Eighty miles per hour; ninety. The Maserati’s brake lights flashed in front of him as the parkway came out of the big easterly curve. But the driver of the Italian sports car was not set up for the second turn of a lazy and backward S.
Mercury pounced on the rookie mistake; he crouched low, gunned the bike, and came into the second curve on a high line, smoking-fast and smooth. When he exited the second curve, he was right on the Maserati’s back bumper and going seventy-plus.
The parkway ran a fairly true course south for nearly a mile there, and the Italian sports car tried to out-accelerate Mercury on the straight. But the Maserati was no match for Mercury’s custom ride.
He drafted right in behind the sports car, let go of the left handlebar, and grabbed the Remington 1911 pistol Velcroed to the gas tank.
Eighty-nine. Ninety.
Ahead, the parkway took a hard, long left turn. The Maserati would have to brake. Mercury decelerated, dropped back, and waited for it.
The second the brake lights of the Italian sports car flashed, the motorcyclist hit the gas and made a lightning-quick jagging move that brought him right up next to the Maserati’s passenger-side window. No passenger.
Mercury got no more than a silhouette image of the driver before he fired at him twice. The window shattered. The bullets hit hard.
The Maserati swerved left, smacked the guardrail, and spun back toward the inside lane just as Mercury’s bike shot ahead and out of harm’s way. He downshifted and braked, getting ready for the coming left turn.
In his side-view mirror, he watched the Maserati vault the rail, hit trees, and explode into fire.
Mercury felt no mercy or pity for the driver.
The sonofabitch should have known that speed kills.
Part One
A COP KILLING
CHAPTER
1
LEAVING THE GLUTEN-FREE Aisle at Whole Foods, Tom McGrath was thinking that the long, lithe woman in the teal-colored leggings and matching warm-up jacket in front of him had the posture of a ballerina.
In her early thirties, with high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, and jet-black hair pulled back in a ponytail, she was lovely to look at, exotic even. She seemed to sense his interest and glanced back at him.
In a light Eastern European accent, she said, “You walk like old fart, Tom.”
“I feel like one, Edita,” said McGrath, who was in his mid-forties and built like a wide receiver gone slightly to seed. “I’m stiff and sore where I’ve never even thought of being stiff and sore.”
“Too many years with the weights and no stretching,” Edita said, putting two bottles of kombucha tea in the cart McGrath was pushing.
“I always stretch. Just not like that. Ever. And not at five in the morning. I felt like my head was swelling up like a tick’s in some of those poses.”
Edita stopped in front of the organic produce, started grabbing the makings of a salad, said, “What is this? Tick?”
“You know, the little bug that gives you Lyme disease?”
She snorted. “There was nothing about first yoga class you liked?”
“I gotta admit, I loved being at the back of the room doing the cobra when all you fine yoga ladies were up front doing downward dog,” McGrath said.
Edita slapped him good-naturedly on the arm and said, “You did not.”
“I got out of rhythm and found I kind of liked being out of sync.”
She shook her head. “What is it with the men? After everything, still a mystery to me.”
McGrath sobered. “On that note, any luck finding what I asked you about the other day?”
Edita stiffened. “I told you this is not so easy, Tom.”
“Just do it, and be done with them.”
She didn’t look at him. “School? My car? My apartment?”
“I said I’d help you.”
Torn, Edita said, “They don’t give a shit, Tom. They—”
“Don’t worry. You’ve got the warrior McGrath on your side.”
“You are hopeless,” she said, softening and touching his cheek.
“Just when it comes to you,” he said.
Edita hesitated and then blew him a kiss before leading them to the checkout line. McGrath helped her unload the cart.
“Why do you look like the lonely puppy?” Edita asked him as the checker began ringing them through.
“I’m just used to a grocery cart with a little vice in it. Beer, at a minimum.”
She gestured to a bottle on the conveyor belt. “This is better for you.”
McGrath leaned forward and took it before the checker could.
“Cliffton Dry?”
“Think champagne made with organic apples, no grapes.”
“If you say so,” McGrath said skeptically.
As he loaded the food in cloth bags, Edita paid with cash from a little fanny pack around her waist. McGrath wondered what his childhood buddies would say about his hanging out with a woman who bought Cliffton Dry instead of a six-pack of Bud. They’d bust him mercilessly. But if apple bubbly was Edita’s thing, he’d give it a try.