by C. J. Box
A screech of brakes, and the Buick pulled up at the end of the alley, Lopez at the wheel, the rear driver’s-side door already open.
She tossed the gear bag into the backseat, threw herself in after it. A shot sounded. Martinez grunted and fell against her.
“Get in!” Lopez said.
She gripped Martinez’s field jacket, pulled him to her, and they fell back onto the bag. His legs were still hanging out of the car when Lopez hit the gas. As the Buick lurched forward, she heard rounds strike the left rear fender. She pulled Martinez all the way in just as the Buick made a hard right turn. The momentum swung the door shut.
Martinez moaned. She rolled him off her onto the floor, sat up. They were in a residential area, dark houses on both sides of the street. The transfer car was still a couple of miles away.
“What happened back there?” Lopez said.
She pulled off her ski mask, had to catch her breath before she could speak. “Too many of them. Seven, maybe. At least. More than we thought.”
Through the rear window she saw headlights way back there, coming fast. No other cars around.
“They’re on us,” she said.
“Shit.” Lopez gunned the engine. The Buick swung a left, then another right onto a main thoroughfare, sped by darkened storefronts.
She pushed the mask into a jacket pocket. If she had to do a runner from the car, she didn’t want to leave it behind. There would be hair in the material, DNA. Evidence if the cops found it.
Martinez moaned again. She laid a gloved hand atop his. “Steady. You’re going to be all right.”
They’d scouted this area of East New York for weeks, timed the route, and she knew the chances of running into a squad car were slim. It was midnight shift change, the same reason the Dominicans chose that time for their weekly money pickup. Lopez was an ex-cop, knew the area, the players. Martinez was his brother-in-law. The two of them had found the stash house, gathered the intel, then reached out to her through a middleman. She was the one who’d brought in Adler.
Two blocks ahead was the business district, an intersection controlled at this hour by only a blinking yellow light. She looked back at the street behind. A pair of bright headlights swung out onto it, moving fast.
“They’re coming,” she said.
Martinez made a slow sign of the cross. His breath was ragged now, wheezing. Collapsed lung, she thought.
Lopez took the left at the yellow light, cut it too close, the driver’s-side tires bumping hard over the curb. A red light began to blink on the dash, in time with a soft beep.
“Fuck,” he said.
“What?”
“They must have hit the tank. We’re losing gas.”
Behind them a dark SUV made the turn, staying on their tail. High beams flashed on, lit the inside of the car. The Buick began to sputter and slow. The next turn was still a block ahead.
“Get down!” Lopez said.
The SUV swept into the left lane, came abreast of them. The front passenger-side window slid down, and a shotgun barrel came through.
Lopez slammed on the brakes. It threw her forward onto Martinez. She heard the roar of the gun, an explosion of glass. The Buick slewed to the right, hit the curb, rolled up on it, and came to a stop. The SUV braked just beyond it, then reversed.
She heard the shotgun being ratcheted. Another blast, and safety glass sprayed over her.
She jerked up on the latch of the passenger-side door, pushed it open, and rolled out onto the sidewalk, the Buick between her and the SUV.
How many men? Two at least, driver and shooter, but maybe others in back. Likely more on their way from the stash house in another vehicle. She couldn’t stay where she was, couldn’t run without presenting a target.
A third blast, this time into the rear driver’s side. The car rocked with the impact. She heard a door in the SUV open. They were getting out to finish it. Now, she thought.
She raised up, aimed the Glock over the roof of the Buick. The man with the shotgun stood there, lit by the streetlight. Shaven head, facial tattoo. She’d seen him at the stash house. He swung the muzzle toward her, and she fired twice, saw his head snap to the side. He fell back against the SUV, dropped the shotgun, and slid to the pavement.
She aimed through the open door of the SUV, but the driver was gone. The rear windows were tinted. She couldn’t see inside or through.
She steadied the Glock with both hands, waited. Would he come around the front or back? Were there more men inside, ready to open a side door, start firing?
The driver popped his head over the top of the SUV, pistol resting on the roof. She fired once to get him to duck, then lowered the muzzle and began shooting through the SUV’s side windows. The smoked glass exploded and collapsed. She could see the driver on the other side, saw him take the impact of the bullets. She kept firing until he fell out of sight. The rear of the SUV was empty.
Shell casings clinked on the sidewalk behind her. Gun smoke hung in the air. There’d been fifteen rounds in the Glock—fourteen in the magazine, one in the chamber. How many left?
She went around the front of the Buick. The man with the shotgun lay on his side. A rivulet of blood ran out from below him, shiny on the blacktop, coursed toward the gutter. She kicked the shotgun away, circled the SUV. The driver lay on his back, motionless, eyes open. She put a foot on his pistol, swept it into a storm drain.
In the Buick, Lopez was slumped over onto the passenger seat. He was dead or close to it. There was blood on the dashboard, the steering wheel, and what was left of the windshield. The fuel light still blinked red.
The rear door was pocked with buckshot holes. She pulled it open. Martinez lay still and silent on the floor. His own gun had slid partly out of his jacket pocket, the same model Glock as her own. She took it.
Headlights back at the cross street. She leaned into the car, hauled out the gear bag, swung the strap onto her shoulder.
A block ahead was another intersection, another blinking yellow light. To her right was a wide, unlit alley that ran behind a row of commercial buildings. Their storefronts would face onto that main street. High above, a bright half moon shone through thin clouds.
Headlights lit her, the vehicle coming fast. She took a last look at the Buick, then ran into the darkness of the alley.
* * *
Breathe. Think.
Fire escapes here, but their street-level ladders were raised and unreachable. She ran on, the bag thumping against her back. A cat darted from behind a dumpster, crossed her path, and disappeared.
She heard a vehicle brake on the street behind her. If it turned into the alley, she’d be caught in its headlights. They’d send someone to the other end too, to cut her off, try to pin her between them.
Ahead on the left was a one-story brick building with a loading dock, a green dumpster and a pile of discarded tires beside it. The metal pull-down gate was covered with graffiti. On the dock was a single fifty-five-gallon metal drum. She stuck the Glock in her belt, tossed the bag onto the dock, and climbed up after it.
There was a heavy padlock at the bottom of the gate. She tugged at it, but there was no give. She looked around, considered the dumpster for a moment. Knew that would be one of the first places they’d look.
No way in, and she couldn’t go back. She felt the first sharp edge of panic. She tilted the barrel toward her, heard its contents slosh, smelled motor oil. The drum was half full. She swung and wheeled it closer to the gate, then scrambled atop it. It rocked unsteadily beneath her feet.
The roof was gravel and tarpaper, bordered on all sides by three limp strands of barbed wire. Broken bottles glinted in the moonlight. There was a silent air-conditioning unit in one corner, its grille dark with rust. A few feet away was a closed wooden hatch.
She climbed back down, the barrel shaking. She could hear urgent voices in Spanish on the street back there. They’d be coming this way soon.
Hoisting the gear bag to her shoulder, she cli
mbed carefully back onto the barrel, almost overbalanced. She heaved the bag onto the barbed-wire strands, weighing them down, then crawled onto and over it. Pulling the bag free, she rolled away from the edge, the roof creaking under her.
She backed away farther, out of eyesight from below. Seven men at the stash house. She’d killed two at the SUV. By now they might have called for more men. Likely why they hadn’t come down the alley yet. They were waiting for reinforcements.
She crawled toward the air-conditioning unit, got her back to it, tried to slow her breathing. The Glock’s magazine was empty, with a single round left in the chamber. She took the full clip from Martinez’s gun, transferred it to her own, and slapped it home. She pulled the bag toward her, unzipped and opened it. His Glock, her mask, and the empty magazine went inside.
She pointed her gun toward the edge of the roof, the butt resting on a thigh. There was nothing she could do about the drum. If they saw it, figured out what she’d done, then it would be all over. But she’d take out as many of them as she could before they got her.
With her left hand she rifled through the money. Packs of bills, some bank-strapped, some bound with rubber bands. Street money, hundreds, fifties, and twenties. She did a rough count in the moonlight. Maybe a hundred thousand altogether. Less than they’d expected. Lopez had said there might be as much as three hundred thousand at the stash house.
It hadn’t been worth it. Lopez, Martinez, and Adler all dead, and everything they’d planned gone to hell.
Headlights below. She looked over the edge of the roof, saw a dark SUV come to a stop just inside the alley. Its high beams lit dumpsters, fire escapes, and brick walls. A side door opened and two men got out, both carrying pistols. They’d search the alley on foot. The SUV stayed where it was, engine running.
She could hide here for now, wait them out. But soon they’d know she hadn’t come out on any of the neighboring streets, was still somewhere on this block.
How far away was the transfer car? Would she even be able to find it? It was a banged-up Volvo wagon, inconspicuous enough not to draw attention, too old and ugly to invite theft. Lopez had stolen it the day before in Yonkers, cracked the steering column so the ignition could be easily hot-wired again. She’d shown Martinez and Adler how to do it. If something went wrong or they got separated, anyone who could make it to the transfer car would still have a chance of getting clear. But now there was only her.
She gripped the gun, rested the back of her head against the cool metal of the air-conditioning unit, looked up at the moon, and waited.
* * *
When she looked at her watch again, it was one thirty. A half hour had passed. The SUV was still there. They’d turned off the engine but left on the headlights.
She crawled toward the front of the roof. The street was lined with dark stores, most with riot gates. No traffic. To the left, past the blinking yellow signal at the intersection, a storefront threw light on the sidewalk. Neon signs in the window read BURGERS PIZZA FRIED CHICKEN 24 HRS. There was a cab parked outside, no one at the wheel.
Stay or go? With the alley blocked, the only way out would be through the front, with the hope she could make it to the cab without being spotted, find the driver. Get away from here.
The other option was to wait until daylight. There would be more cars then, people. The searchers might have given up. But she didn’t want to stay here in the meantime, trapped like some animal, her fate being decided by someone or something else.
She took two banded packs of money from the gear bag, stuffed them in her jacket pockets. The bag would be a burden, would slow her down. She’d have to leave it here, come back another time, hope no one found it in the interim.
She zipped the bag back up, wedged it behind the air-conditioning unit, covered it with a loose piece of aluminum flashing. It would have to do. If they searched the roof and found it, it would just be her bad luck. There was nothing for it.
The hatch was locked from the inside, but it was old wood. She took out her buck knife, opened the three-inch blade, and went to work on the hinges, slicing away wood until the screws were loose. She pulled the hinges free, then pried up that side of the hatch high enough that she could reach in. Her fingers found a bolt. She opened it, then lifted the entire hatch free, set it gently on the roof.
An iron ladder led down into darkness. The familiar smells of motor oil and rubber drifted up. She closed the knife, put it away, took out her penlight. She shone the beam inside, saw an oil-stained concrete floor, a lift pit with no lift. More tires. She switched off the light, put it away.
Go on, she thought. You can’t stay here and wait for whatever’s coming.
She tucked the Glock in her waistband, sat on the edge of the opening, swung her legs in, felt for the rungs with her feet. She let herself down slowly. Five rungs. Six. Her feet touched concrete.
To the front was a bay door, a single window set high in its center letting in streetlight. On the other side of the lift pit, an open doorway led to an office.
She circled the pit, staying out of the light. Inside the office was a battered metal desk and a filing cabinet. The cabinet’s drawers were open and empty. The desktop was filmed with dust. On the floor was an auto parts calendar from 2015.
She took out the Glock, held it at her side. A wide-gridded riot gate covered the front window, faint streetlight coming through. To the right of it was a glass door in a recessed doorway, with cardboard taped over a missing panel. From here she had a clear view of the street in both directions. There was only one pole light working on the block, maybe twenty feet to her left. Beyond that, across the intersection, was the bright storefront. The cab was still there.
Headlights from the right. She stepped away from the door, back into the shadows, watched a dark Navigator approach and slow.
She took steady breaths. Don’t panic, she thought. Watch. Wait.
Another pair of lights came from the opposite direction. It was a low-slung two-door Acura. The vehicles stopped abreast of each other, window to window, the drivers talking. The car drove off.
The Navigator crossed the intersection, pulled up behind the taxi. Three men she hadn’t seen before got out and went inside the restaurant. After a few minutes they emerged and got back in the Navigator. She watched it pull away.
They might be doing circles, grids, looking for her. The Acura too. One or more of them might be coming back this way before long. It was time to move.
With her left hand, she unlocked the door. It had swollen in its frame, wouldn’t open. She pulled hard, shook it. It rattled and creaked as it came free. Cool night air flowed in. She put the Glock in her pocket, kept her hand on it.
Outside, she cut left up the sidewalk, walking fast but not running. She crossed the street, stayed close to the storefronts on the other side. Ahead the yellow light blinked, lit the blacktop.
On the other side of the intersection, she stopped short of the restaurant, looked through a side window. It was bright and stark inside. Plastic tables and chairs, a counter window with thick bulletproof glass. Behind it a young Black man in a white T-shirt and apron was texting on a phone, thumbs busy.
A single table was occupied. A thin, dark-skinned man with glasses and graying hair was reading a newspaper.
She tried the rear door of the cab, wanting to get in, out of sight. It was locked. She went up to the window near where the man sat, tapped a knuckle on the glass. The second time she did it, he looked up from his paper. The counterman had put down his phone, was watching her.
She pointed at the cab. The thin man nodded briskly, took off his glasses and stowed them in a jacket pocket. He got up, left the newspaper on the table.
She waited beside the taxi, looking in both directions. No headlights, no police cruisers, no sirens.
The thin man came outside. “Miss, may I help you?”
He had an accent she couldn’t place, West Africa or somewhere in the Caribbean.
“I need a rid
e,” she said. “To somewhere not far from here.”
He looked around, then back at her. “Are you alone?”
“Yes.” Her breathing grew faster. She wanted to get in the cab, off the street.
“Where are you coming from?” he said.
“Queens. My car broke down. Can we go?”
With her left hand, she worked loose a bill from the pack. Her other hand stayed on the gun.
She folded the bill, held it out. It was a hundred.
“Just a few blocks,” she said. “But we need to leave now.”
He looked in the direction the Navigator had gone, then at her, the hand still in her pocket.
“Now,” she said. “Let’s go. Please.”
He took out keys, hit the remote button, unlocked the cab. The headlights blipped.
“Of course,” he said. “Anywhere you want.”
* * *
She watched the signs on the deserted streets they passed, giving him directions through the grid in the Plexiglas divider. When they came to a block that looked familiar, she said, “Slow down.”
She recognized the neighborhood now. Warehouses, muffler shops, and garages. Ahead was the side street where they’d left the Volvo. A dark White Castle on the corner had been their landmark.
“Turn left up there,” she said.
From a wide alley on the right, an SUV charged out, blocked the street. The Navigator. The taxi driver braked hard, sounded the horn, stopped when he saw the men spilling out of the Navigator into the cab’s headlights.
She threw herself across the backseat, clawed at the passenger door handle just as the first shots came through the cab’s windshield. She got the door open, tumbled out onto the ground. The cab was still rolling. It thumped solidly into the side of the Navigator.
She pulled out the Glock, brought it up. Three men were still shooting into the cab, glass and upholstery exploding. They hadn’t seen her get out.
She stood, took one of them down with a center-mass chest shot, swung her muzzle toward the next one, fired, and missed. The round blew out a side window in the Navigator. The two men dropped down behind the cover of the cab.