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The Detective
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THE BLACK Mustang tore around the corner of
A
chasing car gained the same corner seconds later. It was a junker, a Sebring or
a Vega or a Pinto. It spun out of control and flipped over—
—and
landed back on its wheels. The driver, who should've had the good sense to quit
right there, instead hit the accelerator while pedestrians on sidewalks gawked
and the waiting traffic honked.
The
four-beater sounded like it was in its death throes. It left behind a cloud of
blue smoke as it lurched ahead, gaining speed as fast as it could, which was
nowhere near fast enough.
The
Mustang should've been Casper ,
out of sight, gone, history. But the driver managed to snag himself and his two
passengers in a jam half a mile up. He threw the car in reverse and backed up
with a squeal, slamming into the vehicle behind.
With
the extra space, he spun the wheel right and jumped the sidewalk, horn blaring.
The Mustang rounded the corner as pedestrians screamed and scurried out of the
way.
The
snarl eased up a block later. The car flew over the sidewalk and back onto the
road. It swerved dangerously to avoid oncoming traffic, pinballing into cars,
spitting fans of sparks as metal ground against metal. At an alley it jerked left
and disappeared.
That
should've been the end of it. But the driver of the clunker knew this city like
the back of his hand, and had left June right away, seeing the traffic jam
ahead. Already in the same alley, he watched as the thieves squealed into it.
A
determined grin spread across his face as he jammed the pedal to the metal. He
slammed into trash bags and had to swerve to avoid bums and restaurant workers
smoking—he sniffed—well, whatever the hell it was they were smoking. He gained the
one-way street and just managed to cross it before a delivery truck could smash
into his right side.
The
‘Stang was a hundred yards ahead. It careened into a dumpster, pushing it into
a loading bay, the men on it yelling and leaping out of the way. But too much
of it was still blocking the thieves’ escape. With half of the black car’s hood
crumpled and its tires squealing blue smoke, it backed threateningly towards
the junker, whose driver grinned even wider.
"Gotcha,
boys. Come to poppa."
A
thief popped out the Mustang's passenger-side window, submachine gun in hand.
The muzzle flared.
Bullets
peppered the hood with hollow pops. One tagged the windshield, shattering it.
The clunker driver grinned no more as he ducked and jammed his foot into the
accelerator, swearing like a truck driver.
The
cars came together before the gunner could squeeze off another round. He ducked
his head back into the car—
SMASH!
The
driver of the four-beater just managed to get his seatbelt on. The crash hurled
him into the steering wheel, knocking the wind out of him. He watched the back
end of the muscle car crumple and ride up the hood, eager to crush the life out
of him.
The
thieves piled out.
"In here! In here!" yelled the driver.
The
submachine-gun-toting passenger opened fire, raging at the top of his lungs. The
bullets tore into the heap, shattering the rest of the glass.
"No
time, Clowny!" yelled the driver. "We'll get that jerk later. C'mon!"
The
assailant joined his fellows as they threw open an alley door, which belonged
to another restaurant, and vanished inside.
The
clunker driver kicked open his door, groaning. The hail of bullets had showered
glass and car seat stuffing all over him—but miraculously he wasn't hit. At
least he didn't think he was. He gave himself a quick inspection as he pulled himself
out.
"Son
of a ..." he muttered angrily, shaking glass out of his hair.
He
got to the alley door and twisted the handle, or tried to. Locked. He backed up
two paces and pulled out his forty-five, aiming at the handle.
The
door suddenly burst open. A Chinese man in an apron glared at him, then started
yelling in rapid-fire Broccoli-With-Beefese, pointing up the stairs that were
just inside and to the left.
"Got
it. Got it!" he yelled over the
caterwauling. "Thanks, Kwai Chang!" He leapt up the stairs. "I
owe you one!"
Four
flights led to a dimly lighted corridor. At the end was a service elevator. There
were five doors, any one of which the thieves could’ve been hiding behind. He
growled at the probabilities, then bolted down the corridor to the service elevator,
where he impatiently jammed the UP button.
"C'mon
... c'mon!"
A
muffled scream. Behind one of the doors.
A
woman's scream.
But
which damn door did it come from?
Back
against the wall, gun at his side, he sidled along to the first door as quickly
as he could, listening intently.
Nothing.
Second
door.
Nothing.
Third.
The
elevator dinged and opened just as he heard another muffled scream.
...
Or ... was that just the Chinese
cooks downstairs?
Sirens.
Cops were coming.
"About damn time," he murmured.
Silence.
He
would have to guess.
He
went to shoot the doorknob of the third door.
Just
before squeezing the trigger, he stopped and, listening to a tiny voice inside
his head, jumped in front of the next door instead. He aimed and squeezed off
three shots—BLAM!BLAM!BLAM!—and
kicked the door in.
The
submachine gunner was taking aim.
He
dove out of the way.
ATATATATATATATATA!
Wood
and plaster sprayed everywhere.
The
end of the submachine gun’s smoking barrel appeared around the corner of the decimated
door like a sniffing attack dog.
On
his back, covered in debris, he fired—BLAM!BLAM!
The
submachine gun tore free of the grip of the thief and landed spinning down the
hall.
The
woman screamed.
He
jumped to his feet. Instead of waiting, he bullrushed through the doorway,
weapon leading the way at the end of a statue-stiff arm.
The
thief who tried riddling him with holes jumped him.
They
crashed yelling into a large desk. The woman was gawking at him from the
corner: another thief had a knife at her neck and a black-gloved hand over her
mouth.
The
thief riding his back punched his kidney.
"You—just—can't—leave—well—enough—alone—can—ya—Trevor!"
Trevor
pushed back against him. The thief grabbed his hair, bowing his back, the other
over his gun hand, smashing it into the desk.
"Get the piece! Get it!"
Trevor
stomped as hard as he could on the man's right foot just as the driver wrenched
his pistol from him. The assailant stepped backward to avoid another stomp,
which was exactly what he wanted. He wrapped his arm about the man's neck and
threw him over his shoulder just as the driver fired. The bullets bit into the
back of Trevor's assailant, killing him instantly. Trevor used the dead man as
a shield, his arm wrapped about his neck, as the driver continued firing, the
bullets powering into the dead man's body with staccato sprays of blood. Trevor
could feel the bullets’ shocks against his stomach. But now the clip was empty.
"We'll kill her!" shrieked the driver, jerking the now-useless
weapon in the direction of the woman. "I swear to God we'll cut her
throat! We'll—"
That
was all he got out. Trevor chucked the stiletto he'd pulled out of his boot
with his free hand. The blade spun with a hiss and sank into the man's sternum.
He gurgled and fell limply atop the desk, staring lifelessly at the black handle
as the woman bit into the hand of the thief behind her. He roared and released
her a split second before she drove a sharp elbow into his rib cage. She tore
herself out of his reach as Trevor got to him, grabbing the slimeball by the throat
and heaving him into a corner.
"Don't ... don't kill me,
Trevor ... don’t!" he
coughed. He didn’t look at him; he was goggling over his shoulder at his dead
friends.
"Two
seconds," growled Trevor. "Where is it? Answer me! One ..."
"In
... in his pocket—his pocket, his pocket!"
the thief squeaked, his face turning blue. He pointed at his dead comrade.
"Well,
then ..." said Trevor releasing him. "I guess that means you're
under—"
He
unleashed an elbow into his face. The thief crumpled to the floor.
“—arrest.”
The
sirens were closer. His fellow badges would be here in just a minute. He dug
into the pocket of the leather jacket of the dead thief, from which he
extracted an enormous diamond wrapped in tissue paper.
The
woman gawked, half in fear and half in open-mouthed admiration.
Holding
the rock in his upraised fist, he took a bow.
"Josh Trevor, ma'am, at your service ..."Chapter Two
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