Chasers

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  Boomer went through the winding and curving roads of Riverdale as if he were on the last lap of a NASCAR run, the sedan keeping pace no more than a dozen feet behind. He veered to the left and motored up the two lanes of the Henry Hudson Parkway, a pair of low-riding rails on both sides, heavy tree coverage eating up the view on his right. He drove like a cop, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping the gun in his waistband, swinging the car from one lane to the next, taking full advantage of the lack of traffic, his front end doing a hard bump and scrape over the edge of a small crater, sparks flying off both fender and bumper. The blow lifted Buttercup off her seat, the dog shooting Boomer a tired look. “Don’t throw the blame my way,” Boomer said. “Toss it to the four shooters on our ass.”

  Boomer moved the car to the right and then sharp hard to the left, the Benz slow to react to the move. He then slammed on his brakes and brought the car to a bracing and violent halt. Thick puffs of smoke and shards of tire treads quickly filled the air, and the smell of burning rubber and shocks scorched Boomer’s nostrils.

  The Benz slowed its pace, but not before Boomer had swung his unmarked behind it, his window down, his gun drawn, rapid-firing a series of rounds into the darkened rear windshield. The Benz swung wildly to the right and left, skidding against the railing, a few feet removed from a fatal fall, one of its rear tires blown. Boomer tossed his gun onto the front seat, eased the unmarked alongside the Benz, and jammed it in tight, banging door against door, the tires of the two cars rubbing hard one against the other, sparks and a thin line of flames shooting out from under the Benz.

  The sharp turn that led into the entrance to Exit 4 and the Cross County Parkway was now less than a quarter of a mile away. “Hang on,” Boomer said to the dog. “And if you want, wave goodbye to our new friends while you still have the chance.”

  Boomer clicked the unmarked into overdrive, squeezing the hood of his car in front of the Benz, the two tops bending from the speed and pressure, tires smoking and tearing, thick rubber peeling off the wheels like skin off fruit. Boomer swung the steering wheel as far to the right as it would go, only five hundred feet away from the slick curve leading into the exit. “C’mon,” he said, his upper body straining as much as his battered car, the sweat running down hard off his chest and arms. “Flip, you bastards, flip.”

  Boomer was positioned in front of the Benz, still pressing it heavy, the older unmarked chugging hard against the newer and better built model. He tapped on his brakes several times, allowing the back end of the car to swing out and putting it parallel against the Benz, then he slammed his foot hard on the gas. The Benz did a double flip over the low rail and out onto the heavily wooded terrain. It shot like an unguided rocket down the sloping hill, banging against trees and low-hanging limbs until it came to a fiery and smoke-filled stall by the edge of the Bronx River.

  Boomer frantically turned his steering wheel to the left, hitting the gas and skimming against the side of the rail, the car shooting into the sharp curve of Exit 4, thick lines of smoke, sparks, and fumes in its wake. He came out of the curve and slowed the car down, easing onto an off-ramp and shoving the gear shift into neutral. He stepped out of the car, the cool breeze feeling good against his sweat-soaked body, leaving the passenger door open for Buttercup to follow. The dog jumped out, waded past the thick clouds of smoke, and stood next to Boomer, who was leaning now against the back end of the damaged vehicle. She rested her front paws on his legs and curled her head against his chest, drool running off her mouth. Boomer reached down and gently patted her thick hide. “I know,” he said to her. “I’m glad we made it, too.”

  Boomer took one last look at his car, and then he and Buttercup turned and sprinted across the highway, going up a short hill and out onto the streets of the nearest exit.

  13

  Dead-Eye sat with his feet wedged up against the side of the table, case folders and police reports stacked on both ends. Ash leaned on the old school blackboard, taking a sip from a mug of hot coffee. Buttercup prowled from one end of the room to the other, stopping occasionally to lap from her large NYPD water bowl. Boomer stood alone in the center of Apaches HQ, looking out at the remaining members of his team. “I just got off the line with the doctor taking care of Quincy,” he told them. “He’s going to be laid up for about a week, ten days at the most, but he’ll pull through. They need to be cautious, since they’re not really sure how the heavy blood loss will affect his condition. Those waters are uncharted.”

  “We’re still not done,” Ash said, “and we’re down two key players. You going to bring in fresh faces or do we go as is?”

  “There’s not enough time to work in anybody new,” Boomer said. “We go in as we are. But that doesn’t mean we’re not without any backup. Tony Rigs will send in a team of his shooters to give us some coverage, and the Russians will help as much as they feel the need. But the bulk of the takedowns are on us.”

  “How many you figure to be covering Angel’s end?” Ash asked.

  “About twenty spread out inside the brownstone,” Boomer said. “And another dozen or so shooters working the street outside. Most of them will either be sitting in parked cars or working the corners, eyes on the lookout for us.”

  “Trust me, you’ll know them when you see them,” Dead-Eye said. “And when you do, don’t even think. Just shoot. And not to drop—to kill.”

  Boomer glanced across the room at Ash and waited for her to look his way. “You’ll be all right,” he told her, looking to offer comfort along with confidence. “You wouldn’t be out there with us if we didn’t think you could handle this. And besides, now we’ll find out if you’re as good at setting fires as you were at catching the ones that did.”

  “Let’s all remember one crucial detail beyond the planning,” Dead-Eye said. “The wise guys will be there and they’ll do their part. The same holds for the Russians. But we only trust each other and look to one or the other for help. The only four that we need to worry about are in this room right now. Clear?”

  “You okay with getting there early and laying down your smoke?” Boomer asked Ash. “Or you want one of us to tag along?”

  “If I had to pick someone in here to take, it would be Buttercup,” Ash said with a smile. “Besides, I don’t figure on being alone.”

  “How’s that?” Boomer asked.

  Ash opened her jacket and pointed to a detective shield clipped to her waistband. “It’s Rev. Jim’s tin,” she said. “Quincy gave it to me. So I do have someone looking over my shoulder.”

  “I can’t think of anyone better,” Boomer said. “But remember that Angel is who we want. He’s the last peg on our board. This started with him, and it’s with him it’s going to end.”

  Dead-Eye walked over to one of the cabinets and slid the door open. He reached inside and pulled out two .44 handguns and jammed them into his shoulder holsters. He slipped a .38 Special into a third holster and clipped it to his back. A fourth gun went into his ankle strap. He filled the side pockets of his thin black leather jacket with clips and bullets and then grabbed a double-pump shotgun and shoved it inside a brown duffel bag by his feet. He turned and looked across the room at Boomer, Ash, and Buttercup and nodded. “The time is in the here and now,” he said to them, “for that fucking ex-priest to be put down for his last rites.”

  “I love it when you get spiritual,” Boomer said.

  14

  The night was cool, spring making its last stand. The Upper East Side street was quiet, row upon row of expensive and well-maintained town houses filling both sides, along with the lights and signs of two 24-hour parking garages. A young boy, no more than fourteen, was walking a miniature Aussie on a long leash, the dog moving slowly from parked car to fire hydrant to the side of a tree, sniffing at the damp concrete. A middle-aged couple, both bundled up in sports jackets, scarves, and wool caps, quick-stepped their way toward the front door of their basement apartment.

  Angel’s town house was in the middle of the blo
ck, four stories high, a small gate and a garden off to the right, a dozen steps in the center leading up to the thick white front door, a large overhead light illuminating the entrance. Two men were posted at the bottom step, one of them reading a Spanish-language newspaper. Three other men sat inside a parked Chevy two spots up from the house, the one in the back with his head braced against the window, asleep.

  Boomer stood in the slanted entryway of a parking garage, across from the town house, and checked his watch. He leaned his head against a white cement wall and closed his eyes. So many men and women had died for him to get to this moment, and so many more needed to in order for it to pass. And, for the first time in as many years as he could recall, Boomer began to wonder if all the carnage was worth the end result. It wasn’t lost on him that more people he cared about and loved were dead than alive, and that more than a handful had ended up that way because of his actions. He didn’t know if he still had the courage to bury yet another friend and he prayed that, on this night at least, he wouldn’t need to be tested.

  The explosion rocked him back to reality.

  He turned and felt the blast of heat come at him, the car with the three men inside now nothing more than a burning skeleton of steel. Boomer checked his weapons, scanned the street, and ran from the parking-garage entrance toward Angel’s town house, charging his way into yet another battle.

  The two men who had been guarding the steps lay on the ground now, wounded and bleeding. Boomer stepped over one of them and made his way up the steps of the town house, taking them two at a clip. He turned when he heard the scattered gunfire coming from up the street, three of Angel’s men in a shoot-out with two burly Russians. At the other end of the block, he knew the hitters sent by Tony Rigs were doing their duty, utilizing the darkness, the element of surprise, and their expertise with ropes and knives to full effect. Whatever troubles the Apaches faced on this night would come from inside the town house, not out.

  Boomer was in the middle of the foyer, both guns drawn, his right shoulder wedged against thick wood paneling, when he saw the man in a dark outfit flip over a third-floor banister and come crashing down onto the black-and-white tiled floor, blood and brain matter wedged under his head and neck. He looked up and saw Dead-Eye give him a clear-to-move wave. He had made it to the top of the first-floor landing, turned, and then heard a door creak open behind him.

  Boomer never hesitated.

  He whirled, crouched down in a catcher’s position, and fired four rounds through the thick wood. The thump from the other side told him the bullets had found their mark. There were two other doors in the corridor, both closed, one facing him and one at his back. Boomer stood and walked with silent steps on the carpeted floor, full adrenaline rush masked by a calm and confident exterior. Both doors swung open at once and two men armed with semis rushed out of each, Boomer in the middle of their rapid and lethal cross fire. He braced himself against a wall offering a few inches of cover from each side, his arms extended left and right, responding to their salvos. Bullets chipped the sides of the wall extension, sending dust and Sheetrock fragments hurtling through the air. Boomer fired the last rounds in his weapons and leaned his head against the wall, his fingers rummaging through his jacket pockets for fresh bullets. The four shooters, two on either side, eased their fire and closed in for the kill.

  Dead-Eye appeared as if from the heavens.

  He vaulted off the top of the third-floor landing, his arms extended, feet spread apart, a gun in each hand, bullets ripping through the bodies of the four unsuspecting hitters and sending them sprawling to their death. He landed with a thud and a roll, his back to the thick banister, his face locked in a grimace, a smile creasing across as he looked over at Boomer. “So,” Dead-Eye said, “how you been?”

  “We clear upstairs?” Boomer asked, shaking his head in wonder at his old friend. “Or are there more surprises in store?”

  “Third floor looks good,” Dead-Eye said, “at least on a first look. Fourth floor is where our priest is holed up. He had three men on the roof covering him from the top.”

  “You get to them yet?” Boomer asked.

  “Didn’t have to,” Dead-Eye said. “It could have been Tony Rigs or maybe the Russians. Or just a deep depression set in. Either way, they did snow cones off the roof and into the alley.”

  “How do you suppose Ash is making out?” Boomer asked.

  “We should have our answer any minute now,” Dead-Eye said. “If this building lifts off the ground like a NASA space shuttle, we’ll know she came through. Why, you worried about her?”

  “I’m Italian, Dead-Eye. I worry about everything.”

  He jumped to his feet and reached out a hand to help ease Dead-Eye back up. They both looked around: the ornate woodwork, old-world lighting fixtures, flowers, the textured wallpaper, the expensive portraits in gilded frames that surrounded them. “It always plays out this way, you know,” Dead-Eye said. “These kinds of homes never end up with the owners they deserve.”

  “Maybe some do,” Boomer said. “Just never the ones we get to see from the inside.”

  “You think it’s us, then?” Dead-Eye asked. “That we always gravitate our way to the wrong people?”

  “In our case, the wrong people are the ones we want,” Boomer said. “That’s why we took the badge, and that’s why we’re still fighting not to give it up.”

  “Maybe so and probably true,” Dead-Eye said. “But I tell you, just for once I’d love to walk into one of these places without having to bring it to the ground.”

  “Start hanging out in museums,” Boomer said.

  The blast shook the foundation and tossed them across the room. Boomer landed on top of the body of one of the shooters. Dead-Eye hit shoulder and back against the last row of the stairwell, blood running down the right side of his head from a three-inch gash. Pockets of flames roared through the town house, with thick dust clouds fast in their wake. Glass from the ornate windows on every floor exploded in shards and landed on the street and in the rear courtyard. Through the crackle of the fire and the collapsing façade around them, Boomer and Dead-Eye could hear the distant whine of fire and police sirens. “I have to admit,” Dead-Eye said, “that Ash is one scary young lady. But you have to love a woman who can handle dynamite the way she can.”

  “Let’s express-mail our way up the stairs,” Boomer said. “We got about five minutes, maybe less, to put the grab on Angel.”

  Boomer stood in the middle of Angel’s room, lined with books and works of art, its windows blown out, thin lines of smoke billowing in from both inside and out. Dead-Eye sat on a dusty sofa chair, a gun on his lap. Angel sat across from them, in the middle of a thick-ply couch, his expensive clothes tinged with a coating of soot, a pair of black rosary beads curled in his right hand. “A little late to reach for the prayer card, wouldn’t you say?” Boomer asked.

  “It’s an old habit,” Angel said, his voice low and calm, a sharp contrast to the smoke-filled madness that surrounded them. “And you know what it is they say about old habits?”

  “They’re tough for others to take,” Dead-Eye said.

  “I misjudged you,” Angel said. “Not your skills, those I was well aware of. It was your determination that surprised me. I had my doubts as to whether or not you possessed the fortitude to get past those I had placed in your path. It appears that while the years and the wounds have slowed your movements, they have not yet put a dent in your courage.”

  “A lot of people just died because of you, quite a few of them good,” Boomer said. “One of them was my niece.”

  “There are some that have the belief that our next life is the better one,” Angel said, his manner as relaxed as it was cold. “Perhaps that can offer you some form of solace.”

  Boomer lifted his .38 Special and fired a round into Angel’s right shoulder. “No, but that just did,” he said.

  Angel lowered his head, left hand clutching his open wound, blood flowing out between his fingers
, down his silk shirt, and onto the couch. “Your police friends will be coming through that door any second now,” he said to them both, struggling to squeeze out the words. “If you kill me, as I’m sure you intend to do, you might have a difficult time talking your way out of a murder charge, and that would end up being a horrible stain on records as distinguished as yours.”

  “They might go for a bribe,” Dead-Eye said. “That seems to have worked for you.”

  “You don’t have that kind of money,” Angel sneered. “And you never will.”

  “Anyway, we’re not going to kill you,” Boomer said, walking toward Angel and lifting him off the couch. “We’re going to let you escape. You make it out, then you get out. Free again to deal and steal.”

  Dead-Eye jumped up from his chair and went over to the door, cracked it open a notch, and glanced down the stairs. He looked back at Boomer. “They’re on their way up,” he said. “Three uniforms and a plainclothes, guns showing in the lead.”

  “But don’t think we’re going to let you leave empty-handed,” Boomer said to Angel. “That wouldn’t be fair to either you or the cops who will be pegging bullets your way.” Boomer grabbed Angel’s left hand and put a .38 in it, wrapping the gun around his fingers and palms using a roll of clear tape. He reached over and did the same to the other hand, ripping the rosary beads from Angel’s fingers and holding them up in front of his eyes. “You should have used these when you had the chance,” he told him. “You never know, it might have helped.”