Stocky lost his balance, slipped off my waist, and hit the railing. The fire escape vibrated. I scrambled to my feet, fighting through the pulsating pain inside my head and the dizziness that accompanied it. My hand grabbed the railing, steadying me as I faced the next flight of stairs.
Stocky punched me in the kidneys and shoved me forward. I slammed the railing, then leaned over the side. My hand held firm on the top steel bar. He grabbed a handful of my coat, then my pants. He lifted up and leaned in close.
“Unless you want the express way down, tell me where the woman is and what you know,” he said, snarling in my ear. “Either way, you’re dying on this fire escape. How, is up to you.”
I lifted my foot, grazing his balls with the heel of my shoe. His hands released my coat and pants. He gasped and took a stepped back, giving me a small window to attack.
I turned, then hammered his jaw with my fist, knocking him to the ground. Stocky hit the landing, then curled up in the fetal position, cupping his private area. His face contorted in pain, lids clamped shut. He gnashed his teeth and panted.
I worked my way down the flight of stairs to the next landing. My side radiated pain where he’d struck my kidneys. I struggled to breathe.
A gunshot echoed from behind. A round struck the steel next to my leg as I made the corner. I hurried down the next flight. My gaze flitted to the stairs above me.
Stocky got to his feet and staggered his way down the steps after me. He trained his heater in my direction, but held his fire.
The dizziness waned some. The nauseated sensation lessened with each passing second. I flew down the next flight. One more to go.
Stocky fired. The bullet struck the railing near my hand. I leaned away and continued on down the stairs. He yelled, hollering at the top of his lungs. The wind and distance distorted his words, making it hard to understand.
I hit the last landing, made the corner, and climbed down the ladder to the pavement below. I glanced up, taking each rung as fast as I could.
Stocky barreled down the steps, pointing at me with a scowl on his face. He leaned over the side, training his silver piece in my direction.
My foot missed one of the rungs as my hand moved down to the next. Gravity took hold and pulled me to the ground. My arm stretched, reaching for the steel rung of the ladder. The tips of my fingers grazed the bar, but didn’t grab hold.
I hit the pavement seconds later—flat on my back. The impact ripped the air from my lungs. I gasped, fighting to breathe. Every bone in my body ached.
I rolled to my side, then forced myself off the ground. The SUV wasn’t too far away. My hand buried inside the coat pocket, fishing for the keys. I lurched down the alleyway, looking over my shoulder.
Stocky climbed down the ladder in a blink, then dropped to the pavement. A gunshot made me flinch and duck. The round tore through the flap of my coat, missing my waist by an inch or less. It pinged off the grille of the SUV.
I limped around the front end and down the driver’s side. I flung the door open and climbed inside the cab.
Stocky unloaded the magazine, hammering the windshield. I leaned to the side, shoved the key into the ignition and fired up the engine. It grumbled at first, then roared to life.
I pumped the gas, shifted into reverse, then pressed the gas pedal to the floorboard. The SUV took off toward the street with the door still open. I sat up straight, then glanced in the rearview mirror.
A black sedan was stopped in the road, blocking my way out. I hit the brakes, bringing the SUV to a skidding halt. The dark-tinted windows of the sedan made it hard to see inside.
Stocky ejected the spent mag in his heater, then reached around his back. He grabbed a fresh magazine, slapped it into the well, then cycled a round.
I closed the door, shifted into drive, and punched the gas. The back tires squealed. The SUV lunged forward and took off down the alley, heading right for Stocky.
He dove to the side, going end over end as I passed by. He got to his feet, turned, and fired at the fleeing vehicle. Muzzle flashes caught my eye from the side-view mirror. Each round punched the rear door of the SUV.
The sedan turned and gave pursuit down the alleyway. It stopped next to Stocky. He raced around the front end and jumped into the front passenger seat.
I worked the steering wheel from side to side, trying to avoid the trash cans and other garbage that lay in the alley. The front end of the SUV plowed through a silver-tinted trash can. The lid popped off the top, hit the hood, slammed the windshield, then rolled over the roof.
Air rushed through the bullet holes in the windshield, creating a whistling noise. I checked the rearview mirror, then the street up ahead. It looked clear and free of any obstacles.
The sedan closed in fast, its headlights growing brighter. I kept the gas pedal mashed to the floorboard, bearing down on the empty street.
I pumped the brake at the end of the corridor. The front end of the SUV bottomed out where the street and alley met. I jerked the steering wheel clockwise. The tires skidded over the pavement. I made a wide arch onto the vacant, desolate street, then punched the gas.
The sedan followed suit, drifting out of the alleyway at a sharp angle. The back end swung around, but the car corrected its trajectory.
The streets had
