Mike had shot the idiot.
Nicholas came up on his knees, dragged the idiot behind the cover of a concrete pillar, and tore off the black mask. He was young, thirties, dark hair. Indistinguishable, eyes blank, blood spreading out from his back to halo around his body. He was very dead.
Mike shouted, “Nicholas, the kicker, he’s running up the ramp.”
More sirens now, drawing closer.
Nicholas took off, Mike right behind him. He slowed when he reached the final curve that turned into the street, gestured for her to hold up. He took three more steps, saw the garage barrier. It was closed tight, but the door to the street beside it was wide open.
He heard footsteps and people shouting. He charged through the open door to see light bars flashing, an echo of the cacophony of noises in his ears. An NYPD cruiser skidded to a stop at the curb, two officers bolted from the car, guns drawn. “Stop! NYPD!”
Mike screamed, “Federal agent! Federal agent, don’t shoot!” She held her Glock in one hand and her creds high in the other.
Nicholas saw a flash of black to his right. He ignored the shouts from the cops and edged carefully toward the alley. Mike ran into the alley behind him, shouting over her shoulder, “We need backup!”
The kicker was trapped at the back of the alley, a high fence behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and Nicholas saw a rim of jaw-length white hair under his mask. Of all things, the kicker smiled, then leapt onto the chain link and began climbing, fast and fluid as a monkey. Nicholas’s Glock was empty. He knew he couldn’t climb the fence, his shoulder was hurting so badly he could barely raise his arm. He could only watch the man pull himself up and over the fence, down the other side, and listen to his light footfalls disappear into the black night.
Mike fired until her gun was dry, but the kicker was gone.
She looked at him, then down at herself. She began to laugh. She choked out, “I don’t believe this, I really don’t.”
“Is your head all right? Believe what?”
“Open your coat and look at yourself. You’re still wearing your tux, what there is left of it.”
He said, “I doubt the dry cleaner is going to be able to fix this.”
42
Three more NYPD cruisers crowded the street, pulling over curbs, into driveways, one even mowing down two garbage cans.
It was mayhem until everyone was clear they were dealing with federal agents. A sergeant arrived and finally sent out men to find the kicker.
Mike sighed. “He’s long gone. They’ll never find him now, not in a million years. He’s fast, Nicholas, and that kick to my head, I’m still woozy. What’s this?” She slumped against the wall of the building, and eyed the blood she’d wiped off her face.
Nicholas took a Kleenex from one of the officers and wiped off the blood. “A flying bit of concrete.” He felt her head. “And a good-sized lump. You’ve got a hard head, thank the good Lord.”
“Give me the Kleenex, you’ve got a cut lip.”
She dabbed at his mouth. “What’s with your shoulder?”
“Tire iron,” Nicholas said shortly, and moved it a bit. Better. They watched the NYPD officers hurrying off in all directions.
“How did you know?”
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. She saw he was uncomfortable and said only, “Your gut, right?”
“Maybe. Something felt off when I got out of the car.”
She placed her hand flat against his belly. “I’m not feeling you up. I’m thanking your gut.”
He laughed, couldn’t help it. A Latina officer, her hair in a long braid, gave Mike the idiot’s wallet. His driver’s license was from Sacramento, California; his name listed as Dennis Palmer.