Nikki ate up sidewalk knowing full well if she took the street, she’d be roadkill under that van.
The van.
Beside her again. Running parallel, matching speed, holding steady. The passenger window opened. A pair of black sleeves came out, forearms bracing on the sill, hands clasping a Glock aimed at her. Heat jammed her brake pedal. The van continued past. A shot barked from the window. The miss sang off the stone wall beside her. Heat’s brake pop made her lose balance. Some noise ahead, a big clatter. Fighting to stay upright, she yawed wildly in the saddle. Almost good. Almost…A few yards up, the source of the racket. A night-demolition crew rolled a barrow of construction debris from a loading dock right into her path.
The impact bounced Nikki off the big gray refuse tub and she landed on the sidewalk looking up at the front bicycle wheel spinning over her head. The demo workers rushed to her, lifting dust masks off their faces, helping her up. “Whoa, lady, you all right?” A bullet ripped through the upper arm of the one closest to her.
“Down, down, down.” Heat yanked them to the deck just as two more shots hit some fractured pieces of drywall in the bin, snowing powder down on them. Her companions froze, panicked and bewildered. Nikki took charge. “NYPD. You.” She pointed to the one who wasn’t bleeding. “Push, come on.” Seconds mattered. “Come on.” She grabbed him by the coveralls and pulled him to the debris tub with her. She took one of the other man’s palms and clamped it over his wound. “Squeeze. Stay close.” She gave a three count and they rolled the container back into the loading dock, using it for cover. Three more shots hit it but didn’t penetrate. Thinking now of cover. Tactics and cover. Get inside the building, get behind that metal door. Quickly. But halfway there, the wounded man passed out and hit the ground. Heat scanned the loading dock. Time for new tactics.
Nikki sent her Officer Needs Help text and waited for them to come. A prolonged half minute that stretched all her senses. Wondering how many there were. Wishing she had a gun. She tried not to think of the odds. Only of making her stand. The voice of her training instructor echoed across more than a decade: “When met with superior force respond with shocking vigor.” Heat listened, dissecting the night, ready to do her TI proud.
She knew to expect a calculated assault. And not just because these guys liked to put on tactical wear. Their escape from Flatbush in those dual cars showed planning and training. So did the execution of her takedown tonight: the stealth; the van skills; the redundancy—like positioning that cool customer to block her escape toward the hotels. So she got into their heads, following their playbook, anticipating their way in. Which was why when the Glock eased around the corner leading to the loading dock, right where she knew it would be, she was ready for it. But Heat held back. Held back knowing the visual peek-around was still a beat-count away. More arm would show first. And it did. In fact, two arms because both hands gripped the pistol in a textbook isosceles brace.