Nikki knew better than to stay down in hand-to-hand combat. She pushed Kaye
off and sprang to her feet, bringing her Sig Sauer around toward the woman still on
the concrete. But Salena clearly had close-fighting experience. Her right leg
scissored up in a blink, and the instep of her foot whacked Nikki’s wrist. The
impact, square on a nerve, deadened feeling in her hand, and the pistol clattered
across the deck and took a bounce off a car tire before it spun to a stop.
Kaye kipped up, quick as a gymnast, and came at Heat with a rapid-fire pair of wrist
blows to each side of her head, boom-boom. Nikki’s vision fogged and her knees
jellied. She fought the blackout and recovered to find Salena going for her gun.
Heat side-kicked her ribs, and the woman dropped. But then she caught Nikki off
guard again with a jujitsu leg lock—a submission hold Heat had practiced herself—
but now she was the victim of immobilizing pain as Kaye forced her knee to
hyperextend. Unable to move, unable to free herself, she saw the dark form of her
Sig Sauer on the cement and reached for it. Kaye pulled her back toward her, but in
so doing, she released Nikki’s leg just enough for her to wiggle out of the lock.
Heat threw herself forward on top of Salena, raining blows to her collarbone and
neck. Kaye reacted by kicking both knees upward, somersaulting Heat right over her.
Nikki landed hard on her back and lost her breath.
“Hey, what’s going on?” shouted the security guard coming out of the kiosk. In
the spilt second Salena paused to gauge the threat, Heat rolled for her gun. She
scrambled wildly for it, snatching it barrel-first. When she came up in ready-fire,
Salena Kaye was long gone.
Heat pursued, hobbling on her sore knee. She jogged through the pain and caught
sight of Salena making a right turn toward the river up at 34th Street.
And then Nikki heard the helicopter.
When she reached the intersection, Heat knew it would be close. A hundred yards
away, a royal blue Sikorsky S-76 warmed up on the commuter helipad. A side door
stood open, and the pilot, in a white short-sleeved shirt with epaulettes, lay on
the asphalt beneath Salena Kaye, with both hands to his face and blood streaming
through his fingers.
For the second time that morning, Detective Heat drew her service piece and called a
freeze. Kaye probably couldn’t hear her over the copter’s engine, but she saw
Nikki. With a lingering look and a slow turn that spoke of arrogance, she climbed
inside the S-76 and closed the door. Seconds later, as Heat reached the tarmac, the
chopper lifted up about two feet and then rotated on an axis, its rear rotor
spinning within a yard of Nikki, who plunged to the asphalt. Salena Kaye rotated
again, brazenly presenting the helicopter’s side to Heat long enough to chuck her
the finger. Then the chopper slowly drifted out over the East River, churning up a
circle of spray.
Heat got on one knee and braced her elbow on the other, taking aim with her Sig
Sauer. She figured if she emptied the entire clip into the engine, she could, maybe,
bring it down in the drink. She envisioned the shot, and then hesitated.
It occurred to her that there could be an innocent passenger aboard.
Nikki holstered and called for NYPD air support as she watched the Sikorsky become a
dot against the morning sun over Brooklyn.
Jameson Rook hurried into the Homicide Squad Room at the Twentieth, strode up to
Heat, and locked her in a hug. “My God, are you OK?”
Nikki gave the bull pen a sheepish scan and modeled a quieter voice for him. “I’m
fine.” They unfolded from their embrace, and he revealed the Starbucks cup in his
hand. “Brought you a fresh latte.”
“Thanks, I’ll wait.”
“I’ll taste test it for you.” He took a sip, made a ceremony of swirling it in
his mouth, and swallowed, following the whole thing up with a lip smack and a
satisfied “Ah.” He held it out and said, “See, it’s just fi—” Suddenly his
eyes bugged and he made a choking gasp and brought his free hand up to his throat.
She stared blankly. He miraculously recovered. “Too soon?”
“Too late.” Nikki gestured to the squad room, where a grande cup labeled “Nikki”
sat atop every desk. “These idiots beat you to it.”