Nenad said, “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
JW counted: “Two.”
Mrado didn’t have time to act before Nenad started talking.
“Oh, now I know who I thought you looked like the first time I saw you in London. Couldn’t think of who. I guess I just couldn’t imagine you were the brother of a whore.”
Mrado thought, Why is Nenad even talking to the guy? Insanity.
“She was fine, your sis. Made good money. I even hung out with her for a few months. She was the freshest call girl we had. I promise.”
A pause for effect.
Silence in the cold-storage facility. Even the Arab was completely still.
“She was a little too cocky, though. When she started with us, she was still a student and knew her place. Apparently, it was her teacher, an old regular of ours, who tipped her off about our way of making dough. But after a while, she got uppity. Tried to pull some funny biz. We couldn’t tolerate that. As you must understand.”
JW stood still. Arms straight out. Gun in a firm grip.
“How’d you find out, by the way?”
“Fuck that. Pig.”
Mrado tore out his gun. Raised it toward JW.
He didn’t care if Nenad was making some sort of confession to JW. The situation had to end. Time for him to do some yelling.
“JW, put down your gun.”
Pointed his gun at the brat.
JW’s gaze skipped. Probably saw Mrado out of the corner of his eye.
Deadlock. Triangle drama. Mexican standoff.
If JW shot Nenad, he would fall, as well.
Did the guy understand the situation?
“JW, there’s no point. If you hurt Nenad, I’ll blow your head off. I’m a better shot than you are. Maybe I’ll have time to pop you before you even pull the trigger at Nenad.”
JW remained standing.
Mrado felt how the polyester of the ski mask itched.
Nenad clocked, kept quiet.
Mrado said, “Put your gun away and we’ll forget about this.”
Nothing happened.
Abdulkarim started screaming.
That’s when Mrado was hit with the third surprise of the day. The worst one.
The entrance to the loading dock opened again.
Cops stormed in.
Two shots went off.
60
Jorge in the midst of the chaos.
JW’d fired. Mrado’d fired.
Nenad on the floor. The police crawling like ants. Despite that, the shot toward Nenad’d spooked them. Confused. Mrado’s shot at JW’d missed. JW on his feet. Unharmed. The cops’d stormed in at just the right moment to distract the Yugo.
Tear gas in the cold-storage facility.
Mrado shot wildly at the cops.
They took cover. Interrupted. Hollered commands. Made threats.
Jorge behind the packing crate.
JW next to Jorge, a box cutter in his hand. Cut off the tape around Jorge’s hands.
Jorge rose to his feet. They looked at each other.
Eyes stung like hell.
They ran toward the back door.
The cops clocked the situation too late. Focused on Mrado, who still had the gun in his hand.
Jorge unlocked the door.
He and JW ran out into a hallway.
No cops.
A fluorescent light was flickering farther down.
They fumbled around in confusion.
A ladder leaning against a wall.
Up.
They climbed toward the ceiling, a hatch.
Took the rungs three at a time.
Heard cops bursting into the hallway.
Jorge looked down. Opened the hatch. They yelled from below, “Freeze, police.” Jorge thought, Fuck you. J- boy’s been around the block and has some golden rules: Never stop. Give it hell. The pigs’ll se pierden.
They got up on the roof. The sheet metal was flat and gray-colored, as if it’d once been white. The sky was clear.
JW seemed out of breath. Still held the Glock in his hand. He probably didn’t have any bullets left. Jorge in better shape, despite the lack of exercise lately.
They ran across the roof.
JW seemed to have a direction. Took the lead.
Jorge yelled, “Where we goin’?”
JW replied, “There’s supposed to be a car, a Volkswagen, parked out front, by the flagpoles.”
Cop cocks poured out of the hatch in the roof, positioned themselves. Took up the chase.
Autotuned voice over a megaphone: “Stop where you are. Put your hands over your heads.”
JW raised his gun, pointed back toward the men. Idiot move.
Jorge heard the cops yelling, “He’s armed.”
He ran faster.
Breathed through his nose.
The smell of his own sweat.
Not stress. Just exertion.
No stress.
Continued over the roof.
The megaphone again.
JW held the Glock in his hand. Turned back to the cops. A sharp sound was heard. Was he the one who’d shot?
Shit-Jorge hadn’t thought he still had bullets left.
Another shot sounded.
JW fell. Grabbed his thigh.
What the fuck were the cops doing?
No time to think.
He rushed on alone.
Harmony in the runner’s stride.
Jorge with flow. Jorge with rhythm.
In a trance: All he knew was how to run.
Remembered his loops around the Osteraker rec yard. Remembered his homespun rope tight over the
