“What the hell is this?” he shouted.
“Damn it, Joe, he can’t shoot that,” Lea said, grabbing herself a pistol. “He couldn’t hit a barn door with a Howitzer at ten yards.”
“No one is going after them unnarmed,” Hawke said, and ran into the Grand Hall.
No sooner had they reached the Grand Hall when they were forced to turn back in the midst of a savage volley of automatic weapons’ fire, shot indiscriminately in their direction. Large chunks of marble were blasted from the sides of a fluted Ionic column Lea was using for cover.
“Good job Mitch isn't around to see that,” Ryan said.
“Poor taste, Ryan. Another reason why I divorced you.”
“I think we established that, in fact, I divorced you.”
Hawke sighed. “Please you two, not this again, and not now!” He returned fire and planted a neat line of bullets in the side of one of the cash registers now being used as cover by one of Vetsch’s men.
One of the men began to spray sub-machine gun fire in a reckless arc around the Grand Hall just for the hell of it, and another threw a grenade into the center of the room as they ran out into the courtyard.
The grenade exploded and showered plaster and dust down on them. Hawke sat up and scrambled behind one of the Doric columns for cover while Lea and Ryan copied his lead and hid behind the next column along.
Hawke saw two more security guards run toward the assailants, with pistols raised and screams demanding Vetsch and his men drop their weapons and put their hands above their heads. He fired a few rounds in their direction to try and draw their fire but it was too late.
Vetsch raked them with his sub-machine gun and they both fell to the floor, almost cut in half with the number of rounds plowed into them. They’re not playing games, thought Hawke.
With that final flourish, Vetsch led his men out of the museum and into the street. Hawke, Lea and Ryan pursued them as fast as they could.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“We need a vehicle right now.” Hawke saw the quickest option ahead of the museum’s Fifth Avenue entrance. An empty car was idling in a line of traffic — its owner had gotten out and seemed to be arguing about something with the driver of a cab parked behind him.
“That’s our ride right there,” Hawke said. “Come on, be quick and be quiet.”
“This is beyond a joke,” said Ryan as they climbed into the 1935 Ford hot rod, complete with flames painted on the hood, a visible engine and double exhaust cut-outs.
Ahead of them, Vetsch and his men were making their escape in a black Mercedes S-Class.
They climbed into the hot rod, Hawke at the wheel, and a second later were racing up Fifth Avenue, the roar of the twin exhausts making the owner and just about everyone else in uptown Manhattan turn in horror.
On the road, Hawke slammed the throttle down and was impressed by the Ford’s sharp acceleration and the ludicrous roar of the suped-up flathead V8 engine. “I’ve never driven a hot rod before,” he said, nodding with appreciation.
“Simple things amuse simple people, I suppose,” sighed Ryan.
Lea smiled. “It’s pretty cool, actually.”
“Oh, come off it,” Ryan said. “You’re not actually impressed by this sort of thing, are you? You realize men drive cars like this as compensation for their inadequate penis size.”
Hawke smirked. “Is that a fact?”
“A well-known one in certain circles.”
“Circles of jealous losers, you mean?”
“Both of you, stop it,” Lea shouted.
“I’m just stating a fact about men, cars and small penis size.”
“Well, you would know, Ryan,” Lea said, causing him to redden. A smirk spread on Hawke’s lips.
Hawke accelerated the Ford and weaved through the traffic, leaving a sea of angry car horns and fist-waving in the rear-view. The Mercedes skidded around to the left and joined East Drive heading into Central Park where it sped up and overtook several slower-moving vehicles who swerved to let it pass.
Irate joggers waved their water bottles at him and swore brashly, but to no effect. Seconds later they were doing the same thing to Hawke and the hot rod as he tore past them and sharpened his pursuit of Zaugg’s team.
It was now that the Mercedes slowed and skidded across the cycle lane to the left, mounted the grassed area and cut across the footpath. A man selling hotdogs jumped to safety before shouting abuse and angrily waving a pair of cooking tongs in the air.
“Where the hell are they going?” Hawke asked as passers-by in their path screamed and scattered.
“North Meadow — it's where the baseball fields are.” Lea waved her iPhone at Hawke. “I just got a map of Manhattan up so we can see what’s what.”
“Ah,” Hawke said, giving the phone a sly, sideways glance. “I was wondering how long it would take you to think of that.”
The Merc left the meadow, smashed clean through a chainlink fence and accelerated in a violent swerving weave until it hit West Drive.
It chewed up great clods of frozen earth and muddy snow which sprayed up behind it as the powerful car raced forward. Finally it hit the tarmac and bounced violently up and down before settling into a renewed acceleration.
One of the men inside was now leaning out the rear window, his hair blowing wildly in the cold wind as he recklessly aimed an Uzi at the hot rod.
He fired off a few bursts. More screaming people dived for cover while others hurriedly dialled emergency services on their cell phones.
With the gap closing, Lea leaned out the right side of the hot rod and took a couple of shots at the Merc, missing with the first but taking out the rear window with the second.
Vetsch swerved in response but soon regained contol.
“You’re getting there,” said Hawke with a patronizing smile.
Lea was taking another aim and said calmly: “Were you smacked too hard as a child, Joe Hawke?”
Before he could answer she fired another two shots, this time taking out the rear left tire in an explosion of black, shredded rubber.
“Better,” Hawke said. “Better.”
The Merc swerved violently across West Drive before plowing across the western strip of Central Park, skidding uncontrollably on some snow and narrowly avoiding a high-speed impact with the bough of an oak tree.
Hawke smiled. “That’s more like it. He nearly lost it then.”
Vetsch fought to maintain control, over-revved and smashed through a low brick wall before finally hitting Central Park West.
He tried to corner too fast. His one rear tire broke traction and after a moment of terrifying oversteer during which Hawke wondered if some pedestrians might get killed, the Merc rammed into a U-Haul truck at a busy junction and its journey was almost at an end.
The U-Haul’s cargo trailer was badly smashed, but the Mercedes came off worse, spinning around like a toy car against the impact with the heavy GMC truck.
It slammed through a One Way sign before finally coming to a stop with its nose in the front window of a dry cleaner’s store, burst radiator steaming in the cold air.
Realizing that the rot rod was only about five seconds from meeting the same fate as the Merc, Hawke hit the brakes and after an unsettling moment of sliding sideways in the snowy grass he steered into the skid until the tires got some traction back. He gently tapped the brakes and brought the hot rod to a stop.
“Is it over?” asked Ryan, peering over their shoulders from the back seat.
“Almost.” Hawke pointed at the Merc. “Just be thankful it didn’t catch fire.”
Then the Merc caught fire.
Flames flickered out from beneath the hood and Vetsch and his men screamed and started to scramble to safety.