Heat knew there was no point shooting. The truck had ballistic glass windows and steel plating capable of resisting a full AK-47 magazine. Which gave Nikki an idea. She hollered, “Stay close,” and changed course, running right for the BearCat.
Pilot fish avoided getting bitten by sharks by riding on top of them where they can’t be reached. If bullets from the outside couldn’t pierce the armor, neither could they from the inside. She hopped on the rear bumper and lunged for the roof rack. Heat extended her free hand to Rook, who snatched her forearm so she could lock onto his wrist. His wet shoe slipped on the runner, and the motion of the vehicle nearly pulled them both off. But she held strong until he could get a foot on the metal.
The side and rear windows still exposed them, in fact, she could see Zarek Braun coming toward them through one of them. “Up top, fast.” Rook grasped the top rail of the metal ladder and climbed up, two steps at a clip. Heat rolled onto the roof beside him just as the truck backed out onto the street.
It stopped, idling.
Heat and Rook panted, alive for now, barely hearing their own breaths in the tempest. Sirens in the night offered hope, but that faded as they wailed off into the distance away from them.
Somewhere beneath them a latch popped. Nikki drew her Sig and put her head on a swivel scanning 360s for movement. “There,” said Rook. A Glock came up from the driver’s side. It fired wildly over their heads and then disappeared. Heat waited. Didn’t take the bait. Held for what she knew would be coming. And when a top slice of Zarek Braun’s head popped up on the passenger side with his assault rifle, she fired. Nikki figured both her shots ended up misses, but it got him to duck and take cover inside.
She checked her cell phone. Waterlogged. Dead.
“Mine, too,” said Rook.
They felt the BearCat jar as the transmission kicked into drive. Heat said, “Get a grip.”
“Oh, if I had a nickel,” he replied.
The driver floored it, and the motion forced their bodies backward. But halfway up the block, he slammed the brakes, and momentum carried them the opposite way. Both of them nearly slid off right over the windshield. The truck then lurched into reverse, at speed. The wheelman executed an abrupt turn, which slammed the rear tires against the curb. Heat and Rook both got bounced up and down, but managed to stay on for the next forward acceleration that sped them down the block and into a hairpin right onto the next street. Centripetal force swung Nikki’s legs over the side. Rook let go of the bar with his near hand and clutched her jacket while she swung one knee over the rail and used it to haul herself up and roll flat again beside him on the black steel plate.
A prolific rooster-tail wake churned behind them on Pearl Street. Heat figured their speed at near seventy. At one of the numerous alleys around there, this one named Coenties Slip, the driver hit the brakes hard and steered them into a sharp left that felt like it would roll the truck. This time it was Rook’s turn to slip over the side. Only one leg went over, though, and he made a quick recovery just before the BearCat plowed through the park benches and cement chess tables in the neighborhood plaza at Water Street, nearly sending both of them off the top.
The truck stopped there. Idling again.
An angry bear at rest.
Heat shivered. The temperature was mild, in the sixties, but she was soaked through. Her fingers were growing numb. She forgot all that to listen in the maelstrom for what might come next. Rook caught her eye when they both detected some kind of movement below.