“I think so,” she whispered as she sat upright. “They must have taken my shoes.”
“Deal with it,” said Feller, who was already on his way to the door. He made a check outside and beckoned her forward. He slipped out ahead of her, and when she stepped out into the drizzle, she recognized immediately where she was. The building she had come out of, about the size and shape of a railroad freight car, was a work shed at the far end of the City Sanitation pier on the Hudson River. It was after hours, and all the parking spaces were empty except for Harvey’s blue-and-white and Van Meter’s taxi. Feller hand-signaled toward the other end of the pier and mimed a steering wheel.
They moved as quickly as they dared without making noise. Nikki was more silent crossing the icy concrete in her bare feet. After fifty yards they stopped suddenly. Just ahead of them voices were coming from one of the shacks that lined the wharf. “Try it again anyway.” It was Van Meter barking at Harvey, his voice full of irritation. The door started to open.
Feller tugged her arm and they ran across the pier and ducked behind a Dumpster. He put his face to her ear and whispered, “That’s the electrical closet. They’ll never fix it.” He craned to survey the distance to his car at the other end of the wharf. “I radioed for backup so we’re probably better off sitting tight here till they show.” They both turned to scope Twelfth Avenue, hoping to see red and white lights. None yet.
She whispered, “Sorry I accused you of being with them. I just figured you and Van Meter were attached at the hip.”
“Were. But somehow he got on IA’s radar and they asked me to mole. Shitty thing to do to a partner, I know, but...” He shrugged.
“No complaints here,” she whispered. “How did you find me?”
“I was down at court when I heard the call go out about you at Grand Central. I tried to raise Dutch but got no reply. I wasn’t sure, but thought — what the hell — and tracked the transponder from our cab here.”
Nikki smiled. “What the hell.”
Back up the pier there was a loud crack as the door to the work shack flew open against the wall. Van Meter must have slipped up there, and he was calling out, “Harv! She’s loose!”
Feller cursed. The Discourager emerged from the electrical room and called back, “How?”
“Who cares, start looking. Now!” Across the parking lot a beam from Harvey’s flashlight swept the buildings. Dutch called out again, “Check out that Dumpster.”
Feller pressed his car keys in Nikki’s palm. “Run.” Without waiting, he bolted out from behind the bin and charged at Harvey with his gun up. As Heat ran for it, she heard two shots. She made a quick check over her shoulder. Feller was down. Harvey’s flashlight scanned him. The beam came up, finding her. A shot followed and the slush exploded off the pavement a yard ahead of her.
And then the engine of the taxi roared to life. Van Meter fishtailed out of his spot, chasing Nikki down the pier.
There was no way she could outrun that cab. Heat shot desperate glances to both sides, searching in vain for a space between buildings she could slip through and dive into the river.
The police-modified engine rumbled, drawing ever closer, the tires swishing, kicking up the icy slop that had turned her feet numb.
Instead of running a zigzag, Nikki took a bold gamble and ran in a straight line, letting Van Meter gain speed, letting him forget the steering conditions. She sprinted, her lungs searing, toward the convoy of garbage trucks parked in a row outside the off-loading hangar. She held her course, waiting, waiting, as the high beams drew closer, bathing her back in hot light. When she could see her own shadow cast on the side of the first sanitation truck, Heat dove hard right, her body skimming prone across the water and ice accumulated on the concrete like it was a Slip ’n Slide.
Behind her, Dutch Van Meter, who had taken her bait, mashed his brake pedal and jerked his wheel, but the mix of precip that was icing that pier sent him hydroplaning. Traction gone, his cab floated into a sideways skid, slamming him broadside at top speed against the garbage truck. Nikki got up off the deck and saw him slumped motionless over the airbag on his steering wheel.
A gunshot cracked and hit the fender of the taxi beside her. Heat wanted Dutch’s Smith & Wesson, but The Discourager was bearing down and his next shot might not miss. Nikki hurried into the open hangar door of the garbage receiving station and took cover behind the six-foot-tall bales stacked there for barging.
When she heard Harvey’s feet slapping to a stop at the door, she crouched down and peered out between rows of compacted trash. He had turned off his six-cell so he wouldn’t give himself away, but there was enough ambient light from the West Side that she could see him wince as he rubbed a tender spot on his chest. When he took his hand away, Nikki made out the puncture in his jacket just below his shield, where his Kevlar had stopped Feller’s bullet.
Just as Heat renewed her plan to escape with a dive into the river, The Discourager worked his way around to her left flank, wittingly or unwittingly blocking her route to the open side of the hangar where they loaded bales onto barges bound for landfills. So Nikki crept to her right in the crevice between the stacks and made her way to the end of the row, where there was a small workbench.
Tools, she thought.
She studied the open distance to the workbench. It was risky exposure but better than waiting to become target practice. Heat was about to take a tentative step out of her hiding place when she heard his breathing. Immediately, she crouched low in the opening between the bales and made herself still.
Harvey was being quiet, too. Where the hell was he?
On a shelf above the workbench, among the girlie calendars and chipped coffee mugs, there sat some kind of trophy cup from the city or maybe the union. Nikki fixed her gaze on it and waited. Sure enough, after a few seconds, in the brass-plated reflection, she saw slow movement. The dark blue uniform was approaching the gap in which she was hunkered.
Detective Feller’s car keys were still in her hand. Being careful not to jangle, Heat made a fist around them so that the two keys protruded from her knuckles. Not exactly Wolverine, but it would have to do.
Patience again, always patience. The cop tiptoed sideways to the opening, searching for her in the gap. But his mistake was to look eye-level. Heat was crouched low, and when he was centered in front of her she sprang up at him, driving the keys into his left cheek while she grabbed for his gun with her right hand. He cried out in shock and pain. She jerked his wrist upward and the gun fired. The bullet hit harmlessly, eaten by the garbage bale behind her.
Heat thrashed his face again with the keys and tried to wrest the weapon away. His grip was strong, and when, on her third try, she did manage to wrest the gun free, it flew and clattered on the floor.
Nikki bent to grab it, but he tackled her from behind. She twisted and used his momentum against him, ramming him back-first into the workbench. She elbowed him three times at the sore spot under his badge. He wailed with each blow, until he palmed the side of her head and shoved her into the wall, where her shoulder crashed, breaking glass. Heat looked up inside the shattered case and hauled out the fire ax.
Harvey was coming up from his stoop, the gun back in his hand. Heat quickly reared to swing. Mindful that he was wearing body armor, she went for his gun arm. And severed it at the elbow.
He writhed on the floor moaning and bleeding out. Spent, Heat dropped the ax and scanned the surrounding area for something to use as a tourniquet. Then she heard sudden movement beside her. Nikki spun, bringing her hands up.
Someone was diving at her, she braced herself for a blow, but in the same flash that she heard the gunshot, she recognized that the man pushing her aside was Rook. They both landed on the ground beside Harvey. Heat clapped a hand on his loose service weapon, came up with it, and put two rounds in Dutch Van Meter’s forehead as he stood in the doorway holding his smoking S&W.