The Cult of Osiris

‘Yeah, but—’

‘Call Eddie again!’

Macy thumbed through Nina’s contact list. ‘What can he do?’

‘You’d be surprised. Just call him!’

Macy frowned, but found the number and selected it. ‘It’s busy!’

‘What? Who the hell’s he talking to?’

The Lamborghini powered out of 108th Street and turned sharply south, its broad tyres and four-wheel drive keeping it clamped firmly to the road. The lateral G-force of the turn, on the other hand, threw Eddie against the door. Ahead, the long straight of Central Park West stretched to infinity, the park itself a swathe of darkness to their left.

Streetlights and windows streaked into hyperspace as the Murcielago accelerated. Eddie leaned back upright, Grant holding the phone to his ear. ‘So can you help us?’

‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Amy - now in her official role as Officer Martin of the New York Police Department. ‘But it’ll take a while to get the word out to every unit - if you get stopped before then, you’ll get a ticket.’

That was the least of Eddie’s worries. ‘I’ll just not have to get stopped, then.’

‘Or you could not break the speed limit . . .’ Amy’s tone became dubious. ‘You’re speeding right now, aren’t you?’

‘A bit,’ he admitted as the speedometer needle flashed past eighty.

‘Where are you?’

‘105th Street . . . 104th . . . 103rd . . .’

‘God damn it, Eddie! Don’t you know how dangerous that is?’

‘Just make sure all your guys know that Nina’s the good guy and the fuckwits chasing her are the bad guys, okay? Bye!’

‘So . . .’ Grant said cautiously as he withdrew the phone, free hand tightening round the leather armrest, ‘you’ve driven fast cars before, yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ said Eddie, focusing on the road. The Lamborghini’s grip and handling made weaving through the traffic a precise, almost game-like experience, but the slightest mistake would not only total the Murcielago, but probably injure or even kill innocent people as well.

‘Like what?’

‘Last thing I drove this fast was a Ferrari 430.’

Grant nodded approvingly. ‘Cool car. Yours?’

‘You think I’d be working as a bodyguard if I could afford a Ferrari?’

‘Good point, man. Whoa, bus, bus!’

‘I see it.’ The oncoming lanes were almost empty for at least two blocks. Eddie whipped round the bus and accelerated, the Lamborghini surging effortlessly past a hundred miles per hour.

Grant let a relieved breath escape. ‘So this Ferrari - you took good care of it, right?’

‘Nope,’ said Eddie with a small smile. ‘Smashed it to fuck.’ The gulp from the other seat sounded as though Grant was trying to suck the breath back in. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after your Lambo.’

‘Not a scratch, okay?’

‘If it gets anything bigger than a scratch, you probably won’t be in any state to worry about it.’ He let the actor figure that out for himself as the phone rang again. ‘Get that, will you?’

‘Eddie!’ Nina shouted as Macy poked the phone through the slot. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m on my way,’ came the Yorkshireman’s voice. ‘I’ve told a mate in the NYPD what’s going on, and I’m coming south - head uptown, I’ll meet you. Where are you?’

‘Going north up Park.’ She had turned off the narrow 21st Street on to the much broader Park Avenue.

‘The bad guys?’

‘Right behind us!’ yelled Macy.

She wasn’t kidding. The lights in the mirror flared brighter, the Ram’s engine roar like a charging beast. Figures leaned from its windows, the bald man in the front passenger seat, Snakeskin behind the driver.

Both had guns raised—

Macy dropped flat, the phone snagging in the slot and falling to the dirty floor. Gunfire crackled, the flat boom of the revolver and the rapid chatter of a TEC-9 machine pistol. More shots struck the cab. The bulletproof screen took another two rounds, a fist-sized section crazing just behind Nina’s head. Another hit and it would shatter . . .

She made a savage left turn, the Crown Victoria crashing heavily over the central divider between two trees. Ricardo yelled in pain.

The Ram was too big to fit through the gap after them. She straightened and headed into the oncoming traffic, a car swerving on to the sidewalk to avoid a head-on collision, then turned again to swing the cab westwards.

The Dodge had to take the turn at a sharper angle. Its back end slewed wide, throwing Snakeskin back inside - and almost pitching the bald guy out on to the street. The oversized vehicle screeched to a halt to give the gunman time to pull himself back in.

The stop had opened up the gap between the two vehicles. But not by much. Nina scoured her mental map of Manhattan for anything that might widen it further, at the same time working out the quickest way to meet Eddie. Across Fifth and Broadway, then north on Sixth Avenue . . .

The Ram re-joined the pursuit, gaining fast.

The Lamborghini screamed southwards, eating up the three-mile straight of Central Park West. It was now near the bottom of the long avenue, approaching Columbus Circle. Eddie danced through the gaps in the traffic, accelerating.

‘Er, dude,’ Grant pointed out, ‘you’re gonna have to slow down for the turn - it’s one way.’ Southbound vehicles on Central Park West were forced to turn on to 62nd Street, the southernmost two blocks being northbound only.

‘It’s my way,’ Eddie corrected. There wasn’t time to take a detour. Instead he fixed his gaze on the lanes ahead. Was there a space?

There would have to be.

‘Dude,’ said Grant, voice rising in urgency as they neared 62nd Street. He jabbed a finger ahead - at the approaching headlights filling every lane. ‘Dude, dude, dude!’

Grimacing, Eddie turned—

Not right on to 62nd, but left - up the sloping kerb at a crosswalk and on to the broad sidewalk along the park’s walled edge. A long line of parked cars flicked past to their right, hemming them in.

‘You’re doing seventy on the sidewalk!’ Grant choked.

‘Yeah, I noticed!’ He batted the horn, people leaping aside as the Lamborghini swept past.

‘If the cops stop us, I’m totally gonna say this was a kidnapping!’

Eddie ignored him. They were at Columbus Circle, a large multi-lane roundabout.

And they were about to go round it the wrong way . . .

Grant let out a stifled gasp as Eddie whipped the Murcielago between two parked bicycle rickshaws and off the kerb, landing with a bang. Teeth clenched in a rictus grimace, he swung the Lamborghini between the disbelieving drivers rushing at him. Horns blared, tyres squealed, headlights streaked past on either side as he swung the supercar from left to right and back again, each barely missed vehicle making a sharp swip! of displaced air as it whipped by.

Central Park South—

He turned, foot down to blast through a gap before a truck closed it - and was clear.

For a moment. A siren wailed, a police car on Columbus Circle entering pursuit.

Grant looked back. ‘Oh, man! Cops!’

‘Just like in Nitrous, eh?’ Eddie said. He powered along Central Park South,