A Thick Crimson Line (Mike Walton Book 3)
Page 32
In one swift movement, he collapsed the stock of his Arsenal Shipka submachine gun. With that done, the Shipka was less than thirteen inches long and easily concealed. His last shot had missed its intended target, but he didn’t have the time to re-engage. Louis Wall was dead; that’s all that mattered now.
Going down the steps two at a time, Zakhar jumped the last four and ran through the Grand Central Market toward the Lexington exit. Outside, police sirens filled the air and so did the smell of burnt peanuts from a nearby food cart.
Time to disappear.
Amid the commotion around him, he removed his grey hood and grabbed a loose-fitting beige jacked from his backpack. He put on the garment over the Shipka’s sling so his weapon wouldn’t be obvious but would remain accessible at the same time.
Going north on Lexington Avenue, Zakhar walked past the Verizon store before turning right on East 44th Street. He didn’t dare look back when he heard the police vehicles roaring behind him as they raced on Lexington Avenue. His car, a navy blue Chevy Impala, was parked in a public parking garage just east of Third Avenue.
The turmoil of Grand Central Station had somewhat vanished but Zakhar spotted two uniformed police officers running toward him from further up East 44th Street.
They don’t have my physical description. Stay calm.
Zakhar stepped down from the sidewalk and let the two officers run past him. His eyes followed after them, but neither gave him a second look. Once he was certain they didn’t represent a threat, he turned around to resume his walk toward his car but stopped dead in his tracks. Less than two meters away, a tall, heavyset man wearing a dark two-piece suit over a white shirt and blue tie blocked his way. The man’s right hand was inside his suit jacket where a service weapon would be if he had one. The gold NYPD detective badge on the man’s belt pretty much confirmed that assumption. How did he know?
“Don’t move, and make sure your hands stay where they—”
Zakhar never hesitated. Action’s faster than reaction. Always.
He closed the distance almost instantly and threw a powerful kick at the detective’s right knee. The detective let out a loud cry but was nevertheless successful at pulling his service pistol out of its holster. Before he could fire, Zakhar was already on him, gripping the other man’s wrist with his right hand while his left grabbed the barrel of the pistol, pushing it outward. A shot went off harmlessly and Zakhar continued the outward movement of the pistol, effectively trapping the detective’s finger inside the trigger guard. The finger snapped. An enraged scream came out of the officer’s mouth. Zakhar was now in control of the detective’s pistol, but the other man wasn’t beaten yet. A powerful left hook connected with Zakhar’s chin followed by an uppercut that sent him flying in the air.
Zakhar forced his eyes open. He was on his back, spread-eagled on the sidewalk with no pistol in hands. His vision was blurred, his head dizzy, and his jaw was throbbing. He tasted blood and his mouth and cut his tongue on a broken tooth.
The detective’s eyes were filled with rage. A pocketknife had materialized in his hand. With no other options, and still on his back, Zakhar brought up the Shipka and fired.
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Mike Walton’s heart was racing. Where did the bastard go? Mike had holstered his Taurus to avoid unwanted attention. NYPD cruisers were now parked on Lexington Avenue. Mike guessed other police vehicles were also covering the other exits. Some uniformed officers had rushed in, while others remained outside.
What would I do if I wanted to escape? Lexington Avenue’s traffic is to the south. If I didn’t want to make it easy for a police car, I’d go in the opposite direction.
Mike jogged northbound on Lexington, but to no avail. No man with a gray hood. Aware his prey could have had a change of clothes, Mike estimated his chances of finding him from nil to very low.
Three shots fired in rapid succession changed his mind.
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Zakhar watched the detective stagger backward. A weaker man would have already collapsed. The detective was strong, his will to live even stronger, guessed Zakhar. But the three red dots on his white shirt told Zakhar all he needed to know; the police officer had only a few seconds to live. Disbelief, surprise, and finally fear registered on the detective’s face. Then his eyes went blank and he fell.
Cognizant the sound of his Shipka had attracted attention, Zakhar, still lightheaded, pulled himself together and forced himself to his feet. A dozen or so pedestrians looked at the scene in shock, some of them frozen in fear. But a few had their smartphones out and were recording.
My face will be all over the news in less than an hour. I need to get out of here. Now.
Disoriented, Zakhar realized the detective must have hit him harder than he had originally thought. He had difficulty focusing on anything. The world around him started to spin. His legs buckled under him.
“Hey, you!” someone yelled behind him.
Zakhar turned around. Two Arabic-looking men were walking purposefully toward him. The men were wearing red T-shirts with the word “Security” written on the front. They had baseball bats. Zakhar knew he was about to get hit. He tried to bring the Shipka up but couldn’t. He had no strength left.
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Mike Walton ran as fast as he could. Less than eighty meters away, a man was down on the sidewalk. Two men armed with baseball bats were surrounding another man, but this one had a submachine gun.
Mike was sure he had found who he was looking for even though the grey hood had vanished. He had to take over the situation before anyone else got hurt. What are these two bozos playing at? Didn’t they know you never bring a baseball bat to a gunfight?
Fifty meters.
Mike reached for his Taurus and slowed his pace to a brisk walk. He wanted to make sure he had his breathing under control and that he could analyze the situation before getting in.
Forty meters.
Radios crackling and heavy footsteps behind him had him take a quick look.
Mike cursed under his breath. Three uniformed officers, the same he’d seen standing right outside Grand Central Station’s Lexington exit less than two minutes ago, were now running with weapons in hand in the same direction he was headed. They’d probably heard the same gunshots he did. His FBI identification wouldn’t work with these guys. They wouldn’t care. The best thing was to let the officers do their job and then use the IMSI to dig out the intelligence the NYPD would get from the shooter.
It didn’t please Mike, but he had no choice. Too many questions would be asked if he got involved. He holstered his Taurus and crossed the street to get a better look at the takedown he knew was about to happen.
Then the head of the man he’d been chasing exploded, and Mike was forced to hit the ground one more time.