Heat rotated her head toward it. The instant she moved, a muzzle flashed
across the hood of a Jetta and the air sizzled beside her ear. The slug hit the wall
behind her, and concrete dust and paint fragments stung her cheek. She called,
“NYPD, drop it,” then rolled away from that spot for cover, coming up beside the
engine block of an SUV.
The next shot punctured the Escape’s hood. This time Heat returned two rounds from
her Sig Sauer, aimed behind the flare. And waited.
She listened through heavy earwash as the gun echoes withered. She heard nothing. No
movement, no moans. What to do?
A good cop is always thinking tactics and cover.
With ample cover and the anticipation of backup, Nikki decided to hold position.
But the game changed. Headlights blazed and an engine turned. A white Japanese
compact squealed out of a parking slot and fishtailed away from Heat toward the exit
ramp. Heat rose, braced on the hood of the SUV, and squeezed off another 9. The back
window of the Versa spider-veined, but the driver turned the hairpin corner and
disappeared up the ramp toward ground level.
Heat raced for the stairwell.
The Nissan’s horn sounded a long and constant bleat, even frying the air outside
the parking garage as it zoomed up the incline from below. Pedestrians heard it and
scattered on the sidewalk to either side of the entrance as it flew out of the mouth
of the structure and crossed the driveway out onto Fulton.
Jameson Rook floored the Crown Victoria Police Interceptor and T-boned the Nissan
Versa, broadsiding the compact when it hit the street. The impact lifted the two
nearest tires half a foot off the pavement and pushed the small car sideways into
the rear of a cement truck, deploying the airbag in Salena Kaye’s face.
It only took seconds for Heat to rush onto the driveway, but by then Kaye had
already climbed out the broken windshield. Nikki searched the block and spotted her
jogging away with a limp down Fulton Street. Heat knew she could take her down at
that distance, but she wouldn’t put bystanders at risk to prove it.
“Pearl Street. I’ve got her,” said Heat, running past Rook as he got out of her
Crown Vic.
He called out, “Hey! I stayed with the car!” Rook couldn’t be sure she heard him.
Nikki had already rounded the corner. Improvising his own tactics, Rook briefed the
rent-a-car manager to tell the backup which way Heat had gone, and then he ran off
to take Cliff Street, the road that ran parallel to Nikki’s.
“Vehicles, two minutes away,” said Callan to Heat. “You should be hearing the
chopper any second.”
“I’ve lost her,” she said into her cell phone. “How the hell could I have lost
her in fifteen seconds?” She gave the DHS agent Salena Kaye’s clothing description
and pinpointed her position on Pearl Street, scanning storefronts and nail salons,
as she walked and talked. “Just get here. Get here with everything now.” Then she
hung up.
Rook knew the neighborhood, and his plan was to follow Cliff until it intersected
with John Street, where he would, theoretically, complete a pincer movement and meet
up with Nikki in the middle of the block, closing off Kaye’s escape. But before he
reached John Street, he glanced inside a deli window and saw her—saw Salena Kaye at
the steam table trying to blend in with the crowd.
And Salena saw him clock her. She started reaching inside her jacket.
“Bomb!” shouted Rook as he rushed in. “Everybody out, now!”
Amid the screams of panic and the stampede that jostled Salena Kaye, her draw got
slowed enough for him to lunge for her. Rook’s momentum slammed them into the steam
table and her Glock came loose, sliding across the linoleum toward the back of the
deli.