“That’s the first reaction we’ve had from this yahoo,” Thibodaux said. “What did you say to him?”
Jericho groaned, pushing off the wall to get to his feet. “I told him his friend had talked but we needed to confirm his story. That he bravely endured unmentionable pain, but in the end it had done him no good. Then I told him it was his turn.”
Mahoney stood, holding the rifle to her chest like some sort of security blanket. She didn’t know what to do with herself. She wanted to scream. She wanted to tell Jericho that she’d thought it through, that she understood why he had to do what he’d done… what he was about to do. She was sure he’d be able to see it in her eyes, if he’d just look, but he refused to meet her gaze.
“Jacques,” he said softly. “Let’s get this one moved to the back room…”
CHAPTER 47
Bo’s BlackBerry squawked from the holster on his belt, freezing everyone in place and buying the young Arab a moment of reprieve. A gravel voice with a thick Texas accent suddenly broke squelch.
“Bo, this is Ugly,” the voice said. “We got a towel-head in a light blue Pontiac rental car coming up the road. He’s eyeballin’ that gal’s house pretty hard. Looks like he’s your guy. He’s missing a couple of fingers… Wait, I think he’s stopping…”
“Watch yourselves,” Bo warned, clenching the grip of the pistol in his fist.
“Hang on, Bo,” Ugly said. “Watch him, Jim! Shit, he sees us—”
Ugly’s voice stopped abruptly, covered by the staccato sound of gunfire both over the phone as well as outside and up the street.
“Talk to me, Ugly.” Bo rushed toward the door, gun in hand.
Jericho went after him, grabbing him by the shoulder. “Wait!” he said. “Don’t just rush out headlong. We don’t know how many there are out there. Our lives aren’t the important thing here. We have to do this the smart way.”
Bo shrugged away, using the barrel of his gun to push aside the window blinds. “Shit! I can’t see anybody. They must be just over that rise.”
Jericho stood to his left, scanning up and down the road. “Nothing,” he said through clenched teeth as more gunfire erupted outside.
“Ugly! Jim!” Bo snapped. “What the hell’s going on?”
He was met by nothing but silence. “Dammit!” Bo hissed through clenched teeth. “I’m gonna go check on them.”
“I’ll come with you.” Jericho stepped to the door. “Remember, no matter what else happens, we can’t let Zafir get away.”
A deadly look clouded Bo’s face. “I hadn’t planned on it, brother.”
Ugly’s gritty voice popped across the radio again, broken this time and higher in pitch. “Jim’s down! He took a bullet in the guts… The son of a bitch shot me, too, but I think I got him…”
Jericho’s heart raced. “Bo,” he snapped. “You tell him to watch out! This guy’s not dead until he’s DRT.”
“Okay, boss…” Ugly’s voice came back across the radio before Bo could issue the warning. It was still high-pitched, but slower, calming down. “Yeah, I got the bastard. Looks like he’s dead—”
The pop of small-arms fire peppered the air again, followed almost instantly by the roaring slap, slap, slap of an American motorcycle engine.
“Hey!” It was Ugly’s voice again, screaming, panting as if he was running down the road. He kept the mike keyed as he moved. “Boss! You better get out here! He’s getting away… Hey, get off my bike!”
CHAPTER 48
“I need to borrow your Harley,” Jericho said as he threw his leg across the Night Rod parked in the middle of the living room. “You go check on your guys, I’ll go after Zafir.”
“Take her!” Bo said. “But remember, she’s not a two-story building like your Beemer. You gotta watch the corners.” He kicked open the front door, a pistol in his hand. “Now go! We’ll take care of this end.”
The Night Rod came to life with a deafening roar, straight-shot dual mufflers shaking the walls of the little house. Jericho shot a glance at Mahoney as he kicked the bike into first. She smiled. “Bo’s men are hurt,” he yelled. “See if you can help them. I’ll take care of Zafir.” Quinn tapped the Bluetooth device in his ear. “Jacques, sorry to leave you with the baggage. Give Palmer a call and he’ll send someone to pick them up. I’ll call out my locations on the radio. Get to the car and follow me as soon as you can.”
“We got this, beb,” the big Cajun yelled over the thumping motorcycle engine. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Jericho goosed the throttle, burning the Harley’s fat rear tire through the carpet as he hopped the threshold out the door. He shot off the front porch and landed with a thud in the front yard, planting a boot on the concrete sidewalk to keep from spilling. Bo was right. The bike had very little ground clearance and she was a beast at low speeds. Up the hill, nearly a hundred yards up the street he could see the Pontiac. It was dead and steaming in the middle of the road where Ugly had put several rounds through the radiator. Both bikers were on the ground but looked to be alive and sitting up. A man on a red motorcycle disappeared over the crest going east on Lafayette.
Jericho took the hill four seconds later and caught sight of the fleeing bike, which now had almost a full block of lead. He leaned forward, rolling on the throttle. Slow speed handling could be forgiven in a bike as fast at the Night Rod. It handled remarkably well on the straightaway and Quinn was easily able to able to spur a respectable hundred and ten miles an hour out of the Porsche-designed engine by the time he bounced through the second intersection. On a flat-out race, he wondered how the Night Rod would stack up against his GS. On the twisties of a real-life street pursuit, it wouldn’t have even been a contest. Thankfully, Ugly rode an American bike as well. Even though Zafir had a head start, Quinn began to close the distance.
Less than fifty yards ahead now, the red bike slowed to take the sweeping left turn using all four lanes of Montgomery Street at the bottom of a long hill. A Fort Worth city bus ripped through the intersection, missing the speeding bike by inches. Quinn made the decision to slow down enough that he didn’t make the same mistake. He couldn’t do anyone any good if he was smeared across the front of a bus.
The Arab cut left again, turning off Montgomery to roar east along the wide parking lots of the Fort Worth Stock Show grounds. Quinn had studied a map of the area immediately surrounding Navarro’s house, but at a hundred and twenty miles an hour it didn’t take him long to move into unfamiliar territory. He flew past huge, arena-like livestock barns on his left, each arched building giving way to the next in a long series. Light poles were nothing but a blur. Street signs were unreadable as they zipped by. Seconds later he passed a covered gate on his left, leading into the stockyards. There was a sign large enough he could read it without wrecking Bo’s motorcycle. The irony made him chuckle despite the danger. HARLEY AVENUE GATE.
Cars were spread out along the two-lane road, moving slowly, spaced just enough that Zafir was able to weave in and out of them without too much trouble. Still, he had to reduce speed in order to maneuver. He wasn’t quite the rider Jericho was. Few people were.