False move, p.17
False Move, page 17
With one last glance over his shoulder, Lacey pulled open the gate and climbed the first half-dozen steps. He halted. Felt for the reassuring weight of his gun. It gave him confidence to proceed, but he didn’t shift.
What’s in it for you, Si? Did he think Lacey would forgive and forget, and still bring him in on the scheme to blackmail Elite Custodian Services? He’d be a fool to expect as much as a cent out of the takings now. What’s in it for you? The question had plagued him every limping step of the way, but now he’d reached the stairs and paused his cop’s radar had pinged a final warning. Summoning him to the workshop felt more and more like a trap. For as long as he’d known him Si had always been about his self-preservation. The epiphany struck him as hard as a kick to the nuts, and Lacey felt his gorge rise.
The idiot had tried beating him to the prize, by making his own blackmail demands first. And Lacey guessed what had been offered in exchange. The bastard! He’d tried luring him into Elite’s clutches!
Instantly Lacey reared around, and began lumbering down the steps for the open gate. Behind him there was a ruckus, barely muffled by the intervening door: a thump, a slap of feet and something being broken, the dulled retort of a suppressed gun. The door overhead was yanked open, and commands for him to halt pursued him down the last steps. A bullet caromed off the metal gate a few inches from his head. Without thinking, Lacey tore the pistol out of his pocket, and blindly returned fire as he ducked out the gate and onto the sidewalk. Rapid clanging indicated a swift pursuit.
Lacey was incapable of running far, even energized by fear. He swung back, planned on ambushing his pursuers as they exited the stairwell. A door clunked open on a vehicle posted across the street, and a stocky man raised his close-cropped head above its roof. Lacey recognized the pug face that followed: Sean Nicholls. Lacey hadn’t personally worked alongside the thickset veteran before but was aware of his reputation as a no-nonsense tough guy, the very type Hayden James would recruit to fill the empty shoes of Prescott. So who’d filled the vacancy left by Jacob Mathers?
Brian Johnson blocked the sidewalk twenty paces ahead. Because of other pedestrians, he hadn’t yet drawn his weapon, but his hand was poised to draw it from a shoulder holster. He held out his other hand flat, a warning to stop.
Lacey was at the centre of a converging triangle of armed opponents, and yet he still had an advantage. None were prepared to shoot him dead, not without first checking he had the flash drives on his person. Even those who’d shot at him from the workshop had aimed to miss. He wasn’t similarly constrained, but if he fired, then the scenario would change and they’d be entitled to save their own lives.
Bracing his feet, he swung his pistol between Johnson and Nicholls, the latter of whom lowered his head to place the car between them. Lacey could still see him through the windows, and it was apparent the guy was preparing for the worst. Lacey snapped a glance at the stairwell. He spotted red hair as Aiken popped out for a glimpse, then ducked under cover again. A few seconds later Aiken came into view once more, this time with his silenced pistol aimed directly at Lacey’s chest. Beyond him, Vera Seung appeared, also threatening Lacey with a suppressed pistol as she sidestepped to a position where he had no escape beyond the massage parlour, should he take Aiken out of the equation.
Pedestrians ran for cover, some dropping to the sidewalks and covering their heads with their arms. Some shouted, and a woman shrieked, calling out to somebody else to get away. None had any idea if they’d been caught up in a law enforcement operation, or if they’d stumbled into the middle of a criminal shoot-out. It mattered not who was involved, a stray shot could kill from any weapon. Cars screeched to a halt, and one driver threw his vehicle into reverse and backed at speed to get out of the line of fire. Others sped up and streaked by, momentarily offering cover to Lacey from Nicholls, but it wasn’t enough. It was only a matter of time until the real police responded, and none of them, Lacey included, wanted to be there when they arrived. He backed away from Aiken and Seung, his gun wavering between the two.
‘You’re done, Lace,’ Aiken told him. ‘Give up now, nobody else needs to get hurt.’
‘Nobody but me, eh?’ Lacey shook his head, then swung to aim at Johnson, whose gun was now out, but held low by his side: he still held out his palm, an imploring look on his face.
‘Lower the gun, Lace.’ In contradiction, Aiken held his firm, two handed.
‘Shoot me, and you’ll be sorry,’ Lace warned.
‘I don’t want to shoot you, but you’re forcing my decision.’
‘Do that and you’ll lose the files.’
‘Bullshit. You’ve got them with you. We know you were bringing them back to Turpin to be fixed.’
‘You think I trust that lying sack of puke after he tried to fuck me over? I only brought one of them.’ Lacey pulled a flash drive from his pocket and slung it down. It bounced, then slid between Aiken and Seung. The woman crabbed sideways and slapped a foot down on it. Without lowering her pistol she crouched and retrieved it, and immediately tucked it in a pocket for safekeeping as she rose. ‘Take it,’ Lacey went on, ‘it won’t do you any good when I’ve already arranged for the others to be sent to the press and FBI in the event of my death.’
‘You’re lying,’ said Aiken. ‘You never did have a good poker face, buddy.’
‘Let’s not play games, Aiken, you were never my buddy. Now back the fuck away, and let me go, or you’re all finished.’
Johnson had moved in a few paces while Lacey was distracted. He came to an abrupt halt when Lacey swung on him again. ‘Don’t,’ was all the man said.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Lacey, ‘don’t. Now back up, or I swear to God …’
Behind Johnson, a young girl pushed to her feet and ran, hunched, over for the nearest doorway. Across the street, Nicholls leaned over the roof of the car with his gun extended. He glanced repeatedly at Aiken for instruction: Aiken was the default leader of the pack for the time being.
‘I’m surprised Hayden isn’t here,’ Lacey said, as he stepped off the curb onto the road, causing them all to adjust their trajectories. ‘This is his op, right? I bet it’s become kinda personal to him.’
‘He’s coming,’ Aiken assured him as he shuffled forward. ‘It’s not him you should be worried about though. After what you did to her boyfriend, Megan’s got a real boner for you, Lace.’
‘Megan can bite me,’ Lacey growled, although he was under no illusion: if the deranged bitch were here now there would be no stand-off, she’d come in with all guns blazing. Her imminent arrival made getting away more pressing, because she wouldn’t care if killing him meant the files would be released. Why the others hadn’t shot him dead already was apparent: Hayden had commanded that they take him alive – to negate the kind of bluff he was pulling now – and, conditioned to take orders, they were loath to shoot. Albeit, they weren’t averse to disarming him and taking him down by force, which was the reason they inched in, closing the noose on him, and why he sought space to manoeuvre in the centre of the street. His action drew out Nicholls, who edged around the front of the car, even as Seung moved parallel to Aiken.
It was now or never, Lace realized, before they pounced on him like a flock of ravenous crows on road kill. His safe options were few, but far better than if they’d trapped him between them on the metal stairs, out of sight and sound of the public, as they’d originally planned. Next to Nicholls was the entrance to a dance studio. Lacey had spotted a couple of kids take cover inside when panic had spread among the civilians. If he could make it past the stocky gunman and through the doors, there was the possibility of finding an exit he could barricade behind him, and give him a few precious minutes to escape. Surely in an environment where there were probably more kids, the others wouldn’t use their guns? But Lacey wasn’t a complete shit: he couldn’t be confident they’d hold fire and wouldn’t put children at risk, not even for the sake of his own life.
He lunged towards Nicholls, and the guy crouched, spreading his stance, unsure whether to shoot or to grapple, and instantly Lacey danced back again, ignoring the flash of pain in his left knee that threatened to make his leg collapse. He rushed from the gap between Johnson and the gunman now behind him. Aiken and Seung leapt after him, even as Johnson lunged to cut him off: thankfully nobody went for a crippling shot to his legs, and he hoped that would last. He stuck his gun in Johnson’s face, snarling in defiance, but the man wasn’t deterred; he knew that to shoot meant engaging them all in mortal combat. Lacey jerked aside, twisting to check where the others were, and used the butt of his pistol to hammer Johnson aside. Johnson deftly avoided the swing of the gun, using his own pistol to bat it further away. He got a hand on Lacey’s jacket and was trawled a few feet in his wake. Lacey elbowed at him, brought round his pistol and stuck it in the guy’s ribs. He faced the other trio with his hostage between them. ‘Stop, or he gets it!’ he hollered.
Nobody stopped, not even Johnson, who squirmed away from the gun, and brought round his own. Lacey grappled his wrist, and the gun exploded, deafening so close to his ear, and the flash and stink of black powder filled Lacey’s senses. Johnson clasped his other hand, flexing his hand outward, and locking it torturously close to breaking. Lacey kneed him in the groin, and the grip on his arm lessened, but already, through the black spots swimming in his vision he saw the others swooping in to grab him. He shoved Johnson aside, and braced to meet them. Ears ringing, he didn’t hear his yell of challenge as he readied to fight them off, or the louder roar bearing down on him.
THIRTY-THREE
Even though he was a big guy, big-boned and thick with muscle, despite carrying a surplus of flesh, he wasn’t a real match for almost four thousand pounds of steel and rubber. So when he hurtled blindly from a cross street and into the path of the Mustang, there was only going to be one outcome. He was swept into the air by the front fender and deposited on the hood, before he windmilled off again and crumpled to the ground. In that brief and startling moment before they collided and he stamped the brake pedal, Po got a snapshot look at the man’s flat nose and eyes that bugged out of his sweating face in fear.
‘Holy shit!’ Po wheezed as he brought the muscle car to a halt. But already the big man had scrambled up, and lurched away across Eighth Avenue without a care for being hit again. If he was injured by the collision he didn’t show it. Po looked over at Tess, who sat open-mouthed as she watched the guy disappear among the pedestrians waiting for the streetlights to change so they could cross safely. All those observing the lights stared in mawkish fashion at where the Mustang had been brought to a halt. Already, behind it, other road users were hitting their horns to get Po moving again, now that the drama was over.
‘What just happened?’ Tess asked.
‘He’s just put two hundred bucks worth of damage on my hood,’ Po observed, trying to use humour to leaven the shock. He looked for the guy, but he’d fled the scene without a backwards glance. ‘There must be a ninety-nine cents all-you-can-eat deal on at Wendy’s,’ he said with a nod at a nearby chain diner.
‘Po, show some compassion. The poor guy could’ve been badly injured.’
‘Yeah, he coulda been. Good job he ran when he did, or I might’ve slapped some road sense into the idiot.’ He was still attempting to lighten the mood, as he had been since Barbara Grey ended her call with the direction to look for Lacey near De Witt Clinton Park. Tess had been sombre throughout the drive. Due to the one-way systems in place, the route had brought them back around via Eighth Avenue, where Po had been looking for a viable place to cut across town when the guy had unexpectedly lurched in front of them. Ahead the other cars had cleared the road as far as two blocks to the junction with West 57th Street. Between them and where Po got the Mustang moving again, other pedestrians began running across the street, fleeing some danger on 56th.
Tess exchanged a glance with Po. He squinted, observing the panic-stricken people running for cover. Cars pushed out on to the avenue against the lights. Po drew the buckled hood of his Mustang close to the corner, and they both scanned the street, wondering what lunacy was going on.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Tess announced. ‘It’s him, Po!’
Po had only seen a photograph of the man they sought, lifted from his driver’s license by Tess, but it was dated, and posed formally, so if he’d randomly met Lacey he might not have recognized him. This version of the man was older, heavier, had shaggier grey hair and had gone unshaven for a week. In his DMV ID, he had looked smug, on the verge of arrogance. The man surrounded on four sides by armed assailants projected desperation as he swung a pistol back and forward, trying to force a gap to escape through. Two of those advancing on him were more recognizable to Po, even with their backs to him: it was the ginger-haired guy and Asian woman who’d tailed Stella Dewildt from her hotel to the airport in Boston. The other two men, one tall and dusky-skinned, the second a bulldog with broad shoulders and thick arms, were strangers, but immediately identifiable as Elite operatives through their military bearing. Of the tall guy and scarred woman there was no sign, but that was likely to change. In the snap moment that Po took in the scene, he figured a trap had been sprung, but Elite’s timing was off and Lacey had made it into the public arena before they could subdue him. Everyone had guns, but nobody was shooting, but that was apt to change. Either Lacey would be winged and brought down, or his desperation would grow and he’d respond with force, and the shit would really hit the fan.
Beside him, Tess’s face was beyond pale as she stared at the man, and Po knew she was momentarily overwhelmed by competing emotions.
‘Tess, they’re going to take him if we don’t move.’ Po announced. Tess was licensed to carry back in Maine, but hadn’t fetched her gun from the strongbox kept in her apartment on Cumberland Avenue. Other than his knife concealed in a boot sheath, they were unarmed. No, that was untrue.
‘Climb in the back,’ he said. His command was sharp; Tess needed to snap out of it. She gawped at him, then back at the circle of assailants closing in on Lacey. Po shook her. ‘Tess, get in the back now, and keep your head down!’
She nodded dumbly, but then a spark lit her gaze, as she understood Po’s intention. She unclipped her belt and squeezed backwards through the gap between the seats and scrunched down across the rear bench seat. As Po gunned the engine she reached for the handle on the vacated front seat and flipped the backrest forward. 56th Street was one-way, and the traffic flow against them, but that was to their advantage. All other traffic had come to a stop a distance beyond the showdown, most of the driver’s abandoning their vehicles as they ran for cover. Po had a clear run of twenty yards. He wasn’t unarmed, he had almost four thousand pounds of steel and rubber that had proven its efficacy as a blunt instrument minutes earlier. He spun the muscle car through the No Entry signs, and hit the gas, and the Mustang roared as it burned rubber directly towards the group. Lacey and the dusky-skinned guy scuffled, and Lacey momentarily got control of the other guy, but didn’t keep the upper hand. They jostled, and a gun went off. Then Lacey was locked at the wrist, but he kneed his opponent, and he broke free, only to be rushed by the others.
Po could mow down the entire group, but that would include Lacey. Not the result he hoped for. He took his foot off the gas, yanked down on the steering and the Mustang spun out. The rear tyres juddered on asphalt as the back end swung in an arc. The impact with a body much lighter than the big guy’s earlier still rocked the car. The Asian woman was knocked reeling across the street, before she went down on her belly, a gun slipping from her flexing fingers. The ginger-haired man wasn’t struck as severely, though he still stumbled away, and fell to his knees. Lacey was as stunned as everyone else, but he shook out of the fugue a second before they could recover, and he aimed a kick that hit the kneeling man square under the chin. By then, Tess reached and threw open the passenger door.
‘Get in!’ Po’s shout snapped a glance from Lacey, but he was a stranger to the fugitive, and no trustworthier than any of the four threatening his liberty. Lacey sought escape by clambering over the top of the fallen ginger-haired operative, only for the dusky-skinned man to lunge at him, and the stocky bruiser to adjust his aim on the car. Lacey dodged back, and again peered in abject hope at Po. ‘Get in, goddammit!’ Po exhorted.
Lacey was still in flux.
The two able operatives were still armed, and there was only one reason why they had not yet shot Lacey dead. They needed to take him alive. The sentiment wasn’t extended to Po. The stocky guy fired and blew out part of the windscreen. Shards peppered Po, who snarled in rage, and was about to hit the gas: he wasn’t about to let either him or Tess die for the sake of an ungrateful son of a bitch!
‘Aaron! Do as he says … Get in now!’
Lacey saw the face, and reaching hands beseeching him from the rear seat, and was suddenly struck by recognition. His features grew lax, and he stared for the briefest of seconds, trying to make sense of his would be rescuer. Then he lurched forward, and scrambled in over the tilted seat back, and Tess grabbed and yanked his torso inside. His legs flailed a moment, and were grappled by the taller gunman, who tried to drag him out. The stockier gunman skipped nimbly around the vehicle, his gun extended, but thankfully he didn’t shoot again for fear of hitting his colleague. Po hit the gas and yanked down on the steering wheel, and the Mustang fishtailed back the way it’d originally come, dragging the gunman with it. The man’s grip failed on Lacey’s legs and he tumbled to the curb. In frustration the only man left standing fired two shots, one into the trunk, the other caroming off the back window.
Po ignored the red light at Eighth Avenue: all traffic had come to a halt as people swarmed the intersection to observe the lunacy in their midst. As the gunman let loose another shot, they scattered and the Mustang had a free run along 56th and away, with Aaron Lacey topping and tailing with Tess across the back seat, while the open door flapped back and forth until finally slamming shut with a bang louder than any that had come in the preceding few minutes.
