Hoisting the gear bag to her shoulder, she climbed carefully back onto the barrel, almost overbalanced. She heaved the bag onto the barbed-wire strands, weighing them down, then crawled onto and over it. Pulling the bag free, she rolled away from the edge, the roof creaking under her.
She backed away farther, out of eyesight from below. Seven men at the stash house. She’d killed two at the SUV. By now they might have called for more men. Likely why they hadn’t come down the alley yet. They were waiting for reinforcements.
She crawled toward the air-conditioning unit, got her back to it, tried to slow her breathing. The Glock’s magazine was empty, with a single round left in the chamber. She took the full clip from Martinez’s gun, transferred it to her own, and slapped it home. She pulled the bag toward her, unzipped and opened it. His Glock, her mask, and the empty magazine went inside.
She pointed her gun toward the edge of the roof, the butt resting on a thigh. There was nothing she could do about the drum. If they saw it, figured out what she’d done, then it would be all over. But she’d take out as many of them as she could before they got her.
With her left hand she rifled through the money. Packs of bills, some bank-strapped, some bound with rubber bands. Street money, hundreds, fifties, and twenties. She did a rough count in the moonlight. Maybe a hundred thousand altogether. Less than they’d expected. Lopez had said there might be as much as three hundred thousand at the stash house.
It hadn’t been worth it. Lopez, Martinez, and Adler all dead, and everything they’d planned gone to hell.
Headlights below. She looked over the edge of the roof, saw a dark SUV come to a stop just inside the alley. Its high beams lit dumpsters, fire escapes, and brick walls. A side door opened and two men got out, both carrying pistols. They’d search the alley on foot. The SUV stayed where it was, engine running.
She could hide here for now, wait them out. But soon they’d know she hadn’t come out on any of the neighboring streets, was still somewhere on this block.
How far away was the transfer car? Would she even be able to find it? It was a banged-up Volvo wagon, inconspicuous enough not to draw attention, too old and ugly to invite theft. Lopez had stolen it the day before in Yonkers, cracked the steering column so the ignition could be easily hot-wired again. She’d shown Martinez and Adler how to do it. If something went wrong or they got separated, anyone who could make it to the transfer car would still have a chance of getting clear. But now there was only her.
She gripped the gun, rested the back of her head against the cool metal of the air-conditioning unit, looked up at the moon, and waited.
When she looked at her watch again, it was one thirty. A half hour had passed. The SUV was still there. They’d turned off the engine but left on the headlights.
She crawled toward the front of the roof. The street was lined with dark stores, most with riot gates. No traffic. To the left, past the blinking yellow signal at the intersection, a storefront threw light on the sidewalk. Neon signs in the window read BURGERS PIZZA FRIED CHICKEN 24 HRS. There was a cab parked outside, no one at the wheel.
Stay or go? With the alley blocked, the only way out would be through the front, with the hope she could make it to the cab without being spotted, find the driver. Get away from here.
The other option was to wait until daylight. There would be more cars then, people. The searchers might have given up. But she didn’t want to stay here in the meantime, trapped like some animal, her fate being decided by someone or something else.
She took two banded packs of money from the gear bag, stuffed them in her jacket pockets. The bag would be a burden, would slow her down. She’d have to leave it here, come back another time, hope no one found it in the interim.
She zipped the bag back up, wedged it behind the air-conditioning unit, covered it with a loose piece of aluminum flashing. It would have to do. If they searched the roof and found it, it would just be her bad luck. There was nothing for it.
The hatch was locked from the inside, but it was old wood. She took out her buck knife, opened the three-inch blade, and went to work on the hinges, slicing away wood until the screws were loose. She pulled the hinges free, then pried up that side of the hatch high enough that she could reach in. Her fingers found a bolt. She opened it, then lifted the entire hatch free, set it gently on the roof.
An iron ladder led down into darkness. The familiar smells of motor oil and rubber drifted up. She closed the knife, put it away, took out her penlight. She shone the beam inside, saw an oil-stained concrete floor, a lift pit with no lift. More tires. She switched off the light, put it away.
Go on, she thought. You can’t stay here and wait for whatever’s coming.
She tucked the Glock in her waistband, sat on the edge of the opening, swung her legs in, felt for the rungs with her feet. She let herself down slowly. Five rungs. Six. Her feet touched concrete.
To the front was a bay door, a single window set high in its center letting in streetlight. On the other side of the lift pit, an open doorway led to an office.
She circled the pit, staying out of the light. Inside the office was a battered metal desk and a filing cabinet. The cabinet’s drawers were open and empty. The desktop was filmed with dust. On the floor was an auto parts calendar from 2015.
She took out the Glock, held it at her side. A wide-gridded riot gate covered the front window, faint streetlight coming through. To the right of it was a glass door in a recessed doorway, with cardboard taped over a missing panel. From here she had a clear view of the street in both directions. There was only one pole light working on the block, maybe twenty feet to her left. Beyond that, across the intersection, was the bright storefront. The cab was still there.
Headlights from the right. She stepped away from the door, back into the shadows, watched a dark Navigator approach and slow.
She took steady breaths. Don’t panic, she thought. Watch. Wait.
Another pair of lights came from the opposite direction. It was a low-slung two-door Acura. The vehicles stopped abreast of each other, window to window, the drivers talking. The car drove off.
The Navigator crossed the intersection, pulled up behind the taxi. Three men she hadn’t seen before got out and went inside the restaurant. After a few minutes they emerged and got back in the Navigator. She watched it pull away.
They might be doing circles, grids, looking for her. The Acura too. One or more of them might be coming back this way before long. It was time to move.
With her left hand, she unlocked the door. It had swollen in its frame, wouldn’t open. She pulled hard, shook it. It rattled and creaked as it came free. Cool night air flowed in. She put the Glock in her pocket, kept her hand on it.
Outside, she cut left up the sidewalk, walking fast but not running. She crossed the street, stayed close to the storefronts on the other side. Ahead the yellow light blinked, lit the blacktop.
On the other side of the intersection, she stopped short of the restaurant, looked through a side window. It was bright and stark inside. Plastic tables and chairs, a counter window with thick bulletproof glass. Behind it a young Black man in a white T-shirt and apron was texting on a phone, thumbs busy.
A single table was occupied. A thin, dark-skinned man with glasses and graying hair was reading a newspaper.
She tried the rear door of the cab, wanting to get in, out of sight. It was locked. She went up to the window near where the man sat, tapped a knuckle on the glass. The second time she did it, he looked up from his paper. The counterman had put down his phone, was watching her.
She pointed at the cab. The thin man nodded briskly, took off his glasses and stowed them in a jacket pocket. He got up, left the newspaper on the table.