“He’s going to kill you when he gets here,” Eli says. “He’s going to kill us, and he’s going to kill you.”
“No doubt it’s a risk, but I think it’s a risk worth taking. What about you, Charlie?”
Charlie offers a consenting nod.
“Besides,” the passenger says, “he says we have to keep you alive. But the other two, the girl and your kid, we’re free to kill them right now.”
He starts to turn in his seat, shifting the gun toward Ashley, but that’s as far as he gets before I learn forward, swinging my arm, and jam the needle of the syringe into his left eye.
twenty-four
Ashley had sensed the sudden tension at once. Granted, this entire crazy mess was intense, and she was still trembling from adrenaline or fear or whatever it was, and yes, none of this made any sense to her, but if there was one thing she knew, it was how to read people. She had the uncanny ability to walk into a packed room, give the place a once-over, and immediately know everything, or at least close to everything, there was to know about each person.
So in the SUV, she had sensed at once that the older man—Melissa’s father, Eli—could be trusted. The two up front, though—the driver and passenger—had the solid stoicism of trained soldiers. After all, she witnessed one of them come rushing at her with an automatic weapon. She saw the aftermath of his gunplay.
Worst of all, of course, was Jeff. Poor, sweet Jeff, who always had a smile for her, who always innocently flirted with her, who helped her out today because he felt bad. Jeff, whose wife and children didn’t even know yet that he was dead.
She still remembered the blank look in his eyes as he lay at the bottom of the steps. It would forever be seared into her mind.
So yes, that was mostly what she was thinking about—how now Jeff’s wife and children would go husbandless and fatherless and it was all her fault—when she sensed the sudden tension, all stemming from the cell phone in the middle console ringing and the passenger answering it. Eli speaking, the passenger responding, and next thing she knew the passenger was pointing at a gun first at Eli, then, after several moments, at her.
That was when everything went crazy.
Beside her, John Smith leaning forward and swinging something at the passenger’s face.
The passenger crying out, his head jerking back, his gun moving off to the side and exploding as he discarded a round.
The bullet striking the driver in the neck, blood squirting everywhere, raining the interior.
The SUV speeding up, the driver slumping forward on the wheel, his foot heavy on the gas.
On the other side of her, Eli springing forward, squeezing between the two seats, reaching for the passenger’s gun.
John Smith grabbing the passenger’s head and pulling him away as the passenger tried to turn in the seat, raising the gun again.
Eli attempting to wrestle the gun from the passenger, both of them gripping it and neither letting go, the passenger squeezing the trigger several more times, the bullets tearing into the roof of the SUV.
Ashley, frozen in the middle, watching it all happen, wanting to do something but uncertain what to do, when she looked past the ongoing struggle, out the windshield, and saw they were coming to an intersection, that there were no cars in front of them on this street, but neither was there any more street.
It was a T-intersection, a coffee shop sitting directly ahead of them.
People inside behind the floor to ceiling glass windows, lounging at tables, snug and safe in their cappuccino cocoons.
Ashley saw what was going to happen next, and she wanted to do something—stop the SUV somehow, lean on the horn to warn the people inside, something—and she opened her mouth but at first nothing came out. Then, a second later, with the coffee shop rushing up to meet them head-on, while Eli and John in the backseat wrestled the passenger in the front seat, Ashley found her voice and did the only thing she could do at that moment. She screamed.
twenty-five
The bald passenger, despite the syringe sticking out of his eye, is still trying to kill us.
Eli and I, we’re trying to subdue him, or at least that’s what I’m trying to do, grabbing him around the neck, attempting to put him in a sleeper hold. Eli, he’s trying to get the gun away from the passenger, but the man just won’t let go, and he fires it a couple of times, the bullets striking the roof of the SUV, causing my ears to ring, and the blood, man, the blood is getting everywhere, the driver dead, just slumped over the wheel, and it’s not until I think about the driver again do I remember we’re currently barreling down a busy city street in over two tons of metal, a vehicle the dead driver is operating, the engine roaring, which means the driver must have his foot on the gas, and just as Ashley lets out a scream, I happen to look up.
Oh fuck.
I let go of the passenger, push myself back against the seat, scramble for my seat belt and snap it in place.
Eli is still trying to wrestle the gun away, and I shout, “Dad, seat belt, now!” and maybe he senses the urgency in my voice, or maybe he’s thrown by hearing me call him Dad, but he stops for a second, glances up, then immediately disengages with the passenger and throws himself back, clawing for his seat belt.
Ashley screams again.
The passenger, still with that fucking syringe in his eye, smiles as he raises the gun once more. Maybe he’s become blood crazy and doesn’t realize what’s about to happen. Maybe he’s completely sane and knows what’s about to happen and doesn’t care. Either way, it doesn’t matter much, because we only have another second or two before impact.
Ashley screams a third time, really loud, and I realize she’s not wearing a seat belt. Without thinking, I lean over and grab her and hold her tight, as tight as I’ve ever held anyone, and as I’m holding her tight, I happen to look past my father out his window and see the bus coming right at us.
We get lucky, though, at least as lucky as you can be in an out-of-control speeding SUV with a trained badass in the front seat trying to kill you. We make it through most of the intersection without a scratch, the Tahoe going maybe forty miles per hour, when the bus clips us from behind, sending the SUV spinning. We don’t go through a full spin, but rather a half spin, or a quarter spin, or you know what, maybe we don’t really spin at all. But our momentum gets fucked, that’s for sure. One moment we’re speeding one way, the next we’re jerked around, though still heading in the same direction.
The Tahoe skids sideways toward the sidewalk, jumps the curb, starts to tip forward. It doesn’t quite make it. Don’t get me wrong, we totally bash through the glass window—the people inside, at least most of them, screaming and jumping out of the way, a few others not so lucky—but the SUV doesn’t get that far. Then again, the coffee shop isn’t that big, so here distance is relative. Either way, it only takes a second or two before it’s over and the SUV has come to a complete stop. The engine is no longer roaring, the driver’s foot on the gas pedal having been dispelled from the impact. Both front airbags have deployed. The passenger, not wearing his seat belt, is slumped forward. He’s not moving, as far as I can tell, but it’s kind of hard to say for sure when I’m still holding on to Ashley who’s now holding on to me. Somehow I managed not to let go. Somehow we’re still alive.
“John?”
Eli’s voice, faint through the ringing in my ears.
I lean back and look at Ashley, red hair all in her face. “Are you okay?”
She gives a tentative nod.
Eli again: “John, are you all right?”
“I think so. You?”
“As far as I can tell.”
Outside the SUV, people are still screaming. Some are crying. Out on the street, traffic has come to a complete stop. A chorus of car horns sounds out their displeasure.
Eli says, “We have to go.”
I only nod. Compared to the rest of the crazy stuff that’s happened in the past half hour, this is the one thing that makes the most sense. I won’t be
able to use my door, though; that’s where the coffee shop’s wall is. I tell Eli this, and he opens his door and steps out, slowly, like his entire body is broken.
Ashley goes next, hesitant but quickly.
I slide across the seat, trying to be careful not to cut myself on any of the loose glass—did I mention some of the windows shattered, too?—and when I’m out of the Tahoe, I turn and take in the destruction.
Tables and chairs and bodies strewn everywhere. Those still alive are either kneeling over these bodies or trying the best they know how to tend to their wounds.
Someone grabs my arm.
It’s Eli, stepping close to me, his voice low: “We need to get out of here.”
“And go where?”
“Jersey,” he says. “Weehawken. That’s where I have another car waiting.”
I take another look around the destroyed coffee shop. I gaze out the shattered glass window, at the traffic that’s still not moving.
“But they’re still following us.”
Eli says nothing, but it’s clear from his face he knows this.
“Hey,” someone shouts at us. “You guys okay?”
“Hey,” someone else shouts. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
I say to my father, “Let’s go.”
We start toward the shattered window, but my father redirects us toward the door. I’m not sure why until we pass the coat hangers and he grabs three coats. He hands one to me, one to Ashley. We slip them on without a word and step out onto the sidewalk.
Inside, people are still shouting at us. It won’t be long before someone rushes outside to keep us at the scene until the police arrive.
Thinking of this, I ask, “Why don’t we just wait for the cops?”
As if summoned by the question, sirens rise up in the distance.
Eli shakes his head, walking quickly, the three of us already a half block away from the carnage.
“Some of them are dirty. It’s impossible to know who’s who. We need to get to Weehawken.”
Something across the street catches my eye. “Where in Weehawken?”
Eli gives me an address of a parking garage.
“You guys get going. I’m going to distract them.”
“Who?”
“The bald guy was on the phone with someone who was only a few blocks back. He’ll probably be here in a minute, if he’s not here already.”
Eli grabs my arm again. “What are you going to do?”
“Like I said, distract them. Now go.”
I don’t wait for them to walk away first. I step off the curb and hurry across the street. A half minute ago a Chinese delivery guy propped his bike against a post. He’s put a chain around it, but that doesn’t mean it’s locked.
I look around inconspicuously to make sure nobody’s watching me, try the chain and find that, shit, it is locked.
“Hey, what you doing?”
It’s the delivery guy. He was in and out, already stuffing cash into his pocket.
“Sorry,” I say, and glance toward the street. Traffic has started moving a little, but not by much. “Just admiring your wheels. It’s a sweet ride.”
The delivery guy doesn’t say anything. He just pushes past me. His rudeness makes it so I don’t feel bad about this next part.
Because as he’s unlocking his bike, taking the chain off, I grab him by the back of his coat and fling him aside. He’s small and light enough that he goes a short distance.
“Sorry,” I say again, grabbing his bike and wheeling it down the sidewalk.
The delivery guy yells after me. He starts to give chase.
I mount the bike and push off. The thing really isn’t a sweet ride. In actuality, it’s a piece of shit. But at the moment, beggars can’t be choosers.
I reach the corner of the block, take a left, away from the coffee shop. I hear shouts, one of which is the delivery guy, another of which is a witness yelling at me to stop.
I spot the sedan at once. Or, more appropriately, I spot the driver behind the wheel. Business suit, just like my buddy back at the bookstore. He has a cell phone to his ear.
He spots me, too.
I smile, give him the finger, and start to ride like hell.
twenty-six
He shoved the sedan in reverse, punched the gas. A taxi was coming up behind him, slowing because of the gridlock farther up the block, and the driver slammed on the brakes and honked and shouted and did everything he could to announce his displeasure.
Zach was barely fazed. He jerked the wheel just enough to veer around the taxi, but still the two vehicles scraped up against one another until Zach had moved the sedan past the taxi and then he jerked the wheel again, tapping the brake, sending the front of the car whipping around in a calculated one-eighty.
He punched the gas again, tearing off down the one-way street, another car coming straight at him and swerving out of the way.
John Smith was already two blocks up.
Zach had tossed his cell phone on the passenger seat when he first saw Smith on the bike give him the finger. He’d known he was going to need both hands free for a couple of seconds. Now, in pursuit, he lifted the phone to his ear.
“Tyson, you still there?”
“Yeah. What happened?”
“As far as I could see, the SUV crashed into a building.”
“Any survivors?”
“That’s what I need you to find out. I’m guessing Eli’s okay, though.”
“What makes you say that?”
“John Smith is trying to lead me away from the scene.”
“You’re abandoning the target?”
Zach didn’t care for Tyson’s tone. Normally the man didn’t second-guess Zach—hell, he never did—but now Zach heard the doubt in the man’s voice, and it gave him pause.
“Do you have a problem?”
Tyson was quiet for a moment. “No, sir. I’m just trying to understand—”
“Eli just made contact with his son. He’s not going to give his son up for dead, at least not this fast.”
“But how can you be so sure?”
The truth was Zach couldn’t be sure, but so far he had been ignoring that part. Instinct was what had made him initially shove the sedan into reverse, and so far in life, instinct never let him down.
“Trust me.”
“But—”
“Smith is trying to lead me away from Eli. Right now I have Smith in my sights. Eli I don’t. That’s why I need you to find out where he went and track him.”
“I’m already working on it. From what I can tell from the traffic cams, the Tahoe somehow lost control and crashed into the building.”
Zach was again swerving in and out of traffic, which was difficult on this narrow side street. From the brief report Zach had read, John Smith was an excellent courier, one of the best in the city. The kid definitely knew what he was doing, and he was skilled, but so was Zach.
“Obviously our mercenary friends underestimated Eli.”
“Police have just arrived on the scene.”
“Any of them ours?”
“No. What should we do if either Bent or Grayson is still alive?”
“We’ll deal with it if and when it happens. Something tells me Eli got lucky. Otherwise he would be dead, and Smith wouldn’t be leading me on a wild goose chase.”
Up ahead, Smith cut the corner onto Sixth Avenue, headed north. Zach accelerated, then immediately tapped the brake as he swerved around the corner. He hated overplaying his hand, but he thought fuck it and reached down to flick on the emergency LED lights.
“Tyson, do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Shut the fuck up and find Eli.”
twenty-seven
Out of all the bikes I could have stolen, this one is pretty shitty. It might be ideal for delivering Moo Shu Pork and Chicken Lo Mein, but it’s not the best form of quick transportation when people are trying to kill you.
Still, I push it for
all it’s worth, turning off the side street and heading uptown. Sixth Avenue, just like every other major throughway in Manhattan during rush hour, is clogged with cars. I weave in and out of as many as I can, keeping my focus on the street ahead while also glancing back over my shoulder every couple of seconds to check how far back the sedan is.
It’s about a block back, which isn’t too bad, but it’s gaining quickly, helped by the fact that it’s a fucking undercover police car—those hidden strobes flashing in the headlights and on the dash. Whether or not the driver inside is really a cop is beside the point. It’s one thing to flee from some crazy asshole—that can bring sympathy—but it’s an entirely different thing when it appears you’re running from the police.
Most of the cars behind me make a path for the sedan, but there are still other cars, mostly taxis, jostling for position. I have to keep my main focus on the street up ahead, because any false move could kill me. I’ve been doored a bunch of times, and it fucking hurts, but being doored is nothing compared to getting hit by a car or, worse, bus. I’ve gotten hit before, but the car wasn’t going more than twenty miles per hour, and I saw it coming and tried to swerve out of the way. It’s when you don’t see it coming, when God snaps his celestial fingers and out of nowhere a ton of metal smashes into you, that you have to worry about. Oh, and the crazy assholes acting like cops chasing you down because they want to kill you. Can’t forget those.
I lead the sedan up one block, up another. At one point I’m forced to hop up onto the sidewalk, and as you can imagine, that doesn’t go over well with the business people and tourists and general city dwellers. People shout, curse, one even throws his bottle of water at me. I’m half tempted to try to grab it, because I’m dying of thirst, but instead I push myself toward the corner, hesitating because of the large group waiting for the light to change, and then I head east toward Seventh Avenue.
Seventh Avenue, you see, is a one-way street running south. Which means it’s going to be next to impossible for the asshole to keep up with me, even with his flashing lights. It also means there’s more chance of me running straight into one of those speeding tons of metal I mentioned, but there’s only so much you can worry about at any given moment.
Legion Page 10
