He made sure the weapon was at chest level as he turned. He didn’t want to have to worry about elevation, just had to be ready to squeeze the trigger when he tracked across the target. A smaller man on the passenger side of the vehicle. Al Din fired twice, his bullets punching through the window of the car. Early on the first shot, but he knew the second was on target.
That should freeze them for a moment. He continued his spin, kept running for the door.
Al Din surprised Lynch. Didn’t even pause, just spun, firing twice. Lynch heard glass break, heard a grunt, saw Bernstein drop out of the corner of his eye.
Al Din was almost to the door of the stairwell. Lynch sighted there. Al Din would have to slow to get in the door.
Al Din knew he would have to pause at the door. But he had the range now, could picture the larger man behind the driver’s door of the car. Just before the door to the stairwell, al Din spun again, the weapon leveled, waiting for the barrel to cross its target. He fired, fired again, shocked that the man wasn’t moving, wasn’t down. The first shot should have been perfect, but it slammed into top of the car’s window frame just in front of the man’s chest. The second shot may have been wide. Still, it should have been enough, should have had the man ducking for cover, but the man stood perfectly still, gun steady.
The larger man fired. Al Din felt the round hit him near the right shoulder. Didn’t mean it was over – al Din had been shot before. He switched the pistol to his left hand, was raising it for another shot when the next round slammed into the center of his chest.
Al Din fell back against the door, slid to the floor, his brain still racing through his options but his body no longer cooperating. How wide was that window frame? One inch? Two? That was the difference. His shot had been perfect. The other man should be down; al Din should be through the door, gone.
Al Din saw the man come out from behind the car, his weapon still raised, still trained on him. Al Din looked down at the pistol in his left hand, concentrated, could still feel the fingers, tightened them on the grip, focused on his arm, started to raise the weapon.
Just before he got to the door, Lynch saw al Din spin, fire again. Nothing Lynch could do, just hold his ground, aim. First shot hit something metal. Lynch heard the sound. The second tore through the fabric of Lynch’s coat sleeve, just below the left shoulder. Either it didn’t hit him or he didn’t feel it yet. Lynch figured if the little fuck was gonna shoot at him with a .22, then he’d better hit him solid.
Lynch fired, the first round hitting al Din high in the right chest, near the shoulder, al Din not skipping a beat, just switching his weapon to the left hand, starting to bring it up. Lynch fired again, center chest. That drove al Din back into the door, al Din sliding down, leaving a smear of blood behind on the green metal.
Lynch came out from behind the car, gun up, closed on al Din. He saw al Din look down at his weapon, start to raise his left arm, trying to bring the gun up. Lynch emptied the rest of his clip into the bastard’s chest, everything hitting on the midline between his collarbone and belt buckle. Al Din’s hand opened, the pistol dropped, and he slumped to the side, his eyes fixed and open.
Lynch ran around the front of the car, slid to a stop next to Bernstein, who was on his back gasping. Lynch looked for a wound, saw nothing. Then Lynch saw the hole in the breast pocket of Bernstein’s blazer. He lifted the coat open, looking for an entry wound, nothing, a small tear in the shirt, a little blood from a shallow gash.
Something fell from the pocket of Bernstein’s blazer. His iPhone, the screen shattered, the silver back of the device dented, split open a little at the apex of the dent.
“I should have let the fucker live,” Lynch said. “He killed your damn phone. Fucking thing saved your life.”
Bernstein tried to laugh, grunted in pain, drew in a shallow breath. “There’s an app for that,” he said.
CHAPTER 90
On six, Hickman and Lafitpour emerged from the cars they had been hiding behind.
“What the fuck?” Hickman said.
Lafitpour said nothing, still holding his phone.
“You can hang up now,” Hardin said. “Transfer the funds.”
“We had nothing to do with this,” Lafitpour said.
“I know. It was Hernandez. Transfer the fucking money. We don’t have much time.”
Lafitpour pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket, started dialing. “Damn,” he said, killing the connection, starting again.
Hardin pressed the muzzle of his gun to the center of Lafitpour’s forehead. “Concentrate,” he said.
Lafitpour dialed the number in one try, made the transfer. “Done,” he said.
Hardin looked to Wilson. “Wanna watch them a second?”
She leveled her S&W at the two men.
Hardin holstered his pistol, pulled out his phone, called Fouche.
“Can you confirm the transfer?” Hardin asked.
“I’ve been watching the screen, mon ami; it just hit your account.”
“OK. Start spreading it around. If somebody tries to take it back, I don’t want them to find anything.”
“In five minutes, there will be no trace and no trail.”
Hardin hung up, looked at Lafitpour. “Give me your phone.” Looked at Hickman. “You too.” They handed their phones to Hardin and he threw them over the wall onto Wells Street.
“We’re leaving,” Hardin said. “You’re not. If I see you following us, hell, if I see you ever, it isn’t going to end well.”
Hardin and Wilson turned and walked toward the stairwell. Cab would be safer than the Honda now.
Just before they reached the door, they heard a shout echo up the ramp from the floor below.
“Al Din! Police!”
Then gunfire.
“That’s between us and out,” Wilson said.
“Hate to get shot now that I’m rich,” Hardin said.
“And things were going so well,” she answered.
They ran for the stairs.
CHAPTER 91
Lynch heard another engine coming up the ramp fast, then tires slamming to a stop, doors opening. He stood, looked back over the roof of the Crown Vic, saw a white Lexus parked in the middle of the lane, all four doors open, four shooters getting out, three with submachine guns, one with a pistol.
Lynch grabbed Bernstein under the arms and dragged him away from the Crown Vic into the line of parked cars toward the inside wall. Bernstein grunted, his teeth clenched, clutching his chest, but as Lynch dragged him, he grabbed the pistol he’d dropped when the round hit him. Bernstein pushed with his feet, the two of them scrambling behind the engine block of an old Buick just as the first burst tore into the sheet metal.
The four gunmen were only fifteen yards back, and closing fast. Lynch had already punched out the clip he’d emptied into al Din, slammed in a new one. One more clip left after that. Couldn’t waste rounds, but he couldn’t let these guys just close on him, either. He reached up over the hood of the Buick, picking the line from his visual memory, squeezed off three quick shots.
Bernstein rolled to his stomach, fired a couple rounds from under the car, aimed at legs, clipped one guy on the calf, a shout in Spanish, the guy hopping into a line of cars toward the inside of the garage, another guy, the driver, bobbing into the same row. The two from the passenger side went right, toward the wall.
“We don’t get some backup, we’re fucked,” Lynch said.
“Called it in when we entered the garage, figure a couple minutes,” Bernstein said.
Another burst ripped into the Buick, closer this time, better angle.