Behind Rook, keys jangled. Steljess stepped out the office. And made Nikki.
He pushed Rook into her and they both staggered into the metal rolling door, which thundered and shook as they crashed into it. Steljess was rounding the corner when they recovered. Heat slipped Rook her cell phone and, as she ran, called out, “Hit redial. Tell Ochoa I’m pursuing eastbound on Spofford.”
He had a block on her by the time she turned the corner. For a big man he was fast, but Nikki was faster. She poured it on and was soon gaining. Since she was unarmed, her strategy was to stay only close enough to keep him in sight until backup arrived, so she gave it enough tempo to tighten the distance yet lag far enough back to evade if he was carrying.
Steljess did what most fleeing suspects do, lost speed by looking back to see how he was doing, and soon Heat had a sweet twenty-five-yard pace to maintain. He didn’t like the company and tried to slip the invisible leash. At Drake he made a sudden left, threading himself across the street through rush hour traffic. Nikki lost a few yards on him dodging cars but picked him up again as he ducked into the driveway of an auto salvage yard.
She stopped outside the gate and listened. This would be a good place to lose her, especially if he knew the layout and could use a back exit. It would also be a good place to make herself vulnerable if she blundered in unarmed. So she eased closer to the side of the open gate to hear if she could pick up any footfalls.
Heat caught the flash of motion in the convex mirror overhead, but it was too late. Tucker Steljess pivoted around the edge of the fence she was hiding behind, clutched the front of her coat with both hands, and swung his weight, lifting Nikki up off her feet and tossing her across the yard.
She landed back-first against a detached car door that was leaning against a metal paint locker. He threw her with such force that the steel locker tipped forward, landsliding small cans of paint and supplies down on top of her.
Nikki grabbed a paint can and threw it at him, missing, but his flinch gave her a precious second to clear the other cans off her so she could get up before he came at her. But he didn’t come. Instead, Steljess was starting to crouch in what she recognized as a shooting position as he reached inside his down vest. She threw another can that hit him in the shoulder, but didn’t deter him.
In fact, he smiled.
Heat saw the Glock clear his vest and felt stupid and helpless. In a futile move she clawed for the car door, hoping as a shield it would at least slow the bullet. As soon as Nikki pulled it over herself, she heard the crack of the gunshot.
Fourteen
She didn’t feel the bullet hit the door or her body. In the blink between synapses, in which Nikki wondered if she didn’t sense it because she was already dead, she heard two familiar voices shout, “NYPD, freeze!” then three rapid shots followed by a body falling heavily against her improvised shield. As she lay there, pinned, feet pounded toward her. Then came the welcome sound of a gun being kicked and skittering away across asphalt.
“Clear.” The relaxed voice belonged to Dutch Van Meter.
Detective Feller called, “Heat, he’s down. You all right? Heat?”
Feller holstered his weapon and got her out from under the pile. Even though Nikki insisted she was fine, he made her sit down on a ratty office chair that was rotting in the yard beside a plastic tub of spent cigarette butts. Blue-and-whites from the Forty-first were pulling up outside the gate behind the undercover taxi. The emergency lights flashed into the entrance to the salvage yard, giving the night a surreal quality, especially as the colored lights strobed on Van Meter. Still holding his Smith & Wesson 5906, he stood up beside Tucker Steljess’s body, after trying in vain for a pulse. He made a smooth sideways palm chop to his partner, signaling a flat line.
“Don’t worry about me, fellas, I’m fine. I’m just the one who got shot at.” Rook pulled himself up from his hiding place behind a corrugated cardboard carton labeled “Brake rotors — Fair to OK” in black marker. Rook was putting on a show of mock indignation, but Nikki knew the signs, having seen them... having experienced them herself.... He was shaken. Getting shot at does things to you.
In his statement to the incident commander, Rook said he had phoned Ochoa while he was on the run behind Heat, giving block-by-block scouting that Roach relayed over the radio. After following her across Spofford Avenue, he saw Nikki get pulled into the salvage yard. That was the last of his play-by-play. He pocketed her cell phone and snuck up to peek in the gate just as the paint locker spilled down on her. Without hesitating, he started out for Steljess, figuring he could blindside tackle him. But half the distance to him, just as Heat pegged the big man with a paint can, Rook saw the gun clear the vest. And then Steljess must have seen him out of the corner of his eye because he spun, starting to bring the Glock up in his direction. Not knowing what else to do, Rook took a dive behind some boxes just as he fired. The cops from the Forty-first, plus Raley and Ochoa, who were also in the semicircle around Rook, turned as one to look at one of the boxes. Indeed, there was a fat, nine-millimeter’s worth of bullet hole in it.
Rook had thought both he and Nikki were finished, but then he heard Detectives Feller and Van Meter identify themselves, followed by three shots in quick succession.
When they were done with him, Rook joined Heat and Feller, who had already given their statements. Dutch Van Meter had fired the three shots and was still being debriefed. “Cake,” said Feller. “This’ll come down as righteous.”
Nikki said, “Got to tell ya, if it hadn’t been for you...”
“You’re welcome,” said Rook. He saw their amused expressions. “. . . What? If that box had been filled with air filters instead of brake rotors, I might not be standing here right now.”
“In truth Rook did distract him enough to give us time to get in,” said Detective Feller. “Wasn’t the smartest play I’ve ever seen run, but effective.”
Rook gave Nikki a look of vindication and said, “Thank you, Detective. And from now on, I’ll never watch another episode of Cash Cab without thinking of you and Dutch. For me, the Mobile Shout-Out will forever be the Mobile Shoot-Out.”
Feller turned to Nikki. “Couldn’t have been a box of air filters, huh?”
“Seriously, Feller,” she said, touching his shoulder. “Your timing didn’t suck.”
“Turning into our primary mission, Heat, saving your butt. This what you call suspension?”
“Don’t know what you mean,” Heat said. “I was just being a good citizen.”
Raley and Ochoa gave them a ride back to Tribeca in the Roach Coach. As soon as they left the scene, Ochoa hopped on his cell phone to the precinct to get the results on the background check he had requested on Steljess. “Yeah, I can hold.” Then he turned over his shoulder to Nikki. “You don’t mind if I do this with you in the car, do ya? I know you’re not doing any sort of police work, so if you happen to pick up any information, I trust you won’t pay attention to it.”
“Oh, absolutely,” said Heat, returning his wink.
Raley gave it some gas as he steered onto the Bruckner and said, “What’s the deal with you, Rook? I mean, you figure you have some sort of superhuman powers, you can just hero-stride into the line of fire and repel slugs?”
“Somebody had to spring into action, seeing how you gentlemen took your sweet time arriving. Tell me, if I looked on the floor up there, would I see some White Castle wrappers from your stop on the way?”
Nikki was amused by how easily Rook fell into the understated cop talk, trading barbs instead of overt compliments or thanks. But she wasn’t feeling quite like being so oblique in her gratitude for what he did trying to save her. She slipped her hand over his and gave a squeeze. And then she let go and slid it up the inside of his thigh. They were still holding radar eye contact when Ochoa finished his call.