Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [130]
Begging him to come in my mind.
He flew out of the darkness in a twisting, spinning series of kick–thrusts, a ghost target if I had a knife. I came to my knees, holding the pistol in both hands. He saw the gun, threw himself flat, already tucking his shoulder under to kick upward when the hollow–point slug caught him in the chest, pinning him to the ground.
The noise from the tiny gun was deafening; the dirt bowl we were in made it sound like a cannon. The street noises all seemed to stop at. once. I walked slowly toward Mortay. He was choking on his own blood—the slug must have caught a lung.
I stood over him, legs shaking. His eyes were ice–pick dots under the shelf of bone, holding me the way the slug held him.
"You can't kill me," he whispered. Stone–carved ice. "Death can't die."
"You still want Max?" I asked, cocking the gun.
He launched himself off the ground, the knife edge of his hand extended. I fired twice more, blowing him off his feet.
I heard a siren in the distance. Mortay was on his side. I dropped to my knees next to him. Blood bubbled from his mouth, killing his last words. I pumped two more shots into his chest. His body jumped. I turned him over with my foot. His eyes were open. I fired again, right into the ridge of bone that covered his eyebrows. His eyes wouldn't close.
The sirens were closer. More than one now. I pocketed the gun, pulled the pin from one of the grenades, holding it tightly in my hand. I slammed the metal ball hard into his face, cracking past his teeth, holding it there. With my other hand, I folded his hands so they were on either side of his face.
I let go of the lever and ran toward Ninth Avenue. Passed a white coat, swinging gently from a steel girder. The target Mortay had left while he moved in on me. I was almost to the fence on 50th when I heard the explosion. I hit the fence, sirens screaming to my right. Dropped over the top, feeling the breath burst out of my lungs. I popped the pin on the last grenade, side–armed it back over the fence, crouching in the dark. The sirens shrieked at each other—wolf–pack sounds, telling each other the prey was dangerous. The grenade exploded, buying me a little time.
I ran up 50th, the pistol in my hand, driving my knees up to my chest, trying for a burst of speed that wouldn't come. I crossed Ninth, heading for the river, still blocks away from any of the cars we had stashed. Tires shrieked behind me. Cops? I dropped to one knee, leveling the gun. Back over the line—me or them. Belle's Camaro smoked to a stop.
"Come on, brother!" The Prof.
I ran for the car, diving headfirst into the window. Belle stomped the gas, charging for the river. She shot through red lights, standing on the brakes to make the car squat at Twelfth, nailed it again, power–sliding around the corner. She pulled off at 45th, right behind the black Cadillac the Mole had left for me. I jumped out, scooping up the Prof. His legs were still bolted together in casts, the scattergun steady in his hands. I unlocked the door, threw him in the back.
Blue lights flashed on 45th, couple of blocks away and moving in.
I started the engine. Looked over my shoulder. Where was she? "Belle! Let's go!" I yelled at her.
The Camaro's engine roared an answer as she peeled out. Right up 45th.
The blue lights came closer. A phalanx of squad cars screaming down the block, at least three deep, spread out to block the way. I wheeled the Cadillac across the highway after her. The Camaro's taillights blazed—she was flying at the cop cars. Head on. I heard her little–girl voice, singing hard–edged in my head. Calling to the cops. "Come on!"
The Camaro was a red rocket.
"Hit the brakes! She ain't gonna stop," the Prof yelled.
The Camaro shot right down the middle of the street, going the wrong way. The police car in the lead charged to meet her.
Time stopped. The squad car swerved at the last second. Too late. It fireballed against a row of cars on the left as the Camaro shot past. Gunfire cut through the siren's song, a roadblock of wreckage in