When the windshield shattered, Joe hit the gas, and began to swerve deliberately, slaloming along the road to make it harder for the shooter to aim. Meanwhile, Yelena pushed the dog onto the floor, petting him swiftly and commanding him to lie down and stay, then raised her weapon and hunted for the shooter. But with two lanes of traffic, much of it big trucks, and two more rows of vehicles parked along the shoulder, it was hard to see exactly what was happening, and there wasn’t anywhere to hide. So Joe floored it, and as the Jeep picked up speed, he saw Donna, out of her car, gun drawn, also searching for the source of the bullet.
That became clear when the black Benz, which Joe recognized, pulled out, drawing honks as it screeched through a U-turn and came after them, with a Hummer looming behind it. A few seconds later, Donna was back in her car and chasing them.
“You back there, Cash?” Joe asked over the mic.
“Yup. Right on your tail. Which keeps getting longer, by the way. What’s with this Hummer?”
“I don’t know but if you can help give us some breathing room, I’d appreciate it.”
“Say no more.”
Cash gunned his engine, which roared with power as he slipped onto the shoulder, passing the Fed in her Fedmobile—a black Impala, perfectly respectable but no match for what he had—then checking out the Hummer as he passed that—two guys, one white, one Black, clean-cut army types. Despite its power, neither the Hummer nor its driver were anywhere near as nimble as Cash, and he slid into the gap, nearly moving horizontally, like an expert parallel parker snatching somebody’s spot. Then he braked. The Hummer driver hit his brake and his horn, both too hard, rocking forward and barely kissing Cash’s bumper, and his ass, as Cash threw his car into higher gear and stomped the gas, slipping away. The big beast fishtailed as it tried to do the same, but the Fed, who Cash had to admit was not bad, swerved around it and took next place in the race, behind the Camaro. She hit her flashers and siren, trying to tell him to clear the way. He waved and hit his turn signal, as if he was going to, but then kept swerving in front of her, slowing as did, like a dipshit driver who was panicking and had no idea what to do.
Behind the wheel, Donna was on the radio now. “Calling all law enforcement. This is a federal agent, calling for assistance. In pursuit of . . . two or three suspect vehicles.”
Newark police and the NJ State Troopers both responded and Donna identified herself and described the vehicles. Then Blaze came on.
“Zamora is that you?”
“Affirmative Deputy Logan.”
“I was just on my way to meet you.”
“Change of plans. Want to help me catch a couple suspects?”
“That’s what I do. I’m joining up with the posse now at the highway junction. We’ll cut them off at the pass.”
“Thanks.”
Now she had this black Camaro in her way though. It was a brand-new muscle car, jacked up and gleaming, but the dude inside it—and it was always a dude—had no idea how to drive. Typical. He had his blinkers on, first the left, then the right, then the hazards, and was slowing down, but couldn’t seem to get out of the way. She got on the squawk box:
“Pull over to your right . . . Right!” she ordered as he swerved right, then started to skid on the gravel at the shoulder and swerved back left, cutting across her and dangerously close to the traffic coming the other way.
Jesus, she thought, how did this guy get a license? Then she heard automatic gunfire from up ahead. And a moment later, more gunfire, from her left, as the guy in the Hummer shot out her tires.
32
ONCE THE DOG WAS safely on the floor, and Joe was on the open road, Yelena crept into the rear seat and, aiming carefully out the back, opened fire on the Russian and his gunman in the Benz. She knocked out the windshield and both headlights before the driver took evasive action and peeled off, dropping to the rear of the pack, leaving Cash right behind them and then Donna in her car behind him. Cash smiled at Yelena, as he held Donna back, and the Jeep moved further away. Then Yelena saw the Hummer pulling up alongside Donna, roaring along the shoulder, full speed, with a gunner now upright through the opening in the roof, aiming an AR-15. He carefully took out Donna’s tires, sending her skidding off the road. The Hummer’s driver muscled in on Cash in the Camaro, threatening to push him into oncoming traffic, while the gunner took a shot at Cash through the roof.
“Shit, that was close,” Cash called over the mic. “He’s trying to get through me to you. I’ll try to hold him back a little longer.”
It didn’t matter though. Riding high above the Camaro, the gunner was able to fire over Cash’s car and into the Jeep. Yelena hit the floor, hugging the dog, as bullets tore into the back seat and the rear panel.
“You okay?” Joe asked, still speeding forward.
“So far,” Yelena told him. “He hit the extra gas tank.” The plastic container of extra fuel strapped to the rear of the Jeep was now leaking dangerously.
“Better ditch it then,” Joe said, and reached under the passenger seat for the emergency kit. He pulled the flare gun out and handed it to her. “Give them this as well.”
“Right.”
The Hummer bucked against the Camaro, trying to brush Cash aside.
“Let them through, Cash,” Joe said over the mic. “And watch out. Yelena’s going to light them up.”
“Cool. I’m out,” Cash said, and swerved away, letting the Hummer pass. As it closed in on the Jeep, pulling in right behind them, Yelena rose up and threw the leaking gas canister. It thumped onto the windshield, gasoline spilling from the bullet holes. Immediately, she fired the flare, blasting it into the fuel can. It blew.
Like napalm, the gas caught, first the fumes from the ruptured container, then the liquid fuel splashing on the roof, and then, a split second later, the whole can. Instantly the hood of the Hummer was covered, as flames danced over the liquid, licking everywhere it spilled like tongues of blue and orange. The terrified gunner ducked back inside as the driver swerved, his windshield blind with flames. In a panic, he veered wildly, drove onto the shoulder, and banged into a tree, as they both bailed out of the truck.
Now it was just the Benz still trailing behind Yelena and Joe, and they had a decent lead. But there was trouble ahead. Juno had been monitoring the law’s frequencies from the rear of the truck and he warned Joe about a roadblock a mile ahead, at the last exit before they joined the main highway.
“Are you clear back there?” Joe asked.
“Yeah we’re like a quarter mile behind you,” Liam put in. “Normal traffic now. No cops.”
“Then we’ll come to you,” Joe said and made a hard left. Leaning on his horn, as on-coming cars honked and swayed around him, he cut the wheel, and skidded into a U-turn, then straightened out, and rejoined the flow, going the opposite way. The Russian stayed with him, repeating the move, as terrified drivers veered away, honking frantically. Joe stayed in the left lane, pushing as hard as he could, until he saw the truck on his left, coming toward them. Liam gave a quick wave. Then Joe did it again.
Cranking the wheel left, he cut across the double yellow, and swung into the traffic, which braked and honked and yelled, then gunned it and re-joined the flow, now a few dozen yards behind the truck. This time the Russian took a beat longer, but soon he was there again, behind them.
“Okay,” Joe said over the mic. “Same getaway plan as before but with a slight change. We’re going to have to keep moving.”
Liam kept the truck rolling steady while Josh, watching in his side mirror, waited for Joe to work his way up, passing other cars, and finally falling into place right behind them. “Ready,” Joe said, keeping about one car length back. Then Josh lowered the gate. The metal ramp came down on its hydraulics, and when the lip began to scrape along the asphalt, Juno flung the door up from inside. Joe slowly increased his speed, nosing the Jeep’s front wheels onto the ramp. The Russian, seeing what was happening, sped up too, bumping them from behind. Yelena fired a couple sh
ots, brushing him back, while Joe gave it some gas, racing the motor, and drove up into the truck.
“Lift it!” he yelled over the mic, and Josh hit the power, bullets ringing off the metal gate as it came up, shielding them inside. The Russian was right behind them now.
“Need a gun?” Juno asked, as Joe and Yelena jumped out of the Jeep.
“Nope,” Joe said, “I got it,” and pulled his folding camp knife from his pocket. He began to slash at the plastic-wrapped bales of manure stacked along one side of the truck. “Help me lift it,” he said, and Juno and Yelena came to his aid. “Time to unload this shit.”
Together they hoisted the bale over the gate and it dumped onto the hood of the Russian’s Benz, where it burst open, spilling an avalanche of manure over the hood and through the blown-out windshield. The driver and passenger tried to brush it away, but another bale followed, burying them. Unable to see, and with fertilizer blowing around them like a small brown hurricane, the driver pulled onto the shoulder and stopped. His passenger, the guy in the ponytail, leapt from the car and tried to take a shot, but the truck was gone in the flow of traffic.
Juno and Joe lowered the door. A few minutes later, the truck had slowed to a crawl, as they reached the roadblock, were waved on by bored state troopers, and made their way to the Lincoln Tunnel.
Meanwhile Toomey, who had proceeded to the Wildwater container with no problems, selected the items on his pickup list, loaded them into his own Jeep, and left. By the time he reached the exit, the excitement was all over, and he proceeded on his way without impediment. He was a little annoyed at all the backed-up traffic; after all, he had a schedule to keep.
PART IV
33
JOE WAS TRYING TO think. They were in Old Shenanigan’s Ale House, the sprawling, packed Irish pub in the West 30s, (or Irish-ish—it had green tablecloths and Guinness on tap but bore little resemblance to anything Liam remembered from home) that once belonged to Patty White and that Liam and his brothers now controlled. They were in a barren upstairs room, half-finished and in a permanent state of construction, off limits to employees and unknown to the tourists and local office workers who packed the street-level saloon. It was safe—swept regularly for bugs, windowless, and stripped to the beams. There was even a secret sub-basement where, decades ago, Pat had buried a rival, and where Liam had now hidden the stolen stash. All in all, Pat had been smart to use it for meetings; except, that is, for the night he came to meet Liam here and found Gio, who shot him.
Now the crew were on folding chairs with their drinks on a bridge table, mostly beers, with a Coke for Juno and a black coffee for Joe. But he hadn’t touched it. He was pacing around, hearing the faint hum of the bass from the bar below, and trying to think while the others watched and waited. Finally Juno broke the silence.
“How come with this job I feel like we’re always one step behind, you know?”
Yelena nodded. “Yes, right from the start in Afghanistan.”
Cash put in: “A little more bad luck today and we would have been the ones eating shit instead of that Russian.”
Juno grimaced in anger, waving his tablet: “That’s what burns me most. I mean, at first I thought, okay, I got it all wrong about the delivery. But then why were all those cops and crooks there, if there was no damned dope?”
Joe, who had been standing outside the circle, staring into space, turned to Juno, as though he’d been woken from a nap. “You’re right,” he said, brightly. “Something went wrong.”
Juno nodded. “I know, man, no need to rub it in.”
Joe went on, as if talking to himself. “I mean with them. Look, you’re right, all of you, we’ve been a step behind this whole time. Why? Because they knew more than us. But they must have thought there was going to be dope in that container also. And with no more product they’re going to be feeling the pressure. So we keep turning the screw.”
Liam nodded. “Now you’re talking. How?”
“Maybe it’s time for me to talk to the boss, directly.”
Cash frowned. “You mean Anton?”
“I mean the little man in the glass tower who pulls the strings.”
“Oz?” Juno asked.
Josh, who had been texting, turned to Joe. “Sorry to interrupt, Joe. But I have an urgent message.”
“What is it?”
“It’s not the kind of thing you text. It’s waiting outside.”
Donna was trying to think. Andy, Blaze, Fusco, and Parks were all crammed into her little office, Fusco of course filling the armchair, Andy on a smaller straight-back chair, Blaze and Parks leaning on her desk, and Donna behind it. She was explaining what went down that day.
“Look, the way I see it, I had no choice. I played my hand. The suspect led me to Jersey. I called you, I called the office, and I called a friend who was local for backup. Then it all went sideways before anyone got there. What could I do?”
“You could have caught somebody,” Fusco offered. “Or found some dope. Or learned something. Or not lost track of our suspect. Any one of those would have worked.”
Blaze gave him a dirty look, Andy and Parks groaned, but Donna laughed.
“I’m starting to like you, Fusco.”
He grinned. “You too, Zamora.”
“But you’re only half right. Or three quarters. I did learn something. We know how the dope is getting in. What else were they all there for, armed to the teeth at a freight depot? Andy . . .” She turned to him. “Can you find out who had international pickups scheduled this morning? Let’s see if anyone jumps out at us.”
Andy nodded and opened his laptop.
“As for our lost Russian.” She turned back to Fusco. “Who does he work for?”
“Anton Solonik,” Fusco said. “I got it from OC Task Force.”
“Right. Our files say the same thing. So now we know: the Russian mob is behind White Angel, they’re using hired muscle to take more territory to sell it, and they’re bringing it in via air freight from somebody in that depot.”
“Well I can make a pretty good guess about that somebody,” Andy said. With his FBI clearance he had logged into the listing of shipments. “There was a whole pile of pickups this morning, it’s a busy place. But when I narrow the field, only one pops out.”
He showed them the screen. Fusco squinted at it. “I can’t read shit without my glasses.”
Parks leaned in. “It says, defective merchandise. Shipped from West Germany.”
“Amazing,” Fusco said. “Thank God for the high-tech FBI.”
“Even we have to scroll down,” Andy said. “That’s just where it was consolidated. The goods originate at offices in . . . Frankfurt, Rome, Istanbul, Saudi Arabia, Tel Aviv, Iraq, and . . . hold your applause: Fucking A. F. Ghanistan.”
“That’s got to be it,” Donna said, leaning in. “What’s the company?”
Andy read: “Wildwater Corporation. Headquarters are right here in town.”
“What do you say, detective?” Donna asked Fusco. “Is that a lead or what?”
He grinned. “Not bad for a f . . .” he began, but Blaze cut him off.
“You better not say for a female, or I will shoot you dead right now.”
“I was going to say for a feeb,” he said and winked at her.
Blaze laughed. “Sorry. I shouldn’t presume you’re an asshole. It’s not fair.”
“Oh, it’s fair,” Parks said. “He is for sure an asshole.”
Andy added, “You just can’t presume what kind.”
Even Fusco cracked up at that, and Donna was leaning back in her chair laughing, when her computer screen flashed a flagged message alert at the same that her phone vibrated. She leaned in, still smiling and clicked to see what was so urgent. Zahir had sent her an email.
Joe and Josh walked out of the pub. A black town car was idling in front. When he saw Joe, the driver, a young, bearded man in a black, wide brim hat, with a gun bulging the side of his black suit, hopped out and opened the rear doo
r, then waited, bumming a cigarette from Josh, while Joe got inside.
“Good afternoon, Rebbe, how are you? We going to the deli again?”
Rebbe laughed and squeezed Joe’s hand in both of his, kissing him on the cheek. His beard tickled. “I wish! Better than the dry corned beef Patty used to serve here, olav ha-shalom. But I’m going to the cardiologist after this. Never eat pastrami before you get your cholesterol checked.” He sat back. “I’m afraid this is a business call. Unpleasant business.”
“Tell me.”
“I wanted to warn you, personally, since I know you’re friends, that there’s a contract out on the rushish meydl. The shiksa.”
“Yelena?”
He nodded.
“Who put it out?”
“Anton . . . a curse on his name, he should crap blood and piss pus. Black sorrow is all that his mother should see of him . . . but . . .” He held up a finger. “The situation right now is complicated. We know he attacked us, but we can’t prove it enough to get all the other New York bosses on our side yet, or convince the Russians to give him up. And he hurt our friends too bad for us fight him on our own, with his mercenaries.” Rebbe shrugged. “On the other hand, he can’t admit that the stash you took was his and that he is behind White Angel either. And he can’t come after you, because you are with Gio and this . . .” He tapped Joe’s chest, high on the right side, where the brand was. “. . . marks you as untouchable.”
“You say that,” Joe pointed out, “but the number of people who want to kill me keeps going up overall.”
Rebbe shrugged. “What are you gonna do? But with Yelena it’s different. No offense, but the word is out she was a snitch, informing for SVR in Moscow.”
“She had no choice but to agree,” Joe said. “But she told them nothing once she was here.”
“I know, I know, boychick, but this way Anton has a legitimate reason no one will dispute, and she has no powerful friends to back her up.”
“She has me,” Joe said.
Against the Law Page 21
