She didn’t feel the bullet hit the door or her body. In the blink between synapses, in which Nikki wondered if she didn’t sense it because she was already dead, she heard two familiar voices shout, “NYPD, freeze!” then three rapid shots followed by a body falling heavily against her improvised shield. As she lay there, pinned, feet pounded toward her. Then came the welcome sound of a gun being kicked and skittering away across asphalt.
“Clear.” The relaxed voice belonged to Dutch Van Meter.
Detective Feller called, “Heat, he’s down. You all right? Heat?”
Feller holstered his weapon and got her out from under the pile. Even though Nikki insisted she was fine, he made her sit down on a ratty office chair that was rotting in the yard beside a plastic tub of spent cigarette butts. Blue-and-whites from the Forty-first were pulling up outside the gate behind the undercover taxi. The emergency lights flashed into the entrance to the salvage yard, giving the night a surreal quality, especially as the colored lights strobed on Van Meter. Still holding his Smith & Wesson 5906, he stood up beside Tucker Steljess’s body, after trying in vain for a pulse. He made a smooth sideways palm chop to his partner, signaling a flat line.
“Don’t worry about me, fellas, I’m fine. I’m just the one who got shot at.” Rook pulled himself up from his hiding place behind a corrugated cardboard carton labeled “Brake rotors—Fair to OK” in black marker. Rook was putting on a show of mock indignation, but Nikki knew the signs, having seen them . . . having experienced them herself. . . . He was shaken. Getting shot at does things to you.
In his statement to the incident commander, Rook said he had phoned Ochoa while he was on the run behind Heat, giving block-by-block scouting that Roach relayed over the radio. After following her across Spofford Avenue, he saw Nikki get pulled into the salvage yard. That was the last of his play-by-play. He pocketed her cell phone and snuck up to peek in the gate just as the paint locker spilled down on her. Without hesitating, he started out for Steljess, figuring he could blindside tackle him. But half the distance to him, just as Heat pegged the big man with a paint can, Rook saw the gun clear the vest. And then Steljess must have seen him out of the corner of his eye because he spun, starting to bring the Glock up in his direction. Not knowing what else to do, Rook took a dive behind some boxes just as he fired. The cops from the Forty-first, plus Raley and Ochoa, who were also in the semicircle around Rook, turned as one to look at one of the boxes. Indeed, there was a fat, nine-millimeter’s worth of bullet hole in it.
Rook had thought both he and Nikki were finished, but then he heard Detectives Feller and Van Meter identify themselves, followed by three shots in quick succession.
When they were done with him, Rook joined Heat and Feller, who had already given their statements. Dutch Van Meter had fired the three shots and was still being debriefed. “Cake,” said Feller. “This’ll come down as righteous.”
Nikki said, “Got to tell ya, if it hadn’t been for you . . .”
“You’re welcome,” said Rook. He saw their amused expressions. “. . . What? If that box had been filled with air filters instead of brake rotors, I might not be standing here right now.”
“In truth Rook did distract him enough to give us time to get in,” said Detective Feller. “Wasn’t the smartest play I’ve ever seen run, but effective.”
Rook gave Nikki a look of vindication and said, “Thank you, Detective. And from now on, I’ll never watch another episode of Cash Cab without thinking of you and Dutch. For me, the Mobile Shout-Out will forever be the Mobile Shoot-Out.”
Feller turned to Nikki. “Couldn’t have been a box of air filters, huh?”
“Seriously, Feller,” she said, touching his shoulder. “Your timing didn’t suck.”