Nicky picked up Arturo's Uzi, moved to the door, and tossed it out onto the roof.
“Nicky!” Adams yelled.
Out of the corner of his eye, Nicky saw Arturo rolling up, bringing a pistol out from under him, and getting to his feet.
Nicky dove out through the door. Arturo fired and missed. Knowing Arturo would immediately turn the gun on Adams, Nicky sprang back into the pilothouse behind Arturo, reached around him, and twisted the Beretta away.
“I give up,” Arturo cried, putting his gun hand slowly to his neck wound. “I need a doctor.” He took his other hand from his coat pocket and dropped it to his side. His face was ashen from blood loss, the floor beneath him slick with his blood. “Don't hurt me-”
By the time Nicky heard the switchblade snick open, Arturo had dipped his shoulder and was arcing the blade for Nicky's throat. Nicky caught Arturo's hand; using Arturo's inertia, he swept the blade slicing up and through the killer's throat. Arturo fell to the floor, convulsing.
The pilot made whimpering sounds as he began turning the boat back upriver.
“You all right?” Nicky asked Adams.
“Where'd you learn those moves?”
“In the Army.” Nicky limped over and picked up Adams's Glock and, after turning to look out the windshield for a few seconds, came back and handed it to him. “Looks like a patrol boat's coming out. I reckon I'd best go see how Massey's doing.”
Nicky took off down the stairs, stepping around the fallen transit cop. When he walked out of the door he leaned over for his cane. Reflected in the closest window he saw Adams come out of the stairwell, aiming his Glock at the back of Nicky's head.
“Ich denke Sie werde getan,” Adams said as he squeezed the trigger.
There was no shot.
Nicky whirled, grabbing Adams's Glock with his right hand. Adams's eyes were bright with surprise.
“Like I didn't know what you were going to do, you dry-gulching son of a bitch,” Nicky snarled as he slammed his cane's handle over Adams's damaged shoulder, knowing that the wound would keep him from blocking the blow. Then he drove the brass handle into Adams's temple.
As Adams toppled, Nicky was aware that Winter was coming toward him from the stairwell, gun in hand, unsure of what he had just witnessed.
92
After Adams and Nicky took off after Estrada, Winter went about the business of handcuffing Marta. He had thought it was possible but highly unlikely that Estrada and Marta would be able to make an attempt to stop him from retrieving the evidence. Nicky and Adams had been along the entire ride, watching his back, and they hadn't picked up on the Latinos' presence or they would have warned him. He figured there had to be a tracking device hidden on the Stratus, or maybe on Adams's Chevrolet.
“Okay, Marta, right hand behind your neck! Feet apart!”
“Sure,” Marta said. “I am happy to spread my legs for a handsome man like you. Be gentle with me,” she crooned.
“You should have stuck to antiques.”
“I get so bored with old things.”
“Right hand on your neck!” Reaching out with an open cuff, Winter snapped it around her right wrist so it was tight against her skin. “Other hand.”
She seemed to be complying, but as her left hand started up, she spun into his side, elbowing him in the ribs. All sinew and cold intent, she clipped him again in the ribs with her elbow and, using the empty cuff at the end of the chain like nunchakus, slammed it into his temple. Seizing the hand holding the SIG Sauer, she came within a hair of taking the gun away from him.
Winter saw it hit the deck and skid under the pickup truck beside him, inside of which a heavy man sat, openmouthed, gawking.
Fending off her focal punch, Winter hit her in her jaw with all his force. As her head snapped back, his second blow smashed into her nose, and blood spurted from her nostrils. He pivoted and slammed his shoe into her ribs.
Winter heard automatic gunfire coming from upstairs.
Winter's blows had amazingly little effect on Marta. She recovered instantly and came at him using her knees like pistons, uppercutting into his legs and stomach and then launching herself to uppercut his chin, driving him flat on his back.
She leaped up and descended, her right heel slashing down at his face, but he caught her boot and swept her left foot out from under her. As she went down, he rose, still holding her boot, and brought his right heel forcefully into her ribs. She somersaulted backward, ending in a ballerina-like pose, facing Winter. She held one hand high in the air, the other in front of her-holding her leather cap out by its bill-like a street performer expecting him to toss coins into it. She sneered and slung the cap away, exposing the short, wide, twin-edge blade in her hand.
Winter was aware of more gunshots from upstairs.
The ferry started turning, heading back upriver.
When she lunged, Winter jumped back, but he felt the knife's edge against his vest as it laid open his leather jacket. She didn't hesitate before taking a second swipe. Avoiding the bade, he clipped her shoulder with the heel of his hand, knocking her off balance, and he slammed the heel of his shoe into the small of her back, shoving her to the concrete. She hit the deck, rolled back up onto her feet, and sprang at him, blade dancing in the air between them. Now weaponless and winded, he was at her mercy-backing up as she came on-and out of ideas. Reaching back, he snapped off a car's antenna and swung it like a buggy whip at her, cutting the air viciously.
“I am going to open you up and you are gonna see your insides come outside. And after I have killed you, I am going to kill that little bitch and-”
He hit her in the shoulder, and although it must have hurt her he knew the slashing antenna couldn't hold her at bay much longer. She was going to take a hit soon in order to finish him.
Out of the corner of his eye, Winter saw movement. Marta saw it too, and she turned her eyes toward the motion for a split second. A small body popped up across the car hood, a fire extinguisher raised high. Marta reacted, swinging her left hand up to protect her face. When the cloud of vapor enveloped her, Winter drove his heel into her shoulder. The blow sent Marta backward, her skull striking the steel wall with a brutal thud. She bounced off and landed hard on the concrete deck, twisted and motionless.
“You cold-cocked her!” a voice exclaimed triumphantly. Winter looked up, breathing hard, to see a smiling Faith Ann, holding the fire extinguisher at the ready in case another blast might be necessary.
“Weren't you supposed to stay in the car?”
She frowned, shrugged.
Winter lifted Marta roughly onto the flatbed Toyota truck filled with salvaged junk and cinched the open cuff to a steel bottle jack partly buried in a pile of steel scrap the rear of the truck. Picking up Marta's ceramic knife, he hurled it out into the waves.
The truck's driver, a fat man in overalls, was staring out through the open window at Winter. “You a cop?” the man asked.
Winter nodded, walked over, and picked up Marta's. 22 and his SIG Sauer.
“I used to be a law enforcement officer myself,” the fat man said, getting out. “I was a state prison guard for ten years.”
“Then you know how this works?” he asked the man, holding out Marta's gun.
“That's a Ruger. 22.”
“I'm a U.S. marshal, and I want you to stand here and watch her until I get back.”
“Hellcat, that one is. Sometimes small ones are like that. PCP, probably.”
“She's a professional killer. If she so much as looks like she might be trying to move, you shoot her. Can you
