“No time to waste making a plan. This is too fluid for that—too immediate. Look, I know this vessel, I'm trained to handle this—you two just make sure my flanks are covered. One of you keep guard on either side. He gets away from me, he'll come down one of the staircases on either side and nail you,” Officer Davis said.
Nicky figured the cop was barely out of the academy. The rookie was determined to be a hero, and arguing with him was a waste of energy.
“We have the flanks,” Adams told him.
Davis opened the door to the stairwell, looked up the steps. He started slowly up, holding his gun before him precisely as he had been instructed at the academy.
“He's a dead duck,” Nicky quipped, taking a toothpick from his shirt pocket and putting one end of it into his mouth.
“We'll flank Estrada,” Adams said. “You best be ready to take over the wheel, son,” he told the copilot, who was crouching against the wall a few feet away.
The copilot nodded, smiled weakly.
“What's the layout?” Adams asked him.
“The stairs on either side go up to the roof, then after the smokestack there's another set up to the pilothouse. We—”
“How are they locked?”
“They don't lock, because the pilot might have to get out fast, or someone get in. We've never had anything like this . . .”
“How many people in the wheelhouse?”
“Two of us when we're docking. One at the controls for the crossing. I was headed down for coffee. The pilot is up there alone.”
“You best be ready to take over in case—”
A loud burst of nine-millimeter rounds fired into the stairwell sounded like hammer blows. Nicky peered in through the small window set in the door and saw the transit officer lying on the floor. His unfired weapon lay on the floor beside him, spattered with blood and brain matter. Nicky inched the door open, leaned inside the space, and looked up to see a dozen holes punched through the closed door.
“Dead?” Adams asked.
“Lying there dead with T.P. stuck to his danged foot—how embarrassing. Got it through the door.”
“He wasn't trained all that well,” Adams said. “If the shooter didn't see who was at the door, he's bound to be sure he got one of us. He'll think nobody in their right mind is coming up these same stairs.”
“I'll go up these stairs on a double-stealth setting. He'll be watching the outside staircases, so when he sees you he'll open an outside door to shoot at you. When he does that, you dodge the bullets and I'll bust on in and smoke his ass,” Nicky said.
“You're sharper than you look, Green,” Adams said, raising a brow. “But let's do this my way. I'll go up the inside stairs and you circle around. Soon as he sees you, I'll kill the little freak, hopefully without hitting the pilot.” He looked at the copilot, still cowering on the floor. “If we do, at least we have a spare.”
Nicky spat out his toothpick, leaned his cane against the wall beside the door. He limped to the starboard wire door and, slipping the mechanism, slid it open. Reaching the top of the staircase, he saw Estrada looking out at him through a Plexiglas window. Nicky dived toward the smokestack located directly behind the wheelhouse. Arturo slammed open the door, pointed the Uzi out, and wasted most of what was in the magazine—precisely as Nicky had expected.
Nicky heard reports, saw muzzle flashes illuminate the wheelhouse like an electrical storm. A split second after the exchange ended, he put a toothpick into his mouth and climbed up the short rise of stairs to the pilot house.
The little room was filled with a fog of cordite. All three men inside were lying on the floor. Nicky aimed the .45 down at the prostrate killer as he moved to check Adams. “Adams, you still alive?”
Adams didn't move.
“Johnny boy,” Nicky said, “you okay?”
Adams, who was beneath a narrow steel shelf under the window, sat up slowly and, according to his facial expression, painfully. “Lucky shots,” he said hoarsely. “Couple in the vest. Think he got my right shoulder, though.” Reaching his left hand across his lap to get the Glock from the floor beside him, he lifted it and set it down beside his left leg and covered his right shoulder with his hand to staunch the blood leak.
“That's a nasty cut on the side of your head,” Nicky said.
“I hit that shelf on the way down. After I got him.”
“Oh, I'm not so sure who got who.” Nicky kept the Colt aimed at Arturo Estrada, facedown on the floor between him and the pilot's chair. “You can get up now,” he told the pilot.
The pilot stumbled uncertainly to his feet. He stared down at the killer, whose blood was pooling around his head.
“Shouldn't you be driving this thing?” Nicky asked the captain. The pilot tore his eyes from the dead killer, then turned his attention back to the river.
Nicky picked up Arturo's Uzi, moved to the door, and tossed it out onto the roof.
“Nicky!” Adams yelled.
Out of the corner of his eye, Nicky saw Arturo rolling up, bringing a pistol out from under him, and getting to his feet.
Nicky dove out through the door. Arturo fired and missed. Knowing Arturo would immediately turn the gun on Adams, Nicky sprang back into the pilothouse behind Arturo, reached around him, and twisted the Beretta away.
“I give up,” Arturo cried, putting his gun hand slowly to his neck wound. “I need a doctor.” He took his other hand from his coat pocket and dropped it to his side. His face was ashen from blood loss, the floor beneath him slick with his blood. “Don't hurt me—”
By the time Nicky heard the switchblade snick open, Arturo had dipped his shoulder and was arcing the blade for Nicky's throat. Nicky caught Arturo's hand; using Arturo's inertia, he swept the blade slicing up and through the killer's throat. Arturo fell to the floor, convulsing.
The pilot made whimpering sounds as he began turning the boat back upriver.
“You all right?” Nicky asked Adams.
“Where'd you learn those moves?”
“In the Army.” Nicky limped over and picked up Adams's Glock and, after turning to look out the windshield for a few seconds, came back and handed it to him. “Looks like a patrol boat's coming out. I reckon I'd best go see how Massey's doing.”
Nicky took off down the stairs, stepping around the fallen transit cop. When he walked out of the door he leaned over for his cane. Reflected in the closest window he saw Adams come out of the stairwell, aiming his Glock at the back of Nicky's head.
“Ich denke Sie werde getan,” Adams said as he squeezed the trigger.
There was no shot.
Nicky whirled, grabbing Adams's Glock with his right hand. Adams's eyes were bright with surprise.
“Like I didn't know what you were going to do, you dry-gulching son of a bitch,” Nicky snarled as he slammed his cane's handle over Adams's damaged shoulder, knowing that the wound would keep him from blocking the blow. Then he drove the brass handle into Adams's temple.
As Adams toppled, Nicky was aware that Winter was coming toward him from the stairwell, gun in hand, unsure of what he had just witnessed.
92
After Adams and Nicky took off after Estrada, Winter went about the business of handcuffing Marta. He had thought it was possible but highly unlikely that Estrada and Marta would be able to make an attempt to stop him from retrieving the evidence. Nicky and Adams had been along the entire ride, watching his back, and they hadn't picked up on the Latinos' presence or they would have warned him. He figured there had to be a tracking device hidden on the Stratus, or maybe on Adams's Chevrolet.
“Okay, Marta, right hand behind your neck! Feet apart!”
“Sure,” Marta said. “I am happy to spread my legs for a handsome man like you. Be gentle with me,” she crooned.
“You should have stuck to antiques.”
“I get so bored with old things.”
“Right hand on your neck!” Reaching out with an open cuff, Winter snapped it around her right wr
ist so it was tight against her skin. “Other hand.”
She seemed to be complying, but as her left hand started up, she spun into his side, elbowing him in the ribs. All sinew and cold intent, she clipped him again in the ribs with her elbow and, using the empty cuff at the end of the chain like nunchakus, slammed it into his temple. Seizing the hand holding the SIG Sauer, she came within a hair of taking the gun away from him.
Winter saw it hit the deck and skid under the pickup truck beside him, inside of which a heavy man sat, openmouthed, gawking.
Fending off her focal punch, Winter hit her in her jaw with all his force. As her head snapped back, his second blow smashed into her nose, and blood spurted from her nostrils. He pivoted and slammed his shoe into her ribs.
Winter heard automatic gunfire coming from upstairs.
Winter's blows had amazingly little effect on Marta. She recovered instantly and came at him using her knees like pistons, uppercutting into his legs and stomach and then launching herself to uppercut his chin, driving him flat on his back.
She leaped up and descended, her right heel slashing down at his face, but he caught her boot and swept her left foot out from under her. As she went down, he rose, still holding her boot, and brought his right heel forcefully into her ribs. She somersaulted backward, ending in a ballerina-like pose, facing Winter. She held one hand high in the air, the other in front of her—holding her leather cap out by its bill—like a street performer expecting him to toss coins into it. She sneered and slung the cap away, exposing the short, wide, twin-edge blade in her hand.
Winter was aware of more gunshots from upstairs.
The ferry started turning, heading back upriver.
When she lunged, Winter jumped back, but he felt the knife's edge against his vest as it laid open his leather jacket. She didn't hesitate before taking a second swipe. Avoiding the bade, he clipped her shoulder with the heel of his hand, knocking her off balance, and he slammed the heel of his shoe into the small of her back, shoving her to the concrete. She hit the deck, rolled back up onto her feet, and sprang at him, blade dancing in the air between them. Now weaponless and winded, he was at her mercy—backing up as she came on—and out of ideas. Reaching back, he snapped off a car's antenna and swung it like a buggy whip at her, cutting the air viciously.
“I am going to open you up and you are gonna see your insides come outside. And after I have killed you, I am going to kill that little bitch and—”
He hit her in the shoulder, and although it must have hurt her he knew the slashing antenna couldn't hold her at bay much longer. She was going to take a hit soon in order to finish him.
Out of the corner of his eye, Winter saw movement. Marta saw it too, and she turned her eyes toward the motion for a split second. A small body popped up across the car hood, a fire extinguisher raised high. Marta reacted, swinging her left hand up to protect her face. When the cloud of vapor enveloped her, Winter drove his heel into her shoulder. The blow sent Marta backward, her skull striking the steel wall with a brutal thud. She bounced off and landed hard on the concrete deck, twisted and motionless.
“You cold-cocked her!” a voice exclaimed triumphantly. Winter looked up, breathing hard, to see a smiling Faith Ann, holding the fire extinguisher at the ready in case another blast might be necessary.
“Weren't you supposed to stay in the car?”
She frowned, shrugged.
Winter lifted Marta roughly onto the flatbed Toyota truck filled with salvaged junk and cinched the open cuff to a steel bottle jack partly buried in a pile of steel scrap the rear of the truck. Picking up Marta's ceramic knife, he hurled it out into the waves.
The truck's driver, a fat man in overalls, was staring out through the open window at Winter. “You a cop?” the man asked.
Winter nodded, walked over, and picked up Marta's .22 and his SIG Sauer.
“I used to be a law enforcement officer myself,” the fat man said, getting out. “I was a state prison guard for ten years.”
“Then you know how this works?” he asked the man, holding out Marta's gun.
“That's a Ruger .22.”
“I'm a U.S. marshal, and I want you to stand here and watch her until I get back.”
“Hellcat, that one is. Sometimes small ones are like that. PCP, probably.”
“She's a professional killer. If she so much as looks like she might be trying to move, you shoot her. Can you do that? I'll be right back.”
“She ain't going to go anywhere chained to that house-raising jack. Weighs about as much as her. But, yeah, dang straight I can shoot her.”
“Stay back from her.”
“I'll be right here,” he promised, nodding at the .22 automatic in his hand.
“Faith Ann, follow me,” Winter snapped.
He picked up the manila envelope, took the fire extinguisher from her, handed her the evidence, and opened the door to the Stratus. “I need to check on things upstairs. You will stay in the car this time!”
93
Faith Ann locked the doors of the Stratus, positioned the side-view mirror so she could see the fat man in coveralls holding the pistol and one of the unconscious woman's boots extending out over the side. Standing six feet away from the truck, the man with the gun seemed to be considering the woman lying in the debris-filled bed.
The notion that she had saved Winter's life warmed Faith Ann. Pushing aside her terror of Arturo and his murderous companion, she had crept from the car to take the fire extinguisher down from its place on the wall to help Winter. She wasn't sure what the chemicals would do to the woman, but Faith Ann knew that she was going to hurt him and she knew she couldn't let that happen.
She looked down at the soiled and battered envelope in her lap. Squeezing it, she felt the cassette tape inside and the sleeve containing the negatives.
She slipped out the tape and looked at the audio record of her mother's last minutes alive.
Faith Ann looked up, wondering how long it would be before Winter came back. The boat was heading for the Canal Street landing, the woman was locked up, and the man who'd killed her mother had to be arrested by now.
She thought about how many times since Friday morning she had believed it was all over, that she was going to die. But she wasn't dead.
Faith Ann put the envelope down in her lap, and looked at the mirror beside her. The fat man was still at his post, but he was looking at Faith Ann's reflection in the small side mirror—smiling and waving at her. She guessed being deputized by a U.S. marshal was a big deal for a scrap collector.
Faith Ann let her gaze drift to the side of the truck, expecting to see the woman's boot jutting out of the bed, but it was no longer in view.
She started to scream.
Before the man could turn, the woman moved in behind him and swung the steel bottle jack at him like it weighed nothing. The jack hit the man in the back of his head, creating a cloud of gore that spattered the rear window of the Dodge.
Faith Ann stopped screaming. She felt frozen in place as if some great weight was pressing her into the seat back. Her face twisted into a terrifying mask—the woman stood beside the door glaring in at Faith Ann. Faith Ann's fingers closed around the envelope on her lap. She watched the woman raise the jack. I'm going to die, Mama.
Faith Ann hit the horn, scrambled over the console, found the lock, and threw the door open. Mr. Massey was the only one who could keep her alive now.
Faith Ann was aware of something moving behind her, and then of being jerked off her feet. She hit the concrete hard, her left elbow cracking against the deck, sending a lightning bolt shooting up to her fingers. She realized that the woman had vaulted over the car to grab her. Before Faith Ann could do anything, the woman had Faith Ann back up on her feet, a leather-covered arm locked around her chest, squeezing.
“You gonna get wet,” the woman said.
Faith Ann flailed and kicked—she screamed—but it had no effect on the woman, who held the jack by its handle like a
suitcase and laughed as she dragged her young captive toward the stern.
94
Winter arrived at the top of the stairs just in time to see Nicky come out a door followed immediately by a battered Adams. Adams said something, suddenly raised his gun, and pointed it at the back of Nicky's head. Based on Adams's surprised expression, he squeezed the trigger without producing the desired effect.
Before Winter could do anything, Nicky ducked, knocked Adams's Glock aside with his left hand, and swung his cane's heavy handle into Adams's skull. There was a sickening crack, and Adams crumpled to the floor, his face hitting so hard it bounced. Winter vaulted up onto the deck, met Nicky's eyes, then knelt beside Adams. “What the hell was that about? He was going to kill you.”
“I don't know,” Nicky said, still gripping his bloody cane. “We took Arturo out. Adams was wounded, and I was coming down to check on you, but I never heard him coming. I saw the gun coming up in the reflection in that glass. Christ, why did he try to kill me?”
The sound of a car horn honking from the downstairs level ended the conversation.
“Faith Ann.” Winter whirled, hurtled down the stairs.
Nicky lifted Adams's Glock, cracked open the chamber, and removed the piece of toothpick he had broken off in it minutes earlier in the wheelhouse to prevent the mechanism from firing.
He tossed Adams's Glock into the stairwell next to the dead transit cop, lifted his cane, and followed after Winter.
95
Faith Ann had only one thought. She still had the manila envelope and she needed to drop it so Winter would have it after Marta killed her, but she couldn't get her hand on it. Despite all her struggling, Marta's left arm remained locked across Faith Ann's chest. Faith Ann, a student of nature, immediately thought of a boa constrictor who had locked its muscles around its intended prey. The harder she thrashed, the tighter the grip around her became, crushing the air from her lungs. Her mind told her that in the face of such strength, any fight she could offer was hopeless, but her instincts were on autopilot.
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