behind me. People shouted obscenities and threats in my wake. Heat poured off the concrete in waves, and sweat soon slicked my back and stung the corners of my eyes. My breathing settled into a rhythm, in and out, in and out, in time with the pump of my legs.
“She’s going faster, Walter! Tell her to stop going faster!”
“Stop going faster!”
“Walter!”
“Stop going faster!”
I went faster.
Trump International Hotel and Tower flashed by on my right, the SUV I’d noticed earlier on my left, screaming from the cart behind me. I’d been trained to pick out details, focus on them, isolate them, and as I whipped past the SUV, I could hear the men inside exclaiming excitedly in a language that sounded like Farsi.
They were Iranian? That conjured up all sorts of new questions.
“Tell her again!”
“Stop going faster!”
“Tell her again!”
“Stop going faster! Ma! She’s still going faster!”
“Walter, I’m getting sick!”
“My mother is getting sick!”
I heard the sound of Walter’s mother getting sick.
“My mother got sick all over me!”
I bet those two were a real hoot at home.
A bus shelter loomed ahead. I swerved to the right.
A group of slow walkers blocked the sidewalk.
“Move!” I ordered, but they ambled on, oblivious to the world around them.
Walter’s mother got sick again. From the sounds of it, she’d had a big lunch.
“Please stop! My mother got sick again!”
“On my new outfit!” Walter’s mother wailed.
“She got sick on her new outfit!”
I cut back toward the street. A phone booth came up fast at the edge of the curb.
A phone booth? Who uses phone booths anymore?
I veered hard to the left. Not fast enough. The cart hit the corner and bounced to one side. We careened off the sidewalk and into the street. Car tires squealed. I counter steered. The cart whipped around and sideswiped a tow truck. Drivers shouted through open windows. Something that sounded like weeping came from behind me, and the odor of Walter’s mother’s lunch mixed with the scents of exhaust and hot pavement.
Regaining control of the pedicab, I swung back in the direction of the sidewalk and again jumped back onto the curb. It seemed safer.
A whimper came from the back seat. “Please let us out!”
“I tried.” I barely avoided a line of newspaper boxes.
“I’ll pay you!”
“Walter, I’m going to wet myself!”
“My mother is going to wet herself!”
“Walter, I just wet myself!”
“My mother just wet herself!”
“Walter, I’m going to be sick again!”
“My mother is going to be sick again!”
Walter’s mother got sick again.
“You have to turn around! My mother got sick and lost her dentures!”
I considered pulling my Ruger and killing them both, but lucky for them my purse was out of reach.
I streaked past an electronics store and two outdoor cafes. I couldn’t pick out the Town Car yet, but I had to be gaining on it. Traffic crawled, traffic stopped, traffic crawled again.
There it was.
With all the identical cars clogging the street, I didn’t know why I was so certain this was the one. But my gut reaction had been right so far. It was time I listened.
I stood on the brakes, leaping off the bike and breaking into a sprint, listening to Walter yell behind me, “She stopped, Ma! I made her stop!”
I wove between cars. He probably wasn’t expecting me, and surprise was my best weapon. I ducked behind a produce delivery truck and, grabbing the back door handle, rode its bumper until it halted at the next light.
Then I made my move.
Circling the truck, I stayed in its lee as long as I could. I only had seconds once I emerged. The man I’d known as Morrissey was sharp. Even though I doubted he’d be looking for me, he would be alert, and since I had no weapon beyond surprise, I had to make this count. I needed to get inside that car, and the best way to do that was to make sure his attention was focused front.
The light changed. The truck started inching forward.
Now.
I swung around the truck and landed on pavement, knees flexed, legs already moving. It only took seconds for me to make it to the driver’s door, and I pulled out my phone as I ran.
My phone had been designed for a multitude of functions, and on one corner, the titanium casing tapered to a conical, seemingly harmless nub. Reaching the car, I rapped that nub against the driver’s window, the full force of my blow concentrated on that small point.
The glass shattered, showering tiny pebbles.
His eyes met mine, the first time I’d seen him anything but calm.
I thrust my arm inside to the shoulder, going for his gun.
He grabbed my arm and held. The cars started to move, and he hit the gas.
I scrambled to stay on my feet, trying to keep up, retain my balance, but it moved too fast. I stumbled and fell, my gym shoes dragging along the pavement, their rubber soles getting rapidly eaten away. The edge of the door pressed into my side, making it hard to breathe.
I caught a foothold for just a second and surged forward, smacking him in the nose with a head butt.
He grunted and his grip loosened slightly.
I reached, my fingers hitting Kirk’s left leg, his holster.
I acted quickly, making a grab for the gun, but his recovery was equally fast. His hand closed over mine, wrestling, hitting, prying at my fingers.
I sensed we would hit the car ahead a split second before impact.
The crunch of steel shuddered through my spine. The car jolted to a dead stop. I hit the hot pavement in a roll, breath exploding from my lungs, head smacking hard. My vision exploded in stars. Tires screeched. I heard the Glock skitter, but where it ended up, I couldn’t guess.
A heartbeat and the car door opened, and Kirk came down on top of me.
I struggled for breath.
Kirk’s hands found my neck, my throat. He had my arms pinned under his knees, so I couldn’t reach either of my weapons. Heat enveloped me. His grip was strong, squeezing, closing off my trachea, stopping the flow of blood to my brain, making my vision dim, go dark.
The crack of gunfire exploded in my ears.
Kirk bellowed. His hands released me, and his body lifted from mine.
I gasped, coughed, and gasped again.
A scream shattered the air around me. Not me. Not Kirk.
I forced the darkness back, forced my eyes to see, forced my body to function.
It was Julie. She held the Glock.
She had shot him.
Kirk staggered away from me. Julie raised the gun again but he batted it away, sending it through the air. Then he gripped Julie’s arm, steering her toward the car. He moved awkwardly, each stride jerking, and it was then
