Despite herself, Nina felt a pang of sympathy. Whether she was paranoid or just the victim of a hyperactive imagination, Macy had still gone through a lot to meet her “hero”—only for the meeting to fall short of her hopes. “Look,” she said, more quietly, “right now I don’t exactly have the highest opinion of the IHA, but that doesn’t mean they won’t listen to you. Okay? There aren’t bad guys hiding around every corner—you can go to them and tell them your side of the story.”
“I … suppose,” said Macy unhappily.
“You don’t have to do anything right now.” Nina glanced at Joey, who had relaxed. “Go home with your friend, sleep on it, then call the IHA in the morning. I promise, it’ll be okay.”
Macy didn’t appear convinced, but she nodded reluctantly, then walked over to meet Joey near the door.
Nina sat again, deciding she’d wait for them to go before leaving herself. The meeting certainly hadn’t been what she’d expected, but at least it had been different, a break from blankly vegging out in front of the TV.
Though that was all she had to look forward to when she got back to the apartment. Eddie probably wouldn’t finish work for hours. She sighed.
Macy and Joey turned to go. The door opened before they reached it.
And Macy shrieked.
Nina looked up in surprise. In the doorway was a greasy-looking man in a snakeskin jacket, his straggly goatee twisting as he leered at the young woman.
Macy jerked back. “That’s him! He’s one of them!”
“Hi again, li’l girl,” said the man, his grin widening unpleasantly as he advanced. Jaw set, Joey stepped in front of him—
And crumpled to the floor, doubled over as the man smashed a fist—and a set of brass knuckles—into his stomach.
The other customers froze in shock. The man stepped over Joey as Macy fled past Nina to the back of the room.
He followed.…
“Hey!”
He turned toward Nina’s shout—and she flung Macy’s untouched cappuccino into his face. The cup hit his jaw, foaming coffee splashing everywhere.
She kicked a chair at him as he lurched back. “Macy! Run!”
FOUR
Macy shoved past a waitress to a door behind the counter, hesitating as she looked back at the moaning Joey.
“Don’t stop!” Nina ordered as she ran after her. Macy went through the door. Nina followed. The manager moved to bar her way, but flinched back at her shout of “Not me, him! Call the cops!”
The man in the snakeskin jacket hurled the chair aside. Nina slammed the door shut, seeing several large boxes full of bags of coffee beans on nearby shelves. She pulled and a box slammed to the floor, blocking the door.
Macy headed toward a fire door at the back of the storeroom, barging through it into an alley—
A thick arm lashed out, clotheslining her to the ground.
Snakeskin had set a trap—an associate lying in wait outside.
Nina snatched up one of several hefty Pyrex coffeepots from another shelf and ran for the fire exit. The door behind her was kicked open. The box crumpled—but the beans inside it absorbed the impact, stopping the door from opening wide enough to get through.
Nina reached the fire exit. Macy lay dazed on her back outside, a doughy, shaven-headed man bending down to grab her—
The coffeepot hit the top of his head with a flat clonk. He let out a surprised grunt of pain, stumbling back. Nina swung the pot again. This time it shattered against his skull, chunky fragments bursting outward like hailstones. The man fell against a dumpster. Nina reached out to Macy. “Come on, get up!”
Pain and fear momentarily replaced by wide-eyed wonder, Macy gazed up at her before grasping her hands. “Oh—oh my God! That was amazing!”
“You should see me with a teapot. Come on!” Nina pulled her up, jumping over the bald guy as they ran down the alley.
“How did he find me?” Macy cried. “I didn’t tell anyone where I was, not even my parents! How’d they know I was in New York?”
“You told Lola,” Nina realized. “She must have told someone at the IHA, they told Berkeley, he told—whoever those guys work for.” They reached the street.
“But how did they know I was meeting you?”
“What am I, a detective?” Nina saw a cab up the street. She waved furiously as they ran after it. “Taxi!”
“We’re getting a cab?” said Macy in disbelief.
“Unless you’ve got a helicopter, then yeah!” The cab stopped—but not, Nina realized, for them. A well-dressed couple stood on the opposite sidewalk, the man’s hand outstretched. “Hey, that’s our cab!” Nina shouted.
The man grabbed the door handle. “He was stopping for us.”
“This is an emergency, we need it!” Nina reached the vehicle and yanked open the other rear door. “Macy, get in!”
“What the hell are you doing?” the woman shrilled. “Driver, don’t take them!”
“I don’ want no trouble,” said the driver, a skinny man with a strong Brazilian accent, as he leaned out of his open window to address Nina. “I stop for this gen’leman and lady, okay? You wait for next—”
The window of Nina’s door exploded. The driver screeched in agony as a bullet ripped into his left shoulder, speckling the windshield with blood. Nina whipped around, seeing Snakeskin at the end of the alley with a gun in one hand.
Aiming—
“Get down!” she yelled. Macy shrieked and dived headlong into the cab as the rear window blew apart.
Nina threw herself to the asphalt. A bullet hole erupted in the cab’s flank just above her with a plunk of cratered metal. The well-dressed woman screamed hysterically as another window shattered. Nearby pedestrians ran for cover.
The onslaught suddenly stopped.
The gunman’s weapon was a revolver, a six-shooter. He needed to reload.
Nina jumped up and threw open the driver’s door. The Brazilian was hunched in his seat, right hand squeezing his wounded shoulder. “Move over, move!” She stabbed at his seat belt release.
“You can have the cab!” the well-dressed man gabbled as he ran off, his screaming companion clacking after him as fast as her high heels would allow.
Macy peered over the top of the backseat. “Oh oh oh!” she cried, pointing.
“Oh what?” Nina demanded, forcing the protesting Brazilian out of the driver’s seat and jumping in to take his place. She looked back and saw the reason for Macy’s panic. The gunman had drawn a second pistol. “Oh shit!”
She slammed the gear selector to DRIVE and stamped on the gas pedal.
The balding tires screeched before finally finding purchase, the taxi lurching away. It was one of the city’s remaining Ford Crown Victorias, the former mainstay of New York’s taxi fleet that was now being phased out in favor of less-polluting hybrids. To Nina, it seemed as though it should have been retired itself a long time ago, the transmission clunking and whining.
Whatever its state of repair, of course, it could easily outpace a man on foot.
But not his bullets.
“Duck!” shouted Nina. Macy dropped flat again as more shots clanged against the taxi’s bodywork. One whipped over her and struck the bulletproof partition between the front and backseats with a crack, leaving a jagged scar across the Plexiglas.
“My cab!” the driver moaned, financial pain briefly overcoming physical. Teeth gritted, he forced himself upright, took his hand from his wound … and started the meter.
Nina looked at him. “Are you kidding me?”
“No free rides,” he gasped. “Now get me to a hospital!”
More noise from behind—not gunfire, but the shriek of tires as a massive bright red Dodge Ram pickup truck skidded to a standstill. The bald man lumbered from the alley and climbed in, the snakeskinned gunman glaring after the retreating taxi before holstering his empty weapons and running to the cabin’s rear door. With a V8 roar almost as loud as the gunshots, the Ram snarled into pursuit.
“Forget the hospital,” Macy said. “We need the police! Where’s the nearest precinct?”
“I don’t know,” said the driver. Both women shot him looks of disbelief. “I only live here three weeks!”
“Do you know where it is?” Macy asked Nina.
“Ah … no.”
“You said you used to live around here!”
“I never needed to go there—New York’s not that dangerous! Well, normally.” Nina swerved around two cars waiting at a red light and made a wallowing turn to head north. “I think there’s one on Twenty-first Street.”
Macy looked up at the street signs. “That’s over ten blocks! Have you got a phone? I’ll call nine-one-one!”
“Yes,” said the driver, nodding. “Yes, call ambulance, good idea!”
The road ahead was still busy. Pounding the horn, Nina swung out into the opposite lane to pass a crawling garbage truck, barely missing an oncoming car as she darted back in front of it. Macy slithered across the backseat, broken safety glass tinkling beneath her. “Not an ambulance, the police—whoa!” Nina gasped as another cab braked sharply ahead of them. She spun the wheel as fast as she could, but clipped its rear quarter and ripped off the end of its bumper. Enraged horns blared. “Shit! Sorry,” she added to the mortified driver.
She fumbled in her bag for her phone, fighting to keep control of the cab with one hand. Behind, a skirl of rubber and a flare of spotlights in the mirror warned her that the Dodge had made it through the intersection as well. She found the phone, shoving it through the partition’s money slot. “Here!”
Macy dialed 911, giving a hurried, panicky description of their situation to the operator as Nina swerved through traffic to keep out of their pursuers’ line of fire. “The cops said to head for Twenty-first Street,” Macy said, ending the call. “They’re going to try to meet us.”
“If these assholes don’t catch up first.” Despite Nina’s best efforts, the Dodge was gaining. Macy tried to push the phone back through the slot, but she held up a hand. “No! Go to the contacts, call Eddie.”
“Who’s Eddie?”
“My husband.”
“This isn’t the best time to tell him you’ll be late for dinner!”
“Just dial it, smart-ass! He’ll know how to get us out of this!” She shared a worried look with the driver as the cab shot through the next intersection. “I hope.”
Eddie had taken an immediate dislike to Grant’s buddies, a pair of overgrown frat boys who were taking full advantage of the extra seduction power granted by association with a movie star. But he kept his opinions to himself as they pawed at the skimpily dressed girls who had joined them in the VIP lounge. Instead he lurked discreetly nearby, concentrating on his job, which was to get rid of the arseholes and nutters his client didn’t want near him. The arseholes and nutters he did want near him weren’t his problem.
His phone rang. Nina. He wasn’t supposed to take personal calls when he was working. But Grant wouldn’t notice while trying to count his latest lady friend’s teeth with his tongue. “Hey, love. What’s up?”
“Someone’s trying to kill me!”
He could tell she wasn’t joking. It sounded as if she was in a car. “Where are you?”
“The East Village, around Twelfth Street.”
Shit! That was almost half the length of Manhattan away, a hundred blocks—the better part of five miles. “How many bad guys? Are they armed?”
“At least three, and yeah!” An urk of overstressed tires came from the other end of the line, followed by a high-pitched shriek and angry car horns.
The shriek wasn’t Nina. “Who’s with you?”
“Someone from the IHA and the cabdriver—he’s been shot!”
“Why aren’t you calling an ambulance?” demanded a pained but angry male voice.
Eddie’s fists tightened in frustration. He was too far away to help directly—all he could offer was advice. “Have you called the cops?”
“Yeah—we’re trying to get to a precinct.”
His eyes locked on to Grant, an idea forming. “I’ll call you right back,” he said. “Just keep ahead of ’em!”
He ended the call and strode to Grant’s table. “And I do my own stunts too,” the actor was boasting to the wide-eyed young woman. “In Nitrous, when I ran along the top of that tanker truck as it blew up? That was really me.”
He was neglecting to mention the computer-enhanced fireballs and all the safety gear that had been digitally painted out of the shot, but Eddie decided not to enlighten her. Instead, he held out his hand. “Mr. Thorn. I need your valet parking token.”
Grant looked up, confused. “What?”
“The parking token. Give it to me.”
The actor stared at him uncomprehendingly. One of his friends rose with a drunken smirk. “Hey, Mr. Bodyguard, how about you chill the fuck out and give us some priva—”
An instant later his arm was twisted up behind his back and his face slammed against the table. Grant flinched. “Token!” Eddie snapped. “Now!”
“Uh, what are you doing?” Grant asked as he fumbled for it.
Eddie shoved his friend to the floor and snatched it from him. “I need your car,” he said as he hurried for the stairs, the VIP lounge’s other occupants not sure how to react to the lightning-fast burst of violence.
“Dude, you are so fired!” Grant shouted, jumping up and following. “And there’s no way you are taking my car. No way!”
“Way,” Eddie replied. He raced down the stairs and pushed through the crowd. Shouts rose behind him as the clubgoers realized there was a Hollywood star in their midst and closed in on Grant as if drawn magnetically.
He reached the street and thrust the token into the head valet’s hand, together with a fifty-dollar bill. “Mr. Thorn’s car. Quick.” The valet pocketed the money and issued instructions into a walkie-talkie. Eddie impatiently tapped a foot.
His phone rang again. “Nina! What’s happening?”
“Still being chased!”
“I’ll be there as quick as I can.”
“How quick will that be?”
He heard the high snarl of the Lamborghini’s engine from the parking garage. “Very.”
The Murciélago emerged from the garage, streetlights gleaming from its polished orange skin. It pulled up in front of the VIP entrance, driver’s door scissoring upward. Eddie held up another fifty to entice the valet out—
“Hey!” Grant rushed onto the sidewalk, shrugging off his fans. “Stop him! That’s my car!”
The valet was still unfolding himself from the low-slung driver’s seat. The bouncer who had mocked Eddie’s height earlier advanced. “Okay, hold it—”
Eddie kneed him in the groin, then smashed a fist up into his face as he doubled over, knocking him backward into his companion. Both men tumbled, pulling down the velvet rope. Clubbers saw their chance and rushed for the doors, the queue suddenly degenerating into anarchy.
Eddie yanked the gawping valet from the Lamborghini, tossing him onto the bouncers, then swung himself into the car and pulled down the door. He put the Murciélago into gear and was about to take off when Grant leapt in front of it, banging his hands down on the hood. “You’re not taking my car, man!”
Eddie revved the engine, jolting the car forward a few inches. Grant’s face flashed with fear, but he held his ground. Changing tack, Eddie looked through the narrow rear window to make sure he wasn’t about to squash anybody, then snicked the gear stick into reverse and sharply pulled back.
Grant almost fell flat on his face before regaining his balance. He caught up as Eddie stopped, and flung open the passenger door. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Someone’s trying to kill my wife!” Eddie shouted. “I need to get t
o her, fast—either get in or get out of the way!”
Grant chose the former, his bewildered expression returning. “Dude? Seriously?”
“Seriously!”
“Shit, dude, no way! Well, come on, let’s go save her!” The half smile on Grant’s face suggested that he was already picturing himself as a real-life action hero. “What are you waiting for? Let’s roll!”
Eddie held back a sarcastic comment. Instead, he blasted the Murciélago away from the nightclub with an earsplitting V12 howl.
Nina looked back. The Ram was still behind them, closing in as both vehicles weaved through the traffic along Third Avenue. The pickup truck was much larger than the cab, not a vehicle at home on the streets of New York, but it was more powerful—and better maintained. The Crown Victoria now sounded as though several important parts were rattling around loose in the gearbox.
The driver was making just as much noise. “For the love of God,” he cried, “stop! You can keep the cab, just let me out!”
“Look—what’s your name?”
“Ricardo!”
“Ricardo,” said Nina, “we’re almost at the police precinct. Okay? Just one more block!” She pounded on the horn and swung the cab into the wrong lane to avoid cars stopped at the 20th Street intersection, cringing as she saw headlights rushing at her from the left—then the taxi was through. She hauled it back into the right-hand lanes.
The Ram also swerved, smashing into a car and sending it spinning onto the sidewalk. But the truck was barely slowed, the heavy bullbar across its radiator grille taking the brunt of the impact.
Macy stared back at the crash. “Jesus!”
“Hang on!” The next intersection was just ahead …
Which way was the precinct? Left or right?
Twenty-first Street was one-way, traffic running westbound across Manhattan—and the road to the right was blocked by cars waiting at the red light.
No choice.
Nina turned hard left, the cab tipping on its suspension—and skidding stright toward a Porsche parked just beyond the crosswalk.
The Pyramid of Doom_A Novel Page 7
