoulder blades. He knew he was not allowed to squeeze the trigger, but for that one split second, he dreamed about putting a bullet into that meddlesome American’s spine. Instead, he raised the barrel a hair and whistled two rounds past the meddling American’s ear, content for the moment to watch him roll on the pavement in the garbage and dirt. Partially satisfied, Kruger turned and sprinted back toward the van. That was when he heard the cough of a silencer behind him. A bullet creased the brick wall less than a foot from his head, and he felt a searing pain across his cheek. Raising his hand to the side of his face, he felt something warm and wet. Blood! A shard of brick had sliced across his left cheek. When Kruger saw his own blood, red and wet on his fingers, the world around him flashed white-hot. It was that damned American again! He had actually shot at him and drawn blood! Kruger had never been wounded, even during the long months on the Eastern Front. Over time, the young SS officer had come to believe he really was bulletproof. So seeing his own blood on his fingers left him shaken.
Without thinking, Kruger spun around and pointed his automatic back down the alley and found Randall. His hand shaking with rage, Kruger tightened his finger on the trigger. He wanted to kill the American right there and then, Bormann be damned; but at the last instant, he stopped. He couldn’t do that, not yet; so he fired two more shots down the center of the alley aiming just high enough to miss but low enough to keep their heads down. Kruger let his gun hand drop to his side. He would permit the American to live this time, but he owed him two now, and Heinz Kruger always paid his debts.
Long after those last two bullets zipped overhead, Michael continued to lie on top of Leslie. The dead gunman’s body was only a few feet away in the center of the alley facing Michael, his cheek in the dirt, his mouth hanging open, with a neat hole in the center of his forehead. Michael tried to get up, but Leslie wrapped her arms around his waist and held him there. “Leslie!” He tried to get up again, but she would not let go.
“Are you crazy?” she said, looking at the dead gunman. “You see his forehead? That guy’s a crack shot, and you aren’t going anywhere!”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you planned this.”
“No, too much dirt, too much noise, and no privacy… and a dead body,” she told him, as they heard fresh gunshots out in the street followed by the squeal of automobile tires, the shattering of glass, and the loud crash of metal.
“Sounds like the party’s just begun,” he said as she released her death grip on him and he got to his feet. Well, whoever it is, they weren’t using silencers, he thought, as he looked down the alley and saw the blue van speed away
Leslie held out her arms. “Are you going to help me up?”
“Depends. You gonna behave?” he asked, looking down at her, their eyes meeting.
“I never make promises I have no intention of keeping,” she answered, still holding her arms out, still looking up at him. Finally, he caved in and reached down, taking her hands and pulling her up to her feet. She started brushing the mud and garbage off her shirt and shorts, but it was all over her hands. “Oh, yuck!” she said as she turned her head and looked over her shoulder at her backside where it was even worse.
Michael tried to help, not quite knowing where to brush. Her tee shirt and shorts were wet, and her skin was hot and sweaty from running. He fumbled around, avoiding the softer parts, but he couldn’t even do that right.
“You’re only making it worse.”
“Well, I’m kind of handicapped here.”
“You’ve got that right!” she laughed. “But I guess you haven’t touched too many girls lately, have you?”
“I’ve been a little busy.”
“Daddy’s right; you’ve got a lot of catching up to do, Michael Randall.” She grabbed his hand and they began jogging back up the alley toward the street. They were almost to the entrance when Michael saw a trail of dark, wet drops on the asphalt. He stopped and bent down, wiping some of it up with his finger for a closer look. “What is it?” Leslie asked.
“Blood, and it’s fresh.”
“Maybe you hit him.”
“Maybe, but there isn’t enough here for any serious damage.”
They ran the rest of the way back to the street and turned the corner, only to run bump into the front grill of a gray sedan. It sat half on the sidewalk with its front end angled in against the building, and half sticking out into traffic. Its front doors hung open and there were three bullet holes punched through the windshield. The driver sat on the sidewalk, still hiding behind the fender. His face was cut by flying glass and his shirt was spattered with blood as he leaned over and threw up on the tire. On the passenger side, Manny Eismer knelt behind the other front door reloading his snub-nosed police special. In the middle of the street sat a pair of NYPD squad cars that had crashed head-on, leaving a fender, bits of broken plastic, and shattered glass strewn across the street.
“Here, Gino,” Manny said as he tossed his handkerchief across the car hood to the driver. “It’s a damned good thing that thirty-eight of yours only has six shots, or you’d have missed him a couple of more times.” Disgusted, Manny reached inside the car and grabbed the radio handset. “This is Eismer, the prick got away in a blue van heading west. Be careful, he’s armed to the teeth, and the son-of-a-bitch can shoot.”
Manny dropped the handset on the front seat and looked over at Michael and then at Leslie, eyeing them both from head to foot. “Amazing! As bad as we screwed this thing up, I figured we’d find you two belly-up in the alley,” he said, frowning as he saw the dirt and garbage. “You okay, cutie pie?”
“We’re fine,” Michael answered for them. “Just tell us you got him.”
“Got him?” Manny snorted, “I hardly saw him.”
“But he was right here! Did you at least get a look at him?”
“You were in the freakin’ alley with him. Did you?” Michael shook his head no. “All I saw was a flash of blond hair. After that, I was praying to the door handle.” Manny slammed his fist on the car. “It’s all my fault. That freakin’ van blocking the alley shoulda been a dead giveaway. ‘No big deal,’ I told Gino; but as soon as we pulled over to check it out, that bastard came around the corner blasting. Next thing I know, Gino and I are on the pavement; and that blue van is long gone around the corner.”
Michael looked at Leslie and felt the anger building inside. "You were using us for bait, weren’t you? That’s why you didn’t want me to leave, isn’t it?”
“You’re the one who wanted answers. We couldn’t go after them, but we figured somebody might make a move and come after you.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“You had to act natural, and we thought we had you covered.”
“Me, yes, but Leslie was there with me. You had no right…”
“Hey, you’re the one who brought her along,” Manny answered.
“I brought myself along!” Leslie countered. “And I’m here because I want to be.”
Manny looked at both of them in turn and finally shook his head. “Look, I’m sorry, Mike. You too, Leslie. We screwed up, big time.”
Michael shook his head, furious with Manny but tempering his anger with the sure knowledge that Manny was right, and people actually believed him now — Manny and the painter in the blue van. That wasn’t much, but it was a start.
Esteban drove fast, clutching the steering wheel tightly with both hands. He was still shaking from the hail of gunshots, convinced that damned German could hear his knees knocking over the engine r
oar, but he did as he was told. He pushed the van down the side streets, twisting, turning, taking the corners hard, but always returning to a southwesterly course, praying he would see the Hudson River and the docks soon. He knew they were up ahead somewhere; but in all the excitement, he had gotten himself horribly turned around. So, Esteban prayed to every Catholic saint he could remember that the German wouldn’t notice. He was the devil incarnate, and Esteban knew the man would kill him for sure if he got them lost. On the freighter on the way up from Philadelphia, Kruger made him study a New York map until he could draw the streets and see them in his sleep. But Esteban couldn’t read English very well. As the signs flashed by it became all too confusing; the skinny Spaniard had no idea where they were.
“Slow down!” Kruger yelled from the back of the van. “We’ve attracted enough attention for one day, no thanks to you and that fat buffoon Sanchez.”
The Spaniard jerked his foot off the gas pedal, realizing he was far more afraid of this cold-eyed German than he could ever be of the American police. Esteban took a deep breath. Relax! Relax, he told himself. After all, you’re only the driver; you haven’t killed anyone; you haven’t fired a single shot. True, Esteban had an old revolver of his own tucked in his belt; and the cops would nail him good if they found it on him; but it had not been fired, not even once. At the first opportunity, when the German’s attention was elsewhere, the revolver would go out the window. Even if the police sent him to jail, he knew they treat you right in an American jail. There was always the chance of parole, but there would be no parole from this crazy German. You could see it in his icy-blue eyes and in that cruel sneer on his lips. The man was a death sentence.
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