The elevator began to rise. At floor five it jolted to a hard stop.
Sweet Bird listened to a call in his earpiece. ‘Understood,’ he said. He turned to his Birdies. ‘The showoffs got themselves trapped.’ He did not want to spend his day playing soldier; he did not like putting himself or his people in unwarranted danger. But he had no choice.
He and his five Birdies got out of the van, their guns hidden under their coats. The driver moved the van along into traffic, to start his ongoing orbit of the building until needed.
The front door was propped open, but Sweet Bird kicked the prop loose and the door shut itself again.
‘Get on the computer system,’ he told one of the Birdies, ‘see if there’s an override for the elevator, or if we got stairs to take.’ Suddenly two uniformed men barreled in from a door at the end of the small lobby, guns drawn.
The gunfire erupted just as Sweet Bird dove for the cover of the counter.
‘Look for an override button.’ Snow spoke into her mike. The distant sound of gunfire, five floors below, stopped abruptly.
A long quiet filled the elevator while she waited for an answer, hoping that Sweet Bird and his flock were still on their feet.
‘Got it,’ Sweet Bird said. Suddenly the elevator lurched into life, began its ascent toward the top floor.
‘If Luke or these assholes have our money, we kill them as soon as we’ve got our hands on it.’
‘I get Schoolboy,’ Snow said. ‘He hurt me worse than he hurt you. A bullet beats a blade.’
‘Do you know who killed my dad? Was it Mouser?’
‘Not now, Luke, for God’s sakes. Here, take this gun. We’re getting the hell out of here.’
‘Tell your friends on the other side of the camera to call the police if we’re in danger.’
‘They’re far away. They can’t help us.’
‘Where’s far away?’
‘Europe.’
‘Why are they taking Aubrey to Europe?’ Then he remembered Frankie Wu’s words back in Chicago, discussing their itinerary. New York. Paris.
‘Can you shoot this?’ Drummond pulled a Glock 9 from a kitchen cabinet, pressed it into Luke’s hand.
‘If I have lots of time to aim.’
‘Don’t be a perfectionist.’ They turned the corner into the entryway. The elevator doors were already open and Mouser leveled his semi-automatic and opened fire. Rounds exploded into the walnut paneling near Luke’s head. Drummond shoved him back around the corner, returning fire.
They retreated toward the kitchen. The finery of the living room – the cleanly upholstered sofas, the glass table tops, the vivid photos of misspent suffering on the walls – all were splintered and dusted in the gunfire.
Drummond and Luke went over the kitchen counter. A few more bullets thrummed into the granite-topped island.
Then silence.
Drummond pointed at the doorway at the end of the kitchen, gestured that it meant the roof. It would be a run of a dozen feet, uncovered.
Luke shook his head.
‘Schoolboy.’ Luke heard Snow call to him. ‘You left marks on my throat with those chains, and a hole in my shoulder’ – and then she went silent. Luke knew what would happen to him if she got those pale, tender hands on him. She would pay him back with agony.
He stared at Drummond and listened for the shuffle of feet on broken glass. But there was only silence. The quiet filled his chest with a crushing dread.
The silence stretched.
‘No neighbors to call for help, Mr Drummond,’ Mouser called. ‘This is one empty building. We got people going floor to floor and nobody’s home. How can you afford that in New York?’
‘Family money.’ Drummond reached into a drawer and yanked out a large knife.
‘Luke, how you doing?’ Mouser called.
‘Better than Snow,’ Luke said. Did you kill my dad? He wanted to ask the question but the words wouldn’t form in his mouth.
‘You’re a nothing punk to me,’ Mouser said. ‘You cooperate, you get to go home to stepdaddy. You don’t, I’m giving you to my girl, and it’s not going to be sunshine and lollipops. Now shut up and let the big boys talk. Mr Drummond?’
‘What, asshole?’
‘Tell me who’s trying to screw the Night Road.’
Drummond said nothing.
‘You help me, I help you.’ Mouser’s voice grew closer.
‘Fine. Here’s the deal,’ Drummond said. ‘You leave and I won’t kill you.’
Snow was silent; Luke thought she might be drawing close, grinning at him under her bottle-white hair. He risked a glance around the counter’s edge but didn’t see her.
‘I’ll leave, but with Luke. You get to live.’
Drummond said, ‘Eric stole your money. Not us. And I walk out with Luke.’
‘You’re outgunned. I got street gangbangers in the lobby. We’re over a dozen stories up. You got no place to fly.’
‘Except into my arms.’ Snow sounded like she was just on the other side of the counter.
Mouser continued his negotiation. ‘Eric hid the goods and you were gonna fly his ass out here. I think Eric gave Luke and Aubrey our money.’
‘You want to know what Eric did with your money?’ Luke said. ‘I know exactly where he stashed it. You kill us, you’ll never ever find it.’ They had nothing left but a bluff. Luke’s fear rose in a tide inside his heart. But he would not let it control him.
Drummond gestured again at the stairs. No way, Luke thought, no way. But they had no choice.
‘Luke. Aren’t you tired of running?’ Mouser said.
Luke held up a hand to Drummond, five fingers spread and then pointed at the escape route to the rooftop garden. He opened his hands again to five. Then four fingers. A countdown.
Luke wanted to shoot Mouser. He could feel the hate, the rage swelling in his chest.
Three. Two.
‘Luke, don’t you want to see your stepdad again? You two got lots to discuss,’ Mouser said.
‘No,’ Luke said. ‘You talk to him. You’re both traitors.’
One finger, upraised, holding. Drummond mouthed: you just run. There was no arguing with him. Luke couldn’t look back.
Go, Drummond mouthed. He had the knife in one hand, the gun in the other.
‘You’re the one who’s a traitor,’ Mouser said in a snarl and Luke bolted for the stairs. He expected the rip of bullets. He ducked low, hiking fast up the stairs and he heard gunfire, a cry of fury from Mouser and a scream from Snow.
The roof. He ran through the door and Drummond was seconds behind him, his shoulder bloodied. Luke slammed the door closed and engaged the bolt. Weird that there was a lock on the outside of the door – it meant that this really was Drummond’s escape route. ‘We have nowhere to go.’
‘Wrong. Down.’ Drummond gritted his teeth against the pain.
‘It’s suicide.’
Bullets began to pan hard against the metal of the door around the lock.
Drummond grabbed Luke, shoved him away from the door. Over the pounding of blows against the reinforced door Luke could hear, hundreds of feet below, the hum of traffic, the whisper of endless shuffles of feet against the pavement.
‘Never let yourself get cornered,’ Drummond said.
‘We are cornered.’
Drummond kicked the layer of gravel away near the slightly raised box of metal that looked like a maintenance access point. It was secured by a digital keypad lock. ‘We have only a window of fifteen seconds.’
