We had to get some wheels or this would be over far too soon.
Our trio hobbled along for another block before a cab with an empty back seat passed us. It stopped at the next intersection, its vacancy light off, signaling it wasn’t looking for passengers.
Not that I was going to let that stop me.
I raced into the street. Grabbed the back door handle.
Locked.
The front passenger window was open, so I reached through, found the handle, and yanked it open.
“Hey! Hey! What do ya think you’re doing?”
“Get out,” I ordered.
“I’m off duty,” he said.
“You see this?” I asked, reaching my hand under my skirt.
“Hell, yeah!” he said. Then he saw I was holding a gun. “Hell, no.”
“Unlock the door.”
“You’re holding me up?”
“Take your cash. I just want the car.”
He frowned. “Look, lady, I got a wife who’s a fat, lazy bitch, a kid in a gang who sells smack, the landlord just served us papers, and this morning I found out I have diabetes. You kill me, you’d be doing me a favor.”
I had barely registered the crack of the gunshot when the windshield spiderwebbed, and the driver gurgled and slumped against the wheel. The bullet had just missed me.
Julie stared, mouth open, as Kirk forced her down behind the cab.
“Get in,” I yelled, ducking inside and hitting the unlock button.
Kirk pushed her into the back seat, climbed in behind her, and shut the door. He slipped his hand behind her back and bent her forward at the waist, out of the line of fire.
I didn’t have time to undo the seat belt and pull out the body, so I slid onto the dead man’s lap and shifted into drive.
The light stayed red. Cars boxed us in from all sides.
I found the two Iranians behind us with my mirrors. The one who had taken out the cabbie crossed the street in front of us, weaving through standing traffic.
Here I’d been totally focused on the pursuers behind and missed the man in front.
I couldn’t miss him now.
He walked closer and closer, until he was just off my left bumper.
Just when I was convinced I’d made my last mistake, the light changed to green, and the river of cars started to inch forward.
Not fast enough.
The man in the street raised his hands, the pistol in his fists pointed at my head.
I cranked the wheel and hit the gas.
He bounced off the hood with a sickening thud and hit the street.
I kept going, gunning the engine as the cab lurched and bumped over him.
Tires squealed around us. Horns blared. Cars rushed by.
Some New Yorkers didn’t let anything get in their way.
We cleared the intersection, traffic in front of us still moving. In the rearview, I could see the remaining two men race across the street.
Judging by the purpose with which they moved, I assumed their SUV was close by. They’d be back on our tail soon. And if Hawk Nose did even a passable job keeping track of us from the sky, the Iranians weren’t our only concern. Even so, it was the best head start we’d had all day, and I’d take it.
The West 30th Street Heliport rested on the bank of the Hudson River. More than thirty blocks away. Traffic was crazy, due to the tunnel being closed, the subway incident, and presumably the dead man now lying in the center of 9th Avenue, emergency vehicles everywhere.
I drove like all of our lives depended on it.
The SUV appeared, too soon for my comfort, ten car lengths behind.
We played stop and go, street light to street light. Sometimes I gained a few meters. Sometimes the Iranians did. At each red, we watched intently to see if they jumped out of their vehicle to rush us. So far, so good.
It took ten excruciating minutes to reach 49th Street, and I got the hell off of 9th and turned right, heading for 12th Avenue, our pace slightly faster than a snail surfing on molasses.
“You guys okay back there?” I asked, eyeing my passengers.
Kirk had distanced himself from Julie as much as he could, leaning against the passenger side door.
“Never better,” he said, winking at me.
I couldn’t see the SUV behind us anymore, but wasn’t optimistic I’d lost them. This op had been nothing but one bad break after another, and the only thing I was optimistic about was the fact that our luck was terrible.
I blew through a yellow light and swung left onto the boulevard that was 12th Avenue, the vast blue/black of the river running parallel to us, filling my nostrils. Coming up on the right was the USS Intrepid, moored there since 1982. The once mighty aircraft carrier was now a museum, a relic of wars past.
Once again I checked the rearview, eyeing Julie.
The Intrepid was still a sight to behold, over two hundred fifty meters long, weighing thirty thousand tons, armor four inches thick in parts. A fearsome weapon.
But not as fearsome as what I had in my back seat.
Traffic was better on the boulevard. We passed the Silver Towers, the sprawling Javits Center, and finally reached our destination. A long, concrete platform edged the water, enclosed by fencing and a few no-frills trailers, the heliport was built for function, not fanciness.
Lucky for us it wasn’t built for security, either.
Best yet, a small, sightseeing helicopter sat on the helipad, as if waiting for us.
Maybe our luck had begun to change.
I swung the cab into the entrance. We didn’t have much time, and normally I would ram the cab straight through the fence instead of risking involving civilians. But considering Julie’s state, things weren’t so simple. If a flying bit of glass should cut her or she happened to bump her nose, a city full of civilians wouldn’t just be involved —they’d be dead.
I double-parked, and we headed for the trailer promising helicopter tours of the Big Apple. I took the lead, Kirk hobbling behind me with Julie at his side. Still no sign of the Iranians.
The inside of the trailer was about as posh as the outside. Indoor/outdoor carpet, particle board furniture, and the smell of well-aged cigarette smoke from before the recent indoor smoking ban gave the place an ambiance all its own. At least it was clean.
“Can I help you?”
The young woman behind the counter peered over her glasses at us. The evening sun streamed through the window and reflected off the diamond stud in her right nostril.
“We need to take a helicopter.”
“I’m afraid there’s a couple going up right now. We prefer you make reservations, but I have some paperwork here that—”
I met Kirk’s eyes, and we brushed past the desk and made for the door leading out to the helipad.
“Wait! You can’t—”
But we could, and we did.
Leaving the woman yelling empty threats in our wake, we reached a blue helicopter—a single engine EC120 —emblazoned with the tour company’s logo. Smaller than the corporate craft used by Hawk Nose, this bird offered only one compartment, forcing the pilot and the passengers to cram together in the tiny space. The pilot stood with his back to us, instructing an older, well-dressed couple in how to fasten their harnesses.
“I’m sorry, but you won’t be sightseeing today,” I told them.
The tourist couple stared at me as if I was speaking another language. The pilot frowned.
“Who are you?”
“Homeland Security. We’re commandeering this aircraft. Now I need you to get out and return to the trailer immediately. Oh, and keep your heads down.”
