retracted the front panel at the exact same second. Caught a glimpse of the guitar player’s surprised face as the GTO shot forward, and the man—just barely—managed to jump out of the way.
The bridge was far from horizontal yet, though: Castle had a split second to decide whether or not he would be able to make the jump to the other side; he realized he had no alternative and dropped the car into overdrive.
For a second, rubber squealed, and then, all at once, stopped.
He—and the GTO—were flying in midair.
Ahead of them, he caught a glimpse of the other half of the bridge lowering, and he willed the car to stay up long enough to come down on it.
They hit. The impact rattled his teeth—impact on the front end, not the rear. Castle felt the car begin to fall, and instinctually reached for the door handle.
The back end of the car hit then, rattling his teeth a second time—and the GTO straightened out, all four wheels down.
Castle shifted again, as the car smashed through the gate arm beginning to rise ahead of them, and flew back onto 211.
He saw the Roadrunner coming up fast behind him.
Keeping a hand on the wheel, he reached down, beneath the passenger seat, and drew one of his father’s Parkers. He looked ahead. An intersection was coming up—De Valle, another big street.
Castle slowed the GTO—not enough to make Saint’s man suspicious, but enough to let him get a little closer. Bring him within range.
A hundred yards shy of the intersection, Castle threw the wheel hard left and slammed the brakes. The GTO slid toward De Valle, suddenly perpendicular to his pursuer.
Castle raised the shotgun and fired.
The Roadrunner swerved.
He pumped again and fired a second time. The other car’s windshield shattered. Saint’s man appeared from behind the wheel, pistol in hand, and fired.
The driver’s-side mirror of the GTO shattered.
Castle hit the gas, and the GTO took off down De Valle.
He dropped the shotgun and drew his Colt. Waited.
The Roadrunner appeared behind him, again coming up fast. This time he didn’t wait; he slammed on the brakes.
Saint’s man was good, but no one could react that fast. The Roadrunner’s tires screeched as it came within range.
Castle sighted down the barrel of the Colt and fired.
The passenger-side window shattered, but the Roadrunner’s driver was unharmed. He raised his pistol, and Castle hit the gas again.
They were coming up on the old warehouse district. The other side of North Tampa. Castle realized he wasn’t going to be able to make the apartment—too bad, he had some nice surprises waiting there—so he’d have to make do with what he had. Luckily, that included a few surprises as well.
Another intersection loomed. Castle shot through it, the Roadrunner just behind, and gaining. Castle had a feeling that all the damage the GTO had absorbed was taking its toll. The car felt sluggish to him.
The back windshield shattered: Castle heard the bullet slam into the back of the seat next to him. In the rearview, Saint’s man smiled.
Up ahead, on his right, Castle saw an abandoned warehouse. Long abandoned: the brick facade was crumbling, vines were crawling up the building, the huge front bay doors were half drawn, leaving the building open to the elements.
Looked like his kind of place.
Castle spun the wheel hard right, heading straight for it. The car bounced over the curb, heading for the space between the doors; and right at that second, Castle heard something snap just below his seat. Axle? Drive train? Brake line? Whatever it had been, all at once he had no control.
The side of the building loomed before him. He barely had time to put his hands up before his face before the GTO smashed into it.
The next thing he knew, his head was lolling on his shoulders. His ears were ringing.
Get out, he thought. Get out.
His hand found the door handle, and he pushed himself up and out of the seat, out his door.
He staggered once, and fell face first to the ground.
When he looked up, the Roadrunner was at the curb and Saint’s man was walking toward him, holding a pistol in each hand, wearing a smile as big as Texas on his face.
Castle realized he was still holding the Colt. He raised it and squeezed the trigger.
Click.
Castle dropped that weapon and fumbled awkwardly under his coat.
His fingers closed on the handle of a knife, and, with the last of his strength, he drew it.
Saint’s man burst out laughing.
“What is that, a potato peeler?”
Castle’s vision blurred, then came back into focus. The man was right; the knife in his hand did look like a kitchen tool. Like a child’s toy.
“You’re dumber than a box of hammers, boy. You brought a knife to a gunfight.”
“They paid you to kill me,” Castle managed to say. “So kill me.”
“It’ll be a pleasure.”
The man pressed the barrel of his gun against Castle’s head.
Castle squeezed the hidden button on the bottom of his knife.
The spring-loaded blade shot out and embedded itself in the guitar player’s throat.
“Akk,” the man said, looking down.
He gurgled once, then fell over backward and lay still.
Castle struggled to his feet. In the distance, sirens howled, growing closer.
He climbed into the Roadrunner and drove home.
THIRTY-THREE
Castle knew it would be only a matter of time before the police connected him to the GTO and the dead body. He didn’t want Morris coming after him with a whole lot of questions. It would get in the way of his plans.
So he decided to be proactive.
He went in search of Jimmy Weeks.
He found his friend’s Mustang right where he expected to: second-level assigned parking in the Federal Motor Pool Building.
An hour later, his friend came out of the garage’s elevator and found him.
“Frank?” Weeks stopped in his tracks. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.”
“You found me.” Weeks smiled, that same nervous smile that had troubled Castle before. Probably still worried I’m going to do an intervention on him or something. Have no fear on that score, Jimmy. You can piss your whole life down the toilet if you want, gamble away every last thing you own. I won’t raise a finger to interfere.
“So what’s up?” Weeks asked.
“I want you to tell Morris something for me.”
“Which would be . . .”
Castle filled him in, then, on the hit man and his car. Which, he told Weeks, was available on the top level of this very garage, should the police desire to come pick it up.
“I’ll tell him,” Weeks said. “But he still might come looking for you, Frank.”
“He won’t find me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
