The Cult of Osiris

‘Why aren’t you calling an ambulance?’ demanded a pained but angry male voice.

Eddie’s fists tightened in frustration. He was too far away to help directly - all he could offer was advice. ‘Have you called the cops?’

‘Yeah - we’re trying to get to a precinct.’

His eyes locked on to Grant, an idea forming. ‘I’ll call you right back,’ he said. ‘Just keep ahead of ’em!’

He ended the call and strode to Grant’s table. ‘And I do my own stunts, too,’ the actor was boasting to the wide-eyed young woman. ‘In Nitrous, when I ran along the top of that tanker truck as it blew up? That was really me.’

He was neglecting to mention the computer-enhanced fireballs and all the safety gear that had been digitally painted out of the shot, but Eddie decided not to enlighten her. Instead, he held out his hand. ‘Mr Thorn. I need your valet parking token.’

Grant looked up, confused. ‘What?’

‘The parking token. Give it to me.’

The actor stared at him uncomprehendingly. One of his friends rose with a drunken smirk. ‘Hey, Mr Bodyguard, how about you chill the fuck out and give us some priva—’

An instant later, his arm was twisted up behind his back and his face slammed against the table. Grant flinched. ‘Token!’ Eddie snapped. ‘Now!’

‘Uh, what are you doing?’ Grant asked as he fumbled for it.

Eddie shoved his friend to the floor and snatched it from him. ‘I need your car,’ he said as he hurried for the stairs, the VIP lounge’s other occupants not sure how to react to the lightning-fast burst of violence.

‘Dude, you are so fired!’ Grant shouted, jumping up and following. ‘And there’s no way you are taking my car. No way!’

‘Way,’ Eddie replied. He raced down the stairs and pushed through the crowd. Shouts rose behind him as the clubgoers realised there was a Hollywood star in their midst and closed in as if drawn magnetically.

He reached the street and thrust the token into the head valet’s hand, together with a fifty dollar bill. ‘Mr Thorn’s car. Quick.’ The valet pocketed the money and issued instructions into a walkie-talkie. Eddie impatiently tapped a foot. It wouldn’t take Grant long to force his way through the mob.

His phone rang again. ‘Nina! What’s happening?’

‘Still being chased!’

‘I’ll be there as quick as I can.’

‘How quick will that be?’

He heard the high snarl of the Lamborghini’s engine from the parking garage. ‘Very.’

He moved to the kerb, glaring at the parking structure. The Lamborghini’s engine note echoed as the valet gingerly manoeuvred the supercar down the ramp. Come on, get a bloody move on! Grant would reach the doors at any moment.

The Murcielago emerged from the garage, street lights gleaming from its polished orange skin. It pulled up in front of the VIP entrance, driver’s door scissoring upwards. Eddie held up another fifty to entice the valet out—

‘Hey!’ Grant rushed on to the sidewalk, shrugging off his fans. ‘Stop him! That’s my car!’

The valet was still unfolding himself from the low-slung driver’s seat. The bouncer who had mocked Eddie’s height earlier advanced. ‘Okay, hold it—’

Eddie kneed him in the groin, then smashed a powerful punch up into his face as he doubled over, knocking him backwards into his companion. Both men tumbled, pulling down the velvet rope. Clubbers saw their chance and rushed for the doors, the queue suddenly degenerating into anarchy.

Eddie yanked the gawping valet from the Lamborghini, tossing him on to the bouncers, then swung himself into the car and pulled down the door. He put the Murcielago into gear and was about to take off when Grant leapt in front of it, banging his hands down on the bonnet. ‘You’re not taking my car, man!’

Eddie revved the engine, jolting the car forward a few inches. Grant’s face flashed with fear, but he held his ground. Changing tack, Eddie looked through the narrow rear window to make sure he wasn’t about to squash anybody, then snicked the gearstick into reverse and sharply pulled back.

Grant almost fell flat on his face before regaining his balance. He caught up as Eddie stopped, flinging open the passenger door. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘Someone’s trying to kill my wife!’ Eddie shouted. ‘I need to get to her, fast - either get in or get out of the way!’

Grant chose the former, his bewildered expression returning. ‘Dude? Seriously?’

‘Seriously!’

‘Shit, dude, no way! Well, come on, let’s go save her!’ The half-smile on Grant’s face suggested that he was already picturing himself as a real-life action hero. ‘What are you waiting for? Let’s roll!’

Eddie held back a sarcastic comment. Instead, he blasted the Murcielago away from the nightclub with an ear-splitting V12 howl.

Nina looked back. The Ram was still behind them, closing as both vehicles weaved through the traffic along Third Avenue. The pickup truck was much larger than the cab, not a vehicle at home on the streets of New York, but it was also more powerful - and better maintained. The Crown Victoria now sounded as though several important parts were rattling around loose in the gearbox.

The driver was making just as much noise. ‘For the love of God,’ he cried, ‘stop! You can keep the cab, just let me out!’

‘Look - what’s your name?’

‘Ricardo!’

‘Ricardo,’ said Nina, ‘we’re almost at the police precinct. Okay? Just one more block!’ She pounded on the horn and swung the cab into the wrong lane to avoid cars stopped at the 20th Street intersection, cringing as she saw headlights rushing at her from the left - then the taxi was through. She hauled it back into the right-hand lanes.

The Ram also swerved, smashing into a car and sending it spinning on to the sidewalk. But the truck was barely slowed, the heavy bullbar across its radiator grille taking the brunt of the impact.

Macy stared back at the crash. ‘Jesus!’

‘Just hang on!’ The next intersection was just ahead . . .

Which way was the precinct? Left or right?

21st Street was one-way, traffic running westbound across Manhattan - and the road to the right was blocked by waiting cars.

No choice—

Nina turned hard left, the cab tipping on its suspension. A Porsche was parked just beyond the crosswalk, the Crown Vic skidding right at it.

‘Shit, shit, shit!’ She wrestled with the controls, feeling the back end sliding. If she braked, the cab would spin out and hit the other car—

Instead, she spun the wheel back and stepped on the gas.

The rear wheels writhed and squealed, kicking the taxi out of its skid - but not quickly enough to stop its tail from bashing against the Porsche. There was a horrible crunch as the cab’s rear bumper was ripped off.

Nina straightened out. ‘Sorry,’ she told Ricardo. He made a disgusted sound.

Rising sirens. Flashing lights, the red and white strobes of police cars—

In the mirror.

‘Damn it!’ The precinct had been in the other direction, and now they were heading away from it, away from help.

Macy, looking back, was happier. ‘Yes!’ she crowed as the cars at the lights pulled out of the way to let the cops through. An NYPD patrol car accelerated across the intersection—

And was hit by the Ram as it ploughed round the corner, the police cruiser smashing into the Porsche and folding it like wet cardboard. The pickup tore away the police car’s front wheel as it wrenched free of the wreckage and continued the pursuit, twisted debris dangling from its bullbar like streamers.

Macy’s relief vanished in an instant. ‘No!’

‘Have you still got the phone?’ Nina shouted.