“Well, maybe we have a chance.”
Beck was stiff and sore all over, the long knife wound on his back was only oozing blood. He downed a five-hour energy drink from the pocket of his coat. Grimaced through the pain and reached over the backseat for the assault shotgun.
Ricky Bolo’s voice came over the cell phone speaker. “They’re gettin’ on the BQE.”
“Still heading east?”
“Yeah.”
“Fall back a little more. We’ll overtake you and follow them.”
Demarco asked, “What do you think?”
“If he stays on the BQE, my bet is he’s heading for JFK.”
Demarco nodded. “Makes sense. Fly out to somewhere we can’t find him. Maybe the homeland.”
“We aren’t chasing this fucker to Russia. Gimme your phone.”
Beck used Demarco’s phone to get online.
Demarco eased past the Bolo’s white van and spotted Kolenka’s caravan of two cars about a hundred yards ahead. The van fell back. Demarco took its place and followed from well behind. Both of Kolenka’s vehicles were in the far left lane, going about sixty.
Beck was bent over Demarco’s phone.
“There aren’t any flights leaving at four in the morning. Where are we?”
“Just past Floyd Bennett Field.”
Beck pulled up Google Maps and searched for motels near JFK.
“I’m saying he’s heading for Kennedy, but he’ll have to hole up somewhere until planes start flying. There’s a lot of motels around the airport, but there are five that are the closest. Three in one cluster, two a block away. I guess we’ll have to roll the dice and cover the cluster of three.”
Demarco thought it over. “Or we split up and cover all five.”
Beck thought it over. “No, that could mean one of us against six. There’s a better way.”
Beck picked up the cell phone and took it off speaker. “Ricky, there’s three streets just past the JFK Expressway. One Hundred Fifty-third Place, Hundred Fifty-third Lane, and Hundred Fifty-third Court.”
After a moment, Ricky responded, “I see ’em on my GPS. What genius came up with that?”
“There’s two motels on One Hundred Fifty-third Lane. Three on the corner of One Hundred Fifty-third Court and South Conduit.”
“I see ’em.”
“Demarco and I are going to find a spot midway between all five. Can you lay back and follow them until they turn off, then let us know which street they take?”
“Not without them spotting us. How bad do you need to get this guy?”
“We don’t get him now, we’ll never get him. He could send gunmen after us forever.”
“Shit. James, there’s hardly anybody on the road. They spot us, it’s over.”
“Fuck.”
Beck thought it through. He was almost positive Kolenka was going for a flight out of town. That meant JFK. Would he go straight to the airport? They’d never be able to take him there. And then Beck thought, no. He’s not going to sit for hours in the airport. He can’t smoke in the airport.
“Okay, here’s what we do.”
Beck laid out his plan.
“All right, man, we got to hustle. Right now.”
Demarco slid into the far right lane. Two minutes later, the white van pulled up in the middle lane blocking any view of the Mercury because Beck feared the big Russian in the SUV was Vassily, and he might remember it. Both vehicles gradually sped up and past the Kolenka two-car caravan. Once past, they continued accelerating. The van topped out at ninety miles an hour. It took Jonas Bolo’s full concentration to keep the van under control.
The van nearly spun out when they hit the exit.
Jonas braked hard and parked the van on South Conduit Avenue where they had a view of all three streets. Beck and Demarco continued on, found a spot in the middle of 153rd Court, and parked the Mercury, shutting it down.
Beck said, “There have to be security cameras around these motels.”
Demarco spun his Kangol hat around to cover any view of his face from above. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a NY Knicks ball cap for Beck.
“They’re mostly covering the entrances.”
“Let’s get into that lot connecting the two blocks. Try and angle away from any cameras we spot. Once they turn onto one of these two streets, we’ll have to run to get in place. We have to take them outside. Can’t let them get into the motel.”
Demarco popped open his door and headed into the dark night without a word, Beck following close behind. Within seconds, they were hunkered down between two parked cars in the lot of the motel facing South Conduit.
Beck handed Demarco his Browning. “Take my gun.” He held up the AA-12. “I’ll need two hands for this fucker.”
“Don’t worry. It doesn’t kick much at all. But be careful. It shoots fast and does a hell of a lot of damage.”
Beck worked the headphones for his cell phone into his ears. The phone had been on the whole time.
Beck asked over the phone, “Any sign of them?”
“Not yet. I didn’t think the old Bolo-mobile could go that fast, but they should be here pretty soon. If they’re coming here.”
Beck turned down the volume on his phone. Suddenly, everything seemed quiet. All he could hear was the whoosh of occasional traffic out on the BQE. A gust of cold wind blew through the parking lot.
They didn’t have long to wait.
Beck heard Ricky Bolo’s voice in his ear. “Here they come.”
Beck felt a spasm of emotion run through him. He’d won half his bet. He stood up, moving out from between the parked cars. He did two quick half-squats, trying to loosen his sore knees, getting ready to run.
And then Ricky’s voice. “They just turned on … on … what the fuck is the middle street called? Goddamn it, is it Court? Lane? Whatever, it’s the middle street.”
It took Beck a split second to figure he had to run left, Demarco drifting easily behind him, guns in both hands.
They came out onto 153rd Court just as the trailing SUV drove past. The Cadillac was heading for the motel near the end of the block.