“What did he steal from you that was so dangerous?” When he didn’t answer, she asked, “What about Keith Gilbert? What’s his connection to all this?”
He licked his mouth and smiled broadly, and when he did, his lip parted again and blood dripped off his chin. With the wind and rain and flashes of lightning, he could have been Dracula. “Deal first,” he said.
Heat checked her watch. Nearly an hour had passed, and still no backup. She checked the window. Water had risen to the chassis of her undercover. Any higher, she might not be able to start the engine. Cristóbal was scum. Heat needed to get him to swear a statement before he lost his fear and did too much thinking.
She turned to Rook. “Let’s get him to the First Precinct.”
There were whitecaps on Beaver Street as they crossed to the car and got him into the backseat. Relieved when the ignition fired up, Nikki said to Rook, “Change of plan. It’s worse than I thought out here. In all this, Ericsson Place is too far to go. I’m thinking One PP is closer.”
“You’re the skipper. Want to cast off?”
The car filled with high beams from behind. She checked her mirror and made out the form of a black armored vehicle pulling up. “May be our lucky day. Looks like we’ve got backup, after all.”
But when Heat registered that the BearCat drawing alongside did not have NYPD or National Guard markings, instinct took over. She threw the transmission in low gear and floored it. Her tires spun until they made purchase, and the car slogged forward, churning water. “Down, down,” she yelled just as the rear windows shattered with automatic rifle fire.
Heat jerked the wheel and made a sharp right up William Street. Too busy driving, Nikki couldn’t turn to see, but she knew Reese Cristóbal had to be dead. She reached for the two-way and keyed the mic, “One-Lincoln-Forty, ten-thirteen, officer needs help.” She released the button. After the squelch came a blizzard of radio calls stepping on each other. “You hit?” she asked Rook?
“No.” The car filled with light again as the BearCat followed in pursuit. He twisted in his seat for a rear view. “Shit.”
“One-Lincoln-Forty. Ten-thirteen, officer pursued by heavily armed suspects in armored vehicle. Moving north on William, passing—” She called over the wind to Rook, “What’s our cross?”
“Wall Street—No, Pine, Pine.”
A short burst of automatic gunfire flashed from the passenger side of the assault truck and took Heat’s side mirror clean off. She steered sharply to the right, then left, then right again to become a weaving target. “You hit?”
“Stop asking me. I’ll let you know.”
Back on the two-way. “One Lincoln-Forty, taking automatic fire. Ten-thirteen, William and Pine. Do you read?” Nothing but garble. She might be getting heard, but there was no way to know. Heat ditched the mic and said, “Hang on.”
A restaurant-linen-and-uniform delivery truck started to inch into the road across their path with its flashers flashing, driven by someone who must not have been able to see in the cyclone. Nikki whipped the wheel to the left and her vehicle responded, clearing the front of the truck, with Rook’s door taking a mean, shrieking scrape as she passed. Behind her, through the gale, she heard the throaty blast of the BearCat’s horn as it got blocked.
“Ha-ha, denied,” said Rook. “Where now?”
“We keep going to One PP. When we reach Fulton, I can cut up to—forget that.” Ahead of her, a car had struck a light pole that toppled and jutted across the intersection, barring the street.
“Can you squeeze by on the sidewalk?”
“Not sure,” she said, squinting through the sideways rain. “Don’t want to get wedged.”
“I dunno, might make it.”
“And also might get wedged.” They both made another rear check and saw no headlights. “Plan B.” Heat turned a right down Platt.