by Tom Wood
The dark blue Ford hurtled along the street behind him.
Victor shifted into drive and accelerated away, rubber hissing and screeching, the car shaking and swerving. The Ford grew larger in his rear-view, the two silhouettes forming into two men, the passenger black, the driver white. Both suited. Both serious and determined.
He slid into a hard right and the Ford charged, but missed his rear bumper by inches. He worked the wheel and saw the guy driving the Ford doing the same, crossing over his hands as he fought to keep the car under control, going at speed on a slick surface. It clipped the kerb before he managed to control the Ford’s lateral movement.
By that time Victor was already fifty metres along the road, residential buildings flashing by.
Cold air rushing through the smashed-out passenger’s window made his eyes water. The rain soaked his hair and shirt. Pedestrians were blurred smudges of colour in his peripheral vision.
A stationary bus blocked the lane, the driver and passengers having long since abandoned it. Victor swerved around its left side. He jerked as the front wheel jumped the kerb for a second before dropping back down on to the road, hitting a puddle and splashing up a wall of dirty rainwater.
He saw no pursuing vehicle in his rear-view. No headlights sparkled through raindrops on the rear windscreen. He doubted he had lost it with such ease. He wasn’t prepared to fool himself into thinking so. It was still out there. Still close. Where?
The question was answered as he shot across an intersection and the Ford appeared at his side, swerving from the bisecting road.
Horns sounded as they rounded other cars moving at slow speeds, cautious and sensible drivers taking no risks with the lack of street lights and traffic lights.
The Ford nudged into the passenger side, denting bodywork and forcing Victor to fight the wheel to stay straight. The driver threw him a look of satisfaction that said you’re mine.
The engine roared as he pushed the car for all it had. The Ford stayed with him, the newer vehicle having the advantage in horsepower and torque. He wasn’t going to lose it in a straight-line race.
He yanked the steering wheel, careering into the Ford as it had done to him. Steel buckled. The driver hadn’t expecting Victor to fight back, only to run. Rending metal shrieked. The impact took the Ford driver by surprise and he reacted too hard, fighting the wheel too much. Tyres skidded and screeched on the wet road. The Ford swayed in a lateral back and forth rhythm. The driver, panicking, fought harder to control it. The wrong thing to do.
He lost control. The Ford spun. Black smoke from burnt tyre rubber mixed with the mist of rainwater.
In his rear-view, Victor saw the Ford crash side-on into a parked taxi.
For now, he’d escaped. But the car was a dented, broken wreck. Still drivable, but its plate and description no doubt already gone out to every cop and federal agent in the city. A mile away, he brought the car to a juddering halt and ditched it on a quiet street beneath an overpass.
The air by the river was cold and refreshing. Victor drew in big lungfuls. Looking at the river made him aware of his thirst. His mouth and throat were both dry. He was hungry.
The blackout was helping him in several ways. Without street lights many roads were blocked by traffic or clogged with pedestrians, making the NYPD’s job more difficult. They were struggling to get enough manpower into the area, even if their resources weren’t already strained dealing with an overload of emergency calls. Otherwise there might be forty or more cops in the area by now, sealing it off and searching for him.
He walked away from the car. Even if they weren’t here yet, more agents or cops would be on the way.
FORTY-TWO
Victor headed south. He allowed himself to slow down to a walk. The chase had elevated his body temperature and he was sweating in an attempt to cool down. That would be a problem if not for the rain coming down hard disguising his body’s attempt to regulate itself.
He was fit and as well conditioned as a professional athlete, but fatigue was beginning to take hold. His limbs were feeling heavy. His mouth was open. His heart raced.
Two cop cars formed a loose barricade ahead. He could get around it easy enough, but not the four cops who stood guarding it. He backtracked through the crowd, only to see more NYPD were setting up another barricade at the other end of the street.
He was forced east with the crowd, taking long strides to reduce his height a little. He saw two cops in his peripheral vision cross the road and head towards him.
Accelerating tyres squealed on the wet asphalt. He looked back to see the white minivan coming after him. He ran, veering across the road and heading west.
A blue-and-white cruiser appeared ahead.
He doubled back and hurried north, the only way left. He heard the helicopter again, or maybe it was another. He felt the net tightening around him. No escape from capture or death.
The sound of sirens, rotor blades and revving engines filled his ears. Nowhere left to go. Nowhere to hide.
Stealing a vehicle was no good. The streets here were too gridlocked to escape behind a wheel. He would only trap himself.
But that gave him an idea.
He headed on to the road and pulled open the back door of a yellow taxi stood still in a line of unmoving traffic.
‘We ain’t goin’ nowhere,’ the driver told him before he had sat down. ‘Power’s down across the whole city. No lights. It’s gonna take a damn week just to get off this street.’
Victor shut the door. ‘That’s fine by me.’
The driver turned round in his seat, disbelief further creasing his worn face. ‘What you say?’
The man appeared to be in his late thirties, with a face worn down by hard experiences. His head was shaved but he had several days’ worth of stubble on his face. His neck was covered in tattoos.
‘I’m happy to sit here.’
‘Are you nuts? What do you think this taxi is, a damn park bench? Take a hike.’ He gestured.
Victor took out a hundred and held it up for the driver to see. ‘Park benches are free though, are they not?’
The taxi driver’s eyes were wide as he took the bill. ‘True that.’ He shoved the bill into his pocket. The firm wouldn’t be taking their cut because the meter wasn’t running. He turned back.
They sat in silence until the driver said, ‘Say, you wanna listen to some tunes while you sit?’
‘Sure. Do you happen to have any Brahms?’
His gaze met Victor’s in the rear-view mirror ‘Any what?’
‘Silence will be fine.’
‘Suit yourself, brother. It’s your park bench.’
He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel in a practised rhythm, supplying a beat to the silent melody his head was moving back and forth to.
Running footsteps made the driver stop and check his wing mirror. Three cops ran by on the pavement and disappeared into the distance. Then four more did the same.
None of the cops so much as looked at the line of traffic, let alone who was sitting in the back of any taxi. They were pursuing a man on foot, at least that’s what they thought.
The driver sat still for a long beat, thinking, deciding, then made eye contact in the mirror and said, ‘Are they…?’
‘Yes.’
It would have been pointless to pretend otherwise. Victor held the driver’s gaze in the rear-view.
The driver burst out laughing. ‘Man, that is some funny shit.’ He slapped a palm on the steering wheel. ‘Now, I knew you were crazy when you climbed into my ride. But I had no mind that you were that crazy. You must have balls as big as balloons to pull off a stunt like this.’
‘I don’t like to brag.’
The driver laughed louder, and Victor managed to smile in the rare moment of calm and humour, sitting in the back of a stationary taxi while a legion of cops hunted for him nearby.
The driver stopped laughing and frowned. ‘Say, you’re not some kind of terrorist or some such shit
, are ya?’
‘Do I look like a terrorist to you?’
‘I don’t know,’ the driver said. ‘I’m not sure how a terrorist is rightly supposed to look. You wearing one of those suicide vests under that shirt? Nah, I guess I could tell.’
Victor thought of a time in Italy. ‘Not necessarily.’
He unfastened a few buttons so the driver could see a section of chest.
The driver smirked and waved a hand. ‘Put that shit away, bro. I don’t need to be seeing that. I guess you’re no terrorist.’
Victor refastened the buttons. ‘I’m glad we can agree on that.’
‘But if you ain’t no terrorist looking to blow yoself up, what the hell are you to be on the run from Five-0?’
‘How long do you have?’ Victor asked.
‘I got as long as you sit there, don’t I?’
Victor risked looking over his shoulder to check the street. No more cops had appeared. The sound of sirens had faded as the search headed away.
He said, ‘I think we’ll have to save it for next time, I’m afraid.’
The driver looked too. ‘Coast clear now, is it?’
Victor nodded. ‘Looks like it.’
The driver grinned. ‘All part of the service. Tell your friends I’m the best damn cab driver in this town.’ He used a thumb to point at himself. ‘I’m Leo.’
Victor said, ‘Now, you’re not going to tell anyone about me, are you?’
‘Do I look like a snitch to you?’
‘No,’ Victor said. ‘You don’t look like a snitch to me.’
‘Damn straight I ain’t. I know the rules. I know how shit works on the street. I didn’t always drive a cab, you know?’
‘That’s good, Leo,’ Victor said, ‘because I really didn’t want to have to kill you.’
The driver didn’t laugh or smirk. He looked at him, intrigued, like he believed Victor hadn’t been joking and in that fact saw far more about his passenger.
He said, ‘Next time I see you I’ll buy you a beer and you can tell how you ended up hiding in the back of my ride. I got a feelin’ that story is worth listenin’ to.’
‘Some things are best left unsaid.’ Victor reached for the door handle. ‘Thank you for this.’
‘No problem, amigo.’
‘I owe you one,’ Victor said. ‘I really mean that. If we ever cross paths again then you can cash it in.’
The driver nodded, thoughtful, then said, ‘Hey, don’t you go nowhere without telling me your name, brother,’ as Victor began to climb out. ‘Not after I saved yo ass.’
For fun, Victor told him.
FORTY-THREE
Three blocks from the cab he bought food and a soda at a taco truck unaffected by the blackout with its own generator. He ate while sheltering from the rain in a doorway with two other taco eaters. They made eye contact with him and each other but no one spoke. They communicated only with grins of contentment, enjoying their meal in silence, but for Victor it was all about the calories. He would have devoured anything with the same relish. His blood needed sugar and his muscles needed glycogen.
One guy went back to the stand for a second taco. Victor followed suit.
Once again they shared a moment’s silent camaraderie as Victor allowed himself to relax. In this brief instance he had no problems nor was in any more danger than the man next to him. A temporary respite, because it was far from over. He needed to be refuelled and ready when they next came for him.
Which they would. The only question was who would find him first: cops or killers.
On another street, he passed a homeless guy in an old, dirty army jacket and beanie hat.
Victor said, ‘I’ll give you a hundred bucks for the jacket.’
He waited while the homeless guy weighed up the offer. He saw Victor’s urgency, and with it, the strength of his own negotiating position.
‘Two hundred.’
‘Deal,’ Victor said. ‘But for that I want the hat too.’
A minute later, he stank of urine, but the green army jacket and hat transformed his appearance. Anyone who looked at him was quick to look away. Everyone noticed him, but no one wanted to. He was as visible and invisible as he had ever been as he set off north towards the Bronx.
The street looked the same as it had earlier. The blackout had made no difference. It had been as dirty and rundown and neglected under a bright afternoon sun as it was in unlit twilight. He saw no government vehicles or midnight-blue panel vans or white minivans or any other vehicle he had seen before. If any of his enemies were nearby, he couldn’t see them. Dressed like a tramp, he hoped they wouldn’t see him either.
It was nearing six p.m. Raven had said to be here in two hours just over two hours ago. Victor hadn’t wanted to be on time or early for once. He didn’t want to wait any longer than he had to. He hadn’t wanted to come back here at all even before he was a fugitive.
He used the alleyway behind the building to break in. The interior was dark and gloomy. He made it to Raven’s front door without seeing another person.
He waited, listening. He could hear no one moving around on the other side. He stood to one side of the door and used the back of his hand to push it open hard enough to surprise someone on the other side, but not hard enough so it would bang against the wall.
No gunshots, so no one had been waiting in the dark to shoot at whoever came through.
Inside, he had walked forward, gun in hand, with slow, careful steps along the hallway before he heard someone further inside the apartment. Maybe Raven. Maybe Guerrero or Wallinger. Maybe cops or residents or Halleck’s people or anyone else.
He kept Raven’s gun low and pointed at the floor because it was dark, and if it wasn’t an enemy waiting for him, he didn’t want someone else to see the gun raised. He didn’t want to get killed by a trigger-happy resident investigating a break-in or the like.
Ahead, the lounge area was better lit than the hallway because someone had opened the blackout blinds and what remained of the sunlight illuminated the open space. He stepped into it to see a man in a suit, wearing a tan raincoat. He was trying to get his cell phone to work.
Wallinger.
‘Hands where I can see them,’ Victor said.
Wallinger turned to face him, surprised at the sound of Victor’s voice, but not shocked; not scared. Wallinger’s gaze fell to the gun in Victor’s hands.
‘Why does a credit enforcement agent need a piece?’
Victor said, ‘It’s a jungle out there.’
‘A jungle gone dark,’ Wallinger replied. He held up his phone. ‘Cell towers must be down too or the networks are overloaded.’
‘Everyone’s calling home or trying to find out how to get home.’
Wallinger nodded. He dropped the phone into a pocket of his raincoat. ‘Why don’t you put that gun away?’
He gestured with an outstretched hand while the other hovered near his waistband, fingers making small movements as if playing the keys of an invisible piano.
Victor looked from the moving fingers to the coat that hung open centimetres away.
‘What?’ Wallinger asked.
‘What’s under your jacket?’
‘Nothing,’ he was quick to answer. Too quick.
‘Move your hand away from your gun.’
Wallinger looked down and seemed surprised to find the hand hovering at his waistband. The fingers stopped moving, the hand clenching into a fist that remained in place. His gaze rose to meet Victor’s.
‘Why?’ Wallinger said.
‘You know why.’
The man said nothing.
‘You have two choices,’ Victor said. ‘We don’t need to go into details, but it’s in your best interests to pick the second one. So do it.’
‘You can’t tell me what to do. I’m a federal agent. I think you’re forgetting your place here.’
‘I’m not telling you what to do,’ Victor explained. ‘I’m advising you on what you should do.’
&
nbsp; Wallinger’s jaw clenched as he thought.
‘Take your time,’ Victor said.
Wallinger raised his hands. ‘You’re making a mistake.’
Victor nodded. ‘I’ve been making a lot of those recently. Another isn’t going to make much difference. I want to see your identification.’
‘You’ve already seen it.’
Victor gestured with the gun. ‘I have short-term memory issues.’
Wallinger smirked and moved his right hand towards his chest.
‘Use your left instead.’
Wallinger frowned. ‘My badge is in my left inside pocket.’
‘I’m in no hurry.’
It took a little effort for Wallinger to work the ID out of the pocket, but he managed the awkward manoeuvre better than most would.
‘Now what?’ he asked.
‘Throw it to me,’ Victor said.
Wallinger did. Victor caught it in his left palm while his gaze remained on Wallinger.
‘Put both hands on the top of your head.’
Wallinger sighed. ‘You’ve got to be fucking joking.’
‘Do it,’ Victor ordered. ‘And watch your language.’
With obvious indignity Wallinger did as he was told. Victor flipped open the badge booklet. It was the same as before. Genuine, or a fake as good as genuine.
Victor said, ‘Where’s Guerrero?’
Wallinger didn’t answer, but Guerrero said, ‘I’m behind you. Drop the gun.’
FORTY-FOUR
Victor heard the soft click of a hammer being cocked behind him, so he did as he was told. When he turned round he saw why he hadn’t heard her enter. She had no shoes on her feet.
‘You’re not very smart,’ Guerrero said. ‘Are you?’
‘Try not to judge me on my recent actions. I’m usually a lot better at this.’
Wallinger said, ‘At debt collecting?’ and drew his own gun.
He didn’t cock it, Victor noted, so he knew they weren’t planning on killing him. At least, not yet.