‘I don’t know,’ said the driver. Both women shot him looks of disbelief. ‘I only live here three weeks!’
‘Do you know where it is?’ Macy asked Nina.
‘Ah . . . no.’
‘You said you used to live around here!’
‘I never needed to go there - New York’s not that dangerous! Well, normally.’ Nina swerved round a couple of cars waiting at a red light and made a wallowing turn to head north. ‘I think there’s one on 21st Street.’
Macy looked up at the street signs. ‘That’s over ten blocks! Have you got a phone? I’ll call 911!’
‘Yes,’ said the driver, nodding. ‘Yes, call an ambulance, good idea!’
The road ahead was still busy. Pounding the horn, Nina swung out into the opposite lane to get past a crawling garbage truck, barely missing an oncoming car as she darted back in front of it. Macy slithered across the back seat, broken safety glass tinkling with her. ‘Not an ambulance, the police - whoa!’ Nina gasped as another cab braked sharply ahead of them. She spun the wheel as fast as she could, but clipped its rear quarter and ripped off the end of its bumper. Enraged horns blared. ‘Shit! Sorry,’ she added to the mortified driver.
She fumbled in her bag for her phone, fighting to keep control of the cab with one hand. Behind, a skirl of rubber and a flare of spotlights in the mirror warned her that the Dodge had made it through the intersection as well. She found the phone, shoving it through the partition’s money slot. ‘Here!’
Macy dialled 911, giving a hurried, panicky description of their situation to the operator as Nina swerved through traffic to keep out of their pursuers’ line of fire. ‘The cops said to head for 21st Street,’ Macy said, ending the call. ‘They’re going to try to meet us.’
‘If these assholes don’t catch up first.’ Despite Nina’s best efforts, the Dodge was gaining. Macy tried to push the phone back through the slot, but she held up a hand. ‘No! Go to the contacts, call “Eddie”.’
‘Who’s Eddie?’
‘My husband.’
‘This isn’t the best time to tell him you’ll be late for dinner!’
‘Just dial it, smartass! He’ll know how to get us out of this!’ She shared a worried look with the driver as the cab shot through the next intersection. ‘I hope.’
Eddie had taken an immediate dislike to Grant’s buddies, a pair of overgrown fratboys who were taking full advantage of the extra pulling power granted by association with a movie star. But he kept his opinions to himself as they pawed at the skimpily dressed girls who had been easily persuaded to join them in the VIP lounge. Instead he lurked discreetly nearby, concentrating on his job, which was to get rid of the arseholes and nutters his client didn’t want near him. The arseholes and nutters he did want near him weren’t his problem.
His phone rang. Nina. He wasn’t supposed to take personal calls when he was working. But Grant wouldn’t notice while trying to count his latest ladyfriend’s teeth with his tongue. ‘Hey, love. What’s up?’
‘Someone’s trying to kill me!’
He could tell she wasn’t joking. It sounded as if she was in a car. ‘Where are you?’
‘The East Village, round 12th Street.’
Shit! That was almost half the length of Manhattan away, a hundred blocks - the better part of five miles. ‘How many bad guys? Are they armed?’
‘At least three, and yeah!’ An urk of overstressed tyres came from the other end of the line, followed by a high-pitched shriek and angry car horns.
The shriek wasn’t Nina. ‘Who’s with you?’
‘Someone from the IHA, and the cab driver - he’s been shot!’
‘Why aren’t you calling an ambulance?’ demanded a pained but angry male voice.
Eddie’s fists tightened in frustration. He was too far away to help directly - all he could offer was advice. ‘Have you called the cops?’
‘Yeah - we’re trying to get to a precinct.’
His eyes locked on to Grant, an idea forming. ‘I’ll call you right back,’ he said. ‘Just keep ahead of ’em!’
He ended the call and strode to Grant’s table. ‘And I do my own stunts, too,’ the actor was boasting to the wide-eyed young woman. ‘In Nitrous, when I ran along the top of that tanker truck as it blew up? That was really me.’
He was neglecting to mention the computer-enhanced fireballs and all the safety gear that had been digitally painted out of the shot, but Eddie decided not to enlighten her. Instead, he held out his hand. ‘Mr Thorn. I need your valet parking token.’
Grant looked up, confused. ‘What?’
‘The parking token. Give it to me.’
The actor stared at him uncomprehendingly. One of his friends rose with a drunken smirk. ‘Hey, Mr Bodyguard, how about you chill the fuck out and give us some priva—’
An instant later, his arm was twisted up behind his back and his face slammed against the table. Grant flinched. ‘Token!’ Eddie snapped. ‘Now!’
‘Uh, what are you doing?’ Grant asked as he fumbled for it.
Eddie shoved his friend to the floor and snatched it from him. ‘I need your car,’ he said as he hurried for the stairs, the VIP lounge’s other occupants not sure how to react to the lightning-fast burst of violence.
‘Dude, you are so fired!’ Grant shouted, jumping up and following. ‘And there’s no way you are taking my car. No way!’
‘Way,’ Eddie replied. He raced down the stairs and pushed through the crowd. Shouts rose behind him as the clubgoers realised there was a Hollywood star in their midst and closed in as if drawn magnetically.
He reached the street and thrust the token into the head valet’s hand, together with a fifty dollar bill. ‘Mr Thorn’s car. Quick.’ The valet pocketed the money and issued instructions into a walkie-talkie. Eddie impatiently tapped a foot. It wouldn’t take Grant long to force his way through the mob.
His phone rang again. ‘Nina! What’s happening?’
‘Still being chased!’
‘I’ll be there as quick as I can.’
‘How quick will that be?’
He heard the high snarl of the Lamborghini’s engine from the parking garage. ‘Very.’
He moved to the kerb, glaring at the parking structure. The Lamborghini’s engine note echoed as the valet gingerly manoeuvred the supercar down the ramp. Come on, get a bloody move on! Grant would reach the doors at any moment.
The Murciélago emerged from the garage, street lights gleaming from its polished orange skin. It pulled up in front of the VIP entrance, driver’s door scissoring upwards. Eddie held up another fifty to entice the valet out—
‘Hey!’ Grant rushed on to the sidewalk, shrugging off his fans. ‘Stop him! That’s my car!’
The valet was still unfolding himself from the low-slung driver’s seat. The bouncer who had mocked Eddie’s height earlier advanced. ‘Okay, hold it—’
Eddie kneed him in the groin, then smashed a powerful punch up into his face as he doubled over, knocking him backwards into his companion. Both men tumbled, pulling down the velvet rope. Clubbers saw their chance and rushed for the doors, the queue suddenly degenerating into anarchy.
Eddie yanked the gawping valet from the Lamborghini, tossing him on to the bouncers, then swung himself into the car and pulled down the door. He put the Murciélago into gear and was about to take off when Grant leapt in front of it, banging his hands down on the bonnet. ‘You’re not taking my car, man!’
Eddie revved the engine, jolting the car forward a few inches. Grant’s face flashed with fear, but he held his ground. Changing tack, Eddie looked through the narrow rear window to make sure he wasn’t about to squash anybody, then snicked the gearstick into reverse and sharply pulled back.