“Get in!” Lopez said.
She gripped Martinez’s field jacket, pulled him to her, and they fell back onto the bag. His legs were still hanging out of the car when Lopez hit the gas. As the Buick lurched forward, she heard rounds strike the left rear fender. She pulled Martinez all the way in just as the Buick made a hard right turn. The momentum swung the door shut.
Martinez moaned. She rolled him off her onto the floor, sat up. They were in a residential area, dark houses on both sides of the street. The transfer car was still a couple of miles away.
“What happened back there?” Lopez said.
She pulled off her ski mask, had to catch her breath before she could speak. “Too many of them. Seven, maybe. At least. More than we thought.”
Through the rear window she saw headlights way back there, coming fast. No other cars around.
“They’re on us,” she said.
“Shit.” Lopez gunned the engine. The Buick swung a left, then another right onto a main thoroughfare, sped by darkened storefronts.
She pushed the mask into a jacket pocket. If she had to do a runner from the car, she didn’t want to leave it behind. There would be hair in the material, DNA. Evidence if the cops found it.
Martinez moaned again. She laid a gloved hand atop his. “Steady. You’re going to be all right.”
They’d scouted this area of East New York for weeks, timed the route, and she knew the chances of running into a squad car were slim. It was midnight shift change, the same reason the Dominicans chose that time for their weekly money pickup. Lopez was an ex-cop, knew the area, the players. Martinez was his brother-in-law. The two of them had found the stash house, gathered the intel, then reached out to her through a middleman. She was the one who’d brought in Adler.
Two blocks ahead was the business district, an intersection controlled at this hour by only a blinking yellow light. She looked back at the street behind. A pair of bright headlights swung out onto it, moving fast.
“They’re coming,” she said.
Martinez made a slow sign of the cross. His breath was ragged now, wheezing. Collapsed lung, she thought.
Lopez took the left at the yellow light, cut it too close, the driver’s-side tires bumping hard over the curb. A red light began to blink on the dash, in time with a soft beep.
“Fuck,” he said.
“What?”
“They must have hit the tank. We’re losing gas.”
Behind them a dark SUV made the turn, staying on their tail. High beams flashed on, lit the inside of the car. The Buick began to sputter and slow. The next turn was still a block ahead.
“Get down!” Lopez said.
The SUV swept into the left lane, came abreast of them. The front passenger-side window slid down, and a shotgun barrel came through.
Lopez slammed on the brakes. It threw her forward onto Martinez. She heard the roar of the gun, an explosion of glass. The Buick slewed to the right, hit the curb, rolled up on it, and came to a stop. The SUV braked just beyond it, then reversed.
She heard the shotgun being ratcheted. Another blast, and safety glass sprayed over her.
She jerked up on the latch of the passenger-side door, pushed it open, and rolled out onto the sidewalk, the Buick between her and the SUV.
How many men? Two at least, driver and shooter, but maybe others in back. Likely more on their way from the stash house in another vehicle. She couldn’t stay where she was, couldn’t run without presenting a target.
A third blast, this time into the rear driver’s side. The car rocked with the impact. She heard a door in the SUV open. They were getting out to finish it. Now, she thought.
She raised up, aimed the Glock over the roof of the Buick. The man with the shotgun stood there, lit by the streetlight. Shaven head, facial tattoo. She’d seen him at the stash house. He swung the muzzle toward her, and she fired twice, saw his head snap to the side. He fell back against the SUV, dropped the shotgun, and slid to the pavement.
She aimed through the open door of the SUV, but the driver was gone. The rear windows were tinted. She couldn’t see inside or through.
She steadied the Glock with both hands, waited. Would he come around the front or back? Were there more men inside, ready to open a side door, start firing?
The driver popped his head over the top of the SUV, pistol resting on the roof. She fired once to get him to duck, then lowered the muzzle and began shooting through the SUV’s side windows. The smoked glass exploded and collapsed. She could see the driver on the other side, saw him take the impact of the bullets. She kept firing until he fell out of sight. The rear of the SUV was empty.
Shell casings clinked on the sidewalk behind her. Gun smoke hung in the air. There’d been fifteen rounds in the Glock — fourteen in the magazine, one in the chamber. How many left?
She went around the front of the Buick. The man with the shotgun lay on his side. A rivulet of blood ran out from below him, shiny on the blacktop, coursed toward the gutter. She kicked the shotgun away, circled the SUV. The driver lay on his back, motionless, eyes open. She put a foot on his pistol, swept it into a storm drain.
In the Buick, Lopez was slumped over onto the passenger seat. He was dead or close to it. There was blood on the dashboard, the steering wheel, and what was left of the windshield. The fuel light still blinked red.
The rear door was pocked with buckshot holes. She pulled it open. Martinez lay still and silent on the floor. His own gun had slid partly out of his jacket pocket, the same model Glock as her own. She took it.
Headlights back at the cross street. She leaned into the car, hauled out the gear bag, swung the strap onto her shoulder.
A block ahead was another intersection, another blinking yellow light. To her right was a wide, unlit alley that ran behind a row of commercial buildings. Their storefronts would face onto that main street. High above, a bright half moon shone through thin clouds.
Headlights lit her, the vehicle coming fast. She took a last look at the Buick, then ran into the darkness of the alley.
Breathe. Think.
Fire escapes here, but their street-level ladders were raised and unreachable. She ran on, the bag thumping against her back. A cat darted from behind a dumpster, crossed her path, and disappeared.
She heard a vehicle brake on the street behind her. If it turned into the alley, she’d be caught in its headlights. They’d send someone to the other end too, to cut her off, try to pin her between them.
Ahead on the left was a one-story brick building with a loading dock, a green dumpster and a pile of discarded tires beside it. The metal pull-down gate was covered with graffiti. On the dock was a single fifty-five-gallon metal drum. She stuck the Glock in her belt, tossed the bag onto the dock, and climbed up after it.
There was a heavy padlock at the bottom of the gate. She tugged at it, but there was no give. She looked around, considered the dumpster for a moment. Knew that would be one of the first places they’d look.
No way in, and she couldn’t go back. She felt the first sharp edge of panic. She tilted the barrel toward her, heard its contents slosh, smelled motor oil. The drum was half full. She swung and wheeled it closer to the gate, then scrambled atop it. It rocked unsteadily beneath her feet.
The roof was gravel and tarpaper, bordered on all sides by three limp strands of barbed wire. Broken bottles glinted in the moonlight. There was a silent air-conditioning unit in one corner, its grille dark with rust. A few feet away was a closed wooden hatch.
She climbed back down, the barrel shaking. She could hear urgent voices in Spanish on the street back there. They’d be coming this way soon.