“Take me downriver,” Arturo snarled, “or I'll kill you and drive this friggin' boat myself.”
Arturo quickly checked out the doors on either side of the pilothouse. Outside the doors, short staircases went both to the roof and down to the passenger deck. The doors didn't lock, so the crew could come and go anywhere on the vessel as necessary. He was vulnerable from three directions. The Plexiglas was probably thick enough to stop a non-magnum handgun round. He hoped the marshal and his two pals got Marta in cuffs so that all three of them were free to come for him. Because if they were confident enough to turn their backs on her, cuffed or not, Marta would be back in play.
Arturo's main goal now was just to get away alive. As long as he controlled the boat's movements, he could increase his odds of escape and the men would have no choice but to come up to stop him.
“Go faster!” he screamed at the terrified pilot.
Arturo saw the door lever move ever so slightly as someone tried it. He fired a horizontal burst across the veneered wood and was rewarded with the sound of a body falling. One down. Arturo pulled a fresh magazine from his pocket, reloaded the Uzi, and buttoned up his coat to take full advantage of the ballistic lining.
90
Detective Manseur leaned against the grille of his Impala, parked in the shadow of the World Trade Center building near the railing on the southern corner of the Riverwalk Plaza. He was, as the crow flies, perhaps a hundred feet from the Canal Street landing, and he had a commanding view of the dock, where the eighty-five-foot-long ferry would moor. Through binoculars, he watched the USS Thomas Jefferson pulling away from Algiers Point, well over a mile away. When he became aware of someone standing next to his car, he looked over to see Tinnerino staring at him.
“You and Doyle are supposed to be at the Porter house. What are you doing here?”
Tin Man smiled at him. He leaned with his beefy hands splayed on the left fender. “I was just passing by. Saw you over here by yourself and I wondered what you were doing.”
“You were passing by and saw me here?” Manseur knew that his position was invisible from the street. “I'm boat watching-to relax.”
“Wouldn't be watching for a ferry bringing Massey and the Porter kid over, would you?”
“What makes you ask me that?”
“Because I bugged your car while you were inside the hospital, and Massey's too. Doyle and me have been right with you all along.”
“Doesn't it matter that I ordered you to-”
“Your days of ordering anybody are over, Mikey.”
“What does that mean?” Manseur asked, already knowing the answer. He and Tinnerino were both empty-handed, and getting to their guns would take some effort. The Tin Man wouldn't be so cocky unless Doyle is close by.
“We can't let that little envelope the kid has reach anybody that can stop the Pond execution. Big can of worms here, Mikie. Don't make any sudden moves toward that Glock in your coat. You and me ain't out here alone.”
“So, I guess Captain Suggs sent you to silence me?”
“Yeah. That's about the size of it. Seems you been acting crazy. Buying meth from low-life dealers. Everybody knows how dangerous that is. Look at the bright side-the brass will cover up the drug thing at Suggs's suggestion, your wife will get your pension, Suggs will make sure there's a big, loud investigation. We'll pin it on some loser spook and make the streets safer in the bargain.”
“Where is Suggs?”
“Had pressing business elsewhere. He's got this all figured out. That man is a strategical genius.”
“Did he tell you Jerry Bennett killed the Williamses?”
“Yeah, he told us.”
“You know why?”
“Doesn't matter,” Tin Man answered, shrugging.
“Bennett paid Suggs to frame Pond. Bennett told Suggs where that shotgun was, and Suggs told the world Pond confessed. It was Bennett who sent Arturo Estrada to kill Amber Lee and Lawyer Porter. But you knew that, because you and Doyle have been working with him and his lady friend. We have evidence that proves it all.”
“What does any of it matter? You think too much, Mikie. Your evidence ain't worth a fart in a hurricane.”
“You'd do better to try thinking for yourself some. Do you really think Suggs can let you live, knowing what you do? He killed his own partner to keep the secret about Pond.”
“Putnam offed himself. Man was a world-class juice head,” Tinnerino said. “And I've got Doyle backing me to make sure nothing like that happens. Anything happens to me, my lawyer has a letter.”
Manseur shook his head. He was aware of a second figure sneaking up on the other side of the car. Doyle held what appeared to be a. 22 automatic. The bag containing drugs to plant on Manseur's corpse was probably in his overcoat pocket.
“Doyle,” Manseur said casually, “before you do anything stupid, you should know that Larry Bond is up there behind me on that balcony over the ferry entrance. He's aiming his Tikka 30–06 at your head about now.”
“Your partner's out of town,” Doyle said.
“He came home early. I picked this place because it's where he could cover me best and shoot without risking harming any civilians. He's one hell of a deer hunter, a crack shot with his rifle.”
“You're bluffing,” Tinnerino said. But he was looking up, squinting.
“You walked right into it. Adams was checking the perimeter at the hospital and he spotted you getting into my car. Wasn't hard for us to figure out what you were up to. The conversation we had in my car back outside the hospital was strictly for your benefit.”
“You're lying,” Doyle said.
“I've already gotten word to the governor, and he's put a hold on Pond's execution. And-you'll love the irony-I'm wearing a wire right now. What you fellows heard on your bug was our plan to get you all to do what you just did.”
“He's lying,” Doyle said to his partner, now less sure of himself. “Get in the car.”
“Not a chance,” Manseur said.
“Enough jabber.” Doyle raised the gun, but he didn't fire. Thunder rolled, and as a round from Bond's 30–06 shattered his right wrist the detective's. 22 flew from his hand like a frightened bird.
Doyle screamed, considered his useless hand. Screamed some more.
Tinnerino stared dumbly up at the concrete structure, still trying to see Manseur's partner.
Manseur relieved Tinnerino of his Glock, cuffed the big detective's hands behind him, and took the. 38 backup piece Tinnerino carried in an ankle holster.
“Okay, Larry,” Manseur called. “I've got it covered. Come on down.”
Tinnerino looked out at the ferry. “Listen, I can save Massey and the kid, for a deal. The Spics are on the boat to kill Massey and the kid.”
Manseur walked over, picked up the. 22 from the bricks and tossed it into the trunk of his car.
“Massey's car has a tracker on it,” Tinnerino said desperately.
Manseur considered that. Massey's pals Adams and Green weren't at the hotel like the bad guys believed, they were on the ferry too. Manseur was sure the three of them could handle Estrada and Ruiz. He reached for his cell phone to call Massey just to let him know when a voice came over the tactical channel: “Transit Officer Davis. Shots fired on the Canal Street Ferry, in transit from Algiers Point. Officer needs immediate assistance. One perpetrator, armed with an automatic weapon.”
Manseur turned toward the water. Halfway across the river, the ferry was making a sharp right turn.
“Okay, maybe it's too late for them,” Tinnerino was saying. “What can you get me for flipping on Suggs?”
91
As soon as Arturo ran up the stairs, Nicky put Faith Ann back inside the Stratus. He told the wide-eyed girl to stay there and she'd be fine. As Winter was cuffing the woman, he ran after Adams, cane in hand.
“Stay behind me,” the federal agent ordered.
Limping, Nicky trailed behind Adams, arriving up on the upper deck to find half a doz
en passengers lying facedown on the floor near the bow windows.
“FBI!” Adams yelled.
“Freeze! Police officer!” a voice yelled out. Nicky saw the gun first, a Smith amp; Wesson Sigma aimed at Adams and him. The man who gripped it was dark-skinned. He wore a watch cap, baggy jeans, and a coat. A badge dangled from his neck on a chain, and his eyes were wild with excitement. Since he had a piece of toilet paper stuck to his shoe, Nicky knew where the dark-skinned man had been when the shooting started. The policeman came slowly toward him.
“Where's the shooter?” Adams snapped.
The young cop kept his gun on Adams, more or less. The copilot was cowering against the wall near the door. “Show me some I.D.”
“Where's the damn shooter?” Adams repeated. But he dipped his gun so the barrel was pointed away from the cop, while reaching his left hand carefully into his pocket to bring out his credentials.
The ferry began swinging around, heading downriver.
The cop said, “I'm Davis, Transit Authority. I already called this in. The bastard has the wheelhouse.”
“Obviously,” Adams said. “We can probably flank him-”
“I gotta stop him,” Davis interrupted. “God knows what he'll do, and there are civilians on board that I'm responsible for. I'm in charge here. No offense, but this ain't no white-collar FBI crime. People could get killed.”
Adams said urgently, “What's the wheelhouse layout? How many doors? Access to them?”
“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 wrist 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.
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