The Cult of Osiris

And floored the accelerator.

There was a gap in the traffic to the left - only short, but it was all he needed.

He hoped . . .

The Lamborghini surged forward, rocketing past the Ram with a triumphant howl and darting back in front of it. Eddie braked. Startled, the pickup’s driver also slowed, his vehicle weaving, before realising he had the clear weight advantage and could just barge the supercar aside.

Eddie accelerated again, just enough to keep ahead of the truck. He saw Nina’s cab pulling away as it headed for Times Square, its tail lights the only red points in the sea of headlights parting before it.

And directly ahead of it, a bus.

Ricardo gestured feebly. ‘A bus, there is a bus.’

‘I see it,’ Nina told him. It was a red British-style double-decker, an open-topped tour vehicle for sightseers.

Coming straight at them.

‘There is a bus!’

‘I see it!’ She flashed the headlights and pounded on the horn, keeping her foot down.

‘What are you doing?’ demanded Ricardo.

Macy stared in disbelief through the cracked partition. ‘We’re gonna hit it!’

‘He’ll stop, he’ll stop . . .’ Nina poised her other foot over the brake, ready to jam it down—

The bus driver chickened out first, the safety of the few passengers on the last tour of the night his top priority. He braked hard, the bus’s wheels locking . . .

It skidded.

‘Oh, that’s bad,’ Nina gasped. The bus slewed round through almost ninety degree, a metal and glass roadblock.

But a driver in the lane to the right saw the danger and accelerated away just before the bus hit his car from behind - clearing a space.

Nina took it.

The Crown Victoria hit the kerb with a bang. A huge NYPD logo on the wall of the Times Square station house filled Nina’s vision; she screamed and spun the wheel, the front bumper rasping against the sign as the car careered along the sidewalk. People dived out of the way, but there was an obstacle dead ahead—

‘Shit!’ Nina wailed as she hit a hot dog cart. The vendor had already sprinted away, his stall spinning like a top in a spray of boiling water and flying frankfurters as the cab bowled it into the intersection.

Then she was clear, powersliding on to Broadway. She looked back . . .

The bus swayed to a standstill - blocking three lanes right in front of the Lamborghini.

‘Shiiiiit!’ Eddie and Grant cried. The only way to avoid a collision was to follow Nina—

A spine-jarring thump as they mounted the sidewalk, then Eddie turned hard left to round the bus, barely missing the whirling hot dog cart.

He too looked back—

The skidding Dodge Ram hit the bus.

It ploughed straight through it, the lower deck bursting apart in an explosion of shredded metal and flying seats. Most of the passengers were on the upper deck, those few downstairs fleeing for each end of the vehicle as the pickup rolled through its middle. It crashed down in Times Square, screeching to a stop on its side.

The Lamborghini also shrieked to a halt. Eddie opened the scissor door and jumped out, landing in a crouch to look over the supercar’s bonnet. The overturned Ram was dribbling fuel from a ruptured line, its driver slumped bloodily through the smashed windscreen. Another of its occupants, a chunky bald man, had been thrown clear and lay near the hot dog cart. He still had a weapon clutched in one hand, a compact TEC-9 sub-machine gun.

The Lamborghini’s other door swung up. Grant emerged - and to Eddie’s dismay ran straight for the bald guy. ‘Wait, get back!’ he shouted.

The actor ignored him, reaching the weakly moving gunman - and kicking the TEC-9 out of his hand, sending it skittering away to clank against the wrecked Dodge. ‘This is a citizen’s arrest!’ he proclaimed, putting a foot on the man’s back and striking a pose. He grinned at Eddie. ‘Just like in Citizen’s Arrest, huh?’

‘Idiot,’ Eddie muttered, hurrying round the Murcielago. He passed the steaming hot dog cart, a blue flame from a squat gas cylinder still burning under its water tank. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah, man. That was . . . intense. Wow!’ A flash came from the top deck of the ruptured bus as someone took his photograph. ‘So, did we save your—’

A cop ran round the bus, pistol raised. ‘Freeze!’ he bellowed. ‘Put your hands up and get down on the ground, now!’

Eddie immediately raised his hands. Grant, meanwhile, faced the cop, unconcerned. ‘It’s okay, man. We’re the good guys.’ He nodded towards his billboard. ‘See? It’s me!’

The cop twisted his arm behind his back. ‘Shut up! Get on your—’

The Ram’s rear door flew open and Diamondback burst out like a Jack-in-the-box. He saw the three men and aimed his revolver—

Eddie tackled Grant, wrenching him from the cop’s grip as Diamondback fired. The bullet caught the cop in the chest. Blood spurted out as he crashed to the ground, his gun bouncing away and sliding under a stalled taxi. Its driver ran for cover.

Hauling Grant with him, Eddie dived over the cab’s bonnet as Diamondback fired again, the taxi’s windscreen exploding. He shoved Grant against the front wheel, spotting the cop’s gun near the back.

Diamondback jumped down from the Ram. He fired another two shots at the cab, blowing out windows, then snatched up the TEC-9.

Eddie threw himself into a forward roll to the rear wheel and grabbed the gun, a Glock-19 automatic. He pressed his back against the wheel and checked on his charge.

Grant was shuffling towards him—

‘Back!’ Eddie yelled, diving at the actor as Diamondback opened fire on full auto. A string of ragged bullet holes blew open in the doors just behind him as he knocked Grant back. More bullets ripped into the front of the cab, piercing the thin steel bodywork - before clanging ineffectually against the solid metal of the engine block.

‘Cars are concealment, not cover!’ Eddie shouted at the shaken Grant as the onslaught stopped. ‘Didn’t they teach you that at action movie school?’ He popped his head up. The snakeskin-jacketed gunman was out of ammo, dropping the TEC-9 and switching back to his revolvers. Nearby, the bald man, face a patchwork mess of cuts and grazes, staggered to his feet.

‘Eddie!’ a woman shouted. He looked round and saw the uniformed Amy approaching in a rapid crouch, her partner behind her.

Diamondback fired again, forcing everyone down. His companion drew a pistol as they retreated. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ Amy demanded.

‘Ask them!’ he replied, gesturing towards the gunmen. ‘They’re the twats who just tried to kill my wife!’

Another shot punched through the cab, spitting shrapnel. Grant yelped, and Amy flinched. ‘NYPD!’ she shouted. ‘Drop your weapons!’

More bullet hits on the cab, the sharp crack of an automatic joining the revolvers’ louder blasts. The two men weren’t receptive to orders. Eddie looked under the taxi’s front bumper to see them hurriedly backing away as other cops returned fire. With an officer already down and civilians at risk, they were shooting to kill - but he needed at least one of the gunmen alive to learn why they wanted Nina dead.

He hefted the Glock - and fired it under the car, the bullet tearing a bloody hole in the bald man’s right ankle. He fell, screaming. Eyes narrowed to agonised slits, he looked up at Diamondback. ‘Help me!’

Diamondback returned his gaze . . . then without even changing expression shot him in the head. A sunburst of blood sprayed the street beneath him.