by Marcus Sakey
"We made it," he said.
Cruz nodded, blew air through her lips. Didn't even slow for a red light. Shipping containers packed dark parking lots under broken warehouse windows. They hit a bump that knocked loose glass from the broken rear, the green pieces glowing eerily under dingy streetlights. Jason tried to picture where they were on his mental map. They'd made distance on the empty streets, probably putting them at the south end of Bridgeport. There weren't any headlights behind them. With luck, the second car had gotten tangled up in the accident. At very least, it would have to reverse and circle around.
Cruz eased up on the gas, letting the Honda drop to fifty. She took one hand off the wheel, flexed it, the knuckles popping, then did the same with the other.
"Nice driving, Officer." He smiled, postcombat shakes hitting now, that goofy energy. "They teach you that at the academy?"
She laughed, a nervous sound. "Jesus."
"Mary," he said. "You were saying Hail Marys."
"I was?" She shook her head. "Didn't even notice. Haven't said a Hail Mary since I was sixteen."
"I guess somebody was listening."
"Guess so." She put on her blinker for a left turn onto Thirty-fifth.
"Where are you headed?"
"The Stevenson. Put some distance."
He settled back into his seat. From the expressway they could get most anywhere, then wind their way back to Washington's place at leisure. The light at the lonely corner ahead was green. He could see the darkness of the river just west of them. The windshield wipers thunked back and forth, strangely comforting.
They were almost through the turn when the Escalade jackhammered into them. The Honda rocketed forward, spinning, the back wheels lifting. The spiderwebbed rear window exploded, fragments of safety glass raining in sparkling slow motion. There was a blur of headlights, flashbulb bright. The world spun like a carousel. Through the windshield he saw the pitted and scarred landscape of some kind of construction site swing by, replaced by a flash of the truck that had rammed them, then a metal railing and yawning darkness. He felt a sick slippy sensation as the Honda hit the guardrail, half bending it and half bouncing over it, and briefly they hung in a fantasy of flight, wheels spinning over nothing.
Then black water rushed up to meet them.
The impact slammed Jason against the seatbelt, his head snapping forward, white stars flaring. The front of the car plowed water up in a shimmering arc lit by one unbroken headlight. He just had time to wonder if the water would be cold before it started pouring through the shattered windows.
It was.
He gasped for breath, shook his head, dazed. Felt like he'd been hit by a linebacker, the wind yanked out of him, vision darting and narrow. He fumbled at his seatbelt as the Chicago River rushed into the car, the water sheened with oil.
Beside him, Cruz moaned.
Jason looked over, saw her sprawled across the steering wheel, blood trickling from her forehead. Her fingers fluttered like she were waving away bugs.
"Elena?" Water was coming in at an unbelievable rate, gushing over the side of the car. He tugged at his seatbelt, fingers unwieldy. The release button seemed stubborn, and it took a moment to realize he was pressing the wrong side. "Are you all right?"
She moaned again, straightened slowly. In the heat of the chase, she hadn't had time to buckle her seatbelt. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, her bangs wet. He leaned over and the car reacted to his movement like a tipping rowboat. The water had filled to seat level. The windshield cracked in lightning ripples.
"Elena. Let's go!" Her eyes seemed to spin glassy in her head, then she blinked, long slow blinks like she was focusing. She nodded at him.
Free of his belt, Jason scrambled half over his seat, splashing in the back for the briefcase. It was too dark to see, and the angle hurt his head, blood rushing in to make the world pulse. He bumped something, lost it, reached again. Found one leather edge jammed under the seat. The briefcase must have slid under and gotten wedged in the impact. He leaned over, breath coming hard, tugging.
Cruz moaned, and he looked over to see her with her head back on the steering wheel. Dark blood ran down her cheek. She lay there like she were taking a nap.
"Elena!" He made his voice snap. "We have to move."
She stirred, then slumped again.
The windshield creaked from the pressure of water. If it gave, the car would go like a brick.
He was bent over the seat, the edge of the briefcase in one hand. He yanked at it, and it gave a little, but then stopped. It was wedged on something, the handle probably caught. He could get it. He was certain. It wouldn't take a minute.
The windshield creaked again. Cruz had stopped moving.
Jason cursed, then let go of the case and leaned across her. With fast cranks he lowered her window, the water pressing against it hungrily, slopping in. She gasped at the cold, eyes widening. The Honda made a sickening groan and lurched forward. A crack rippled across the windshield like ice on a lake.
Jason grabbed the passenger side window frame, chunks of safety glass poking dull into his hands, and hauled himself out to belly-flop in the oily water. The headlight below him lit the river like a polluted swimming pool. He took a breath and dove, his eyes closed against the murk. Counting, one, two, three, four, frog-legging down and over. Then surfacing slow, one hand above to make sure he didn't hit the bottom of the car. When he felt air he kicked hard and came up alongside her door.
She stared at him, blinking like she was surprised he was there. The Honda shuddered, the entire hood submerged, three-quarters of her window underwater. He grabbed the frame with his right hand and with his left leaned in for her, clamping his arm in a crude hug under her shoulders. "Come on," he said. "I need you to help."
She blinked, shook her head, then nodded. Her hands found the window frame, white fingers clenching the edge. He tugged at her, planting his feet against the side of the car, the traction of his sneakers lending purchase. She steered herself out the window, body slipping through. He had her most of the way out when the windshield gave. Water flooded in, yanking the car downward. He kicked frantically, one arm slung around her, terrified she would get caught and tug them both to the bottom.
And then she was clear, and he was on his back, pulling her in a lifeguard cradle through inky water.
The Honda canted up, only the crumpled trunk sticking out of the water, already beginning to sink. Iridescent bubbles streamed around it.
"Are you okay?" He kicked backwards. The eastern shore was closer, so he headed that way. There was hardly any current; this section of the river was really a channel, used for shipping.
"I'm dizzy," she said.
"Can you kick?"
Her legs began to scissor. It was wobbly at first, but grew stronger as they moved.
Jason looked up to the bridge twenty feet above. From this angle he couldn't see much, but an Escalade was a big vehicle. If it were there, he should have been able to spot it. Maybe they'd continued on, not wanting to linger near the accident. The corner had been deserted when they'd gone over, but surely other cars would have come soon.
An Escalade. Until now, he hadn't had time to process what that meant.
The east bank of the river was lined with scrub trees, their branches festooned with plastic bags and rotting sneakers. A sludgy, organic smell surrounded them. The channel walls were vertical concrete three feet high. He looked at it, then at her.
"I'm okay," she said.
He let her go cautiously, and she tread water with one hand on the wall. Jason took a breath, ducked underwater, then kicked hard, flinging an arm up to catch the lip of the breakwall. He brought his other to join it, then pulled himself up, the concrete scraping against his body. A thin ribbon of trees bordered the construction site he'd seen before the car went over. Heavy equipment was parked fifty yards away, and mounds of dirt screened them from the road.
He lay on his belly and extended an arm for Cruz. Water sluiced o
ff her as he hauled her out, her feet scrabbling against the concrete.
When she was safely on dry ground, he flopped down on his back. He hurt in a hundred places, and his breath came hard. But they had made it. He stared up at the sky, the rain cool and cleansing. Clouds hid the stars. Cruz lay beside him, panting. Her upper arm touched his, and the warmth felt good. He lay still, not thinking and enjoying it.
Then Cruz jerked upright. "The briefcase."
He shook his head.
She stared at him. "You were reaching for it. I remember."
"It was caught." Jason sat slowly. He ran a hand through his hair, brushing twigs. "Under the seat. I couldn't get it in time."
Her eyebrows knit. "It had everything to save your life, and Billy's. You needed that briefcase." City light reflected off the clouds to paint her profile, and he saw something like understanding dawn there. "But I couldn't move."
He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing at all.
Cruz stared for a long moment. Then leaned forward to bring her face close. Her hair was matted and wet, and she had a leaf stuck to her neck, but she glowed anyway. "Thank you," she said.
"You would have done the same."
She smiled. "Don't believe it." Then she kissed him, her lips cool, her tongue sweet, and he felt something loosen in him. The Worm giving ground, and he realized that whatever else happened, whatever this thing between them turned out to be, he hoped he didn't screw it up the way he screwed most things up. He prayed that if it did end wrong, at least let it be a new screwup. A screwup that came of reaching for something more. Maybe even of daring to be responsible to someone else.
Then he heard a voice he recognized.
"Y'all kissing on each other after climbing out of the Chicago River?" Playboy sounded mean and close. "That's just got to be love."
CHAPTER 36
Trust
Full circle.
The first time they'd met, Playboy had been smiling and armed as he took Jason by surprise. Now here they were again, a few days later, history repeating itself yet again. Like a little kid making the same joke over and over: Not that funny the first time and worse with each repetition.
"Stand up real slow." Playboy wore a black track suit made of some shiny material. The Cadillac necklace gleamed from his chest, and in his right hand he held what looked to Jason like a Ruger P90, chrome over black. Behind him stood two men: a tall, skinny guy who kept shifting on his feet and a stocky muscle-man with tape across his nose. The wrestler Jason had hit with a car door. Full circle.
Jason took his hands from Cruz's hair, held them out at shoulder height. Twisted to get a leg underneath, then rose up straight and easy. His eyes drank the landscape, looking for any advantage. The only cover were the mounds of rain-spattered dirt behind Playboy, sloping ten-foot hills that hid the street beyond. He thought of diving for the river, but it was no kind of cover at all. It was only in movies that bullets didn't hurt once you hit the water.
"You a pain in my ass, know that?" Playboy shook his head. "Most people, they'd have called it a day after goin' off the bridge. Couldn't believe when Curtis," gesturing at the tall one, "said he saw y'all swimming for shore. But then, you a soldier, right?"
"Yeah," Jason said softly. "That's right."
"I feel that." He gestured with the pistol. "Toss your strap."
"Huh?"
Playboy rolled his eyes. "Your gun. Drop your gun."
"I don't have one."
The gangbanger raised the Ruger to point at Jason's face, the black hole of the barrel sure and unblinking. Jason stared back. "I don't."
"What'd you do with my Beretta?"
"DiRisio and his crooked cops took it from me."
Playboy's eyes narrowed at that. "DiRisio, huh?"
"Yeah. Same guy who hired you to grab me. Same guy who killed my brother."
Wind stirred leaves in the reedy trees along the water's edge. Playboy stared at him another moment, shrugged. "That was a nice gun."
"You want to give me the one you're holding, I'll buy you a new Beretta." Trying to play cool, just like the first time they'd met. To keep tensions from escalating. All the while, his heart vibrating against his ribs.
"Don't think so." Playboy gestured at Cruz with his free hand. "Stand up, sister."
Cruz started to rise, made it halfway, then staggered. Her legs went wobbly, and she moaned and fell. Tried to catch herself, her hands tangling up with her ankles. Jason lunged to help her, moving without thinking. She'd seemed stronger a minute ago. Standing up must have been the problem. "I think she might have a concussion."
"Yeah?" The voice bored.
"She's not part of our business."
Playboy snorted. "Man, pick your bitch up."
Jason's fingers tingled, that old battle rush. He knew then, knew with certainty. Playboy was here to execute them.
Jason had seen it more times than he could count. Mass graves and abandoned bodies. Hands tied or cuffed, two in the head. Sunnis at first, but before long plenty of Shi'as, too. Regular folk, mostly, caught up in a war they hadn't chosen to fight. Victims of political rivalries, or kidnappings, or plain evil luck. Caught beneath the wheels of circumstance and shredded like dolls.
But knowing Playboy's intentions didn't change anything. They were alone in a wasteland, unarmed, and damn near helpless. Jason grit his teeth and put an arm under Cruz's shoulder, lifted her slowly to stand. Her weight was awkward. Her right arm flopped behind his back, and it seemed heavy the way it hit him.
Playboy regarded them from five feet away, the gun sideways in a gangster grip.
"You're holding your weapon wrong," Jason said.
"That a fact."
"Yeah. The recoil is going to throw your aim off. Hell, a big.45 like that, you might end up punching yourself in the face."
"Want to bet," rocking the hammer back with his thumb, "whether it'll work or not?"
Icy water flowed through Jason's veins. This couldn't be the way. He hadn't walked beneath Middle Eastern suns to die on the banks of a shitty river. Hadn't found Cruz just to die with her. "Why are you doing this?" Fighting for time, his eyes darting.
"Mother fucker." Playboy's voice a chipped razor. "You really asking after what you did?" He stepped forward. "C-Note was like my brother. He and I been tight since we was shorties. You shoot the man in his bathrobe, and got the nerve to ask me why I'm doing this?"
"I didn't kill C-Note."
"Yeah, and my black ass is mayor." Playboy's eyes burned. He stepped forward, the gun level with Jason's eyes. "I loved that man. Not ashamed to say it. Nothing I ain't prepared to do to get those that killed him."
"We're not them." Anger powered the truth in his voice. Bad enough to think of losing now, when they were so close. But to die because of the handiwork of his brother's killer? The irony was too cruel. "It was DiRisio killed C-Note."
"A man staring down a gat'll say anything to survive."
Cruz moaned and sagged like she were losing consciousness. Her head flopped on his shoulder, and Jason tightened his grip on her. As he did, he felt her hand tap his back again. There was something weird about it. He looked over at her, expecting to see dilated pupils, pale skin, the classic signs of shock and concussion.
Instead, from behind the wet hair that screened her eyes, she winked at him.
"You know what?" He turned back to Playboy. "You're right."
Jason moved fast, a quick lunge sideways. Brilliant fire exploded in front of him, the bullet ripping the air where his head had been. In the sudden glow he saw the other two gangbangers scrabbling at their waists, guns coming up, and then Cruz stepped forward and pressed a small automatic pistol under Playboy's chin.
"Don't believe the movies," Cruz said, her posture straight and her voice steady. "This is a Glock 27. It'll fire under water. Our little swim won't even slow it down."
Playboy stood frozen, his gun arm out, pointing at nothing. Jason locked the gangbanger's arm with his right hand
and twisted the Ruger free with his left. He sighted down the barrel at Playboy's soldiers. They had weapons up, the taller one swinging the gun back and forth between Jason and Cruz.
In the silence, Jason could hear the rain patter on the river. Tension tightened his shoulders, made his muscles sing. The twitchy one was making Jason nervous, swiveling back and forth between him and Cruz. "Curtis. You look like a man making a decision. But stay cool for a second. I just want to talk."
The tall man didn't say anything, but stopped swinging the gun.
"Now," Jason said, hoping his voice didn't betray his tension, "it would be the easiest thing in the world for us all to open up right now. We could all die here, beside this shitty river. But if we do, nobody gets any satisfaction. You know why? Because we didn't kill C-Note."
"You say so." Playboy's eyes were half-closed, like he couldn't be bothered with the situation.
"Think about it, man. Who set you on me in the first place? DiRisio. And I'll bet you he was the one said that we killed C-Note, wasn't he?" Playboy's eyes confirmed it. "I thought so. How'd he know a thing like that? The cops hadn't even left the scene, he knows what's going on?"
"Street knows what it knows."
"Does the street know that DiRisio is also selling hardware to La Raza and the Latin Saints? You didn't think you were the only ones getting some of his love, did you? He's arming your enemies."
Playboy shrugged. "Says you."
"You want proof?" Jason gestured to the river. "Go for a swim. It's in the back of the car you drove off the bridge. We were going to use it to take DiRisio down."
"Not just him," Cruz said quietly. "A dirty cop, too. Tom Galway. He works gangs."
"That a fact."
"It is." Jason stepped forward. "They killed your boy, then sent you to finish us before we brought them down. Hell, this way they don't even have to get their hands dirty. You've been conned, man. We all have."
Playboy narrowed his eyes, then reached into his pocket. Cruz pushed the Glock harder into his neck. He looked down at her with a bulletproof smile. "Easy." Took his hand out slowly, turning it up to display a pack of Pall Mall Menthols and a green Bic. Pulled out a cigarette and lit it casually, using both hands, like he were chilling in a club instead of standing on the bank of a polluted river with a pistol at his throat. "Saying that's so. What then?"
