Judge & Jury - James Patterson [55]
Cavello pressed down the wig. “Is everyone in place?”
“We had better hope so,” Nordeshenko said, positioning himself behind Cavello in order to conceal his gun. “You’re ready? This is no sure thing.”
“Whatever happens,” Cavello said, “it beats life in prison.”
“Perhaps,” said the Israeli.
The elevator doors opened again at the lobby. A couple of people were waiting to board.
“It’s broken. Take another,” Nordeshenko growled, pushing Cavello past them. Then he and the disguised mobster rushed down the long corridor toward a side entrance onto Worth Street.
Behind them, people had seen the bodies in the elevator. They were screaming. Nordeshenko never looked back. “Hurry! Or we both die here. I’m allergic to prisons.”
It was about forty yards down the corridor to the security station, but it seemed like more as they wove through bystanders, ignoring the shouts behind them. Nordeshenko spotted Reichardt and two of Cavello’s men posing as press at the entrance. He turned up the collar of Cavello’s raincoat and hurried toward them.
Fifteen yards more. That was all.
As they approached, a radio crackled. “Something’s happened!” one of the guards shouted. “Close it down, now!”
Reichardt removed a dark metallic object from under his jacket. Then everything went completely nuts. Shots rang out, automatic gunfire in the courthouse lobby. Two guards went down before they had a chance to get to their guns. The last one, a blond woman, fumbled frantically with her holster as Reichardt slammed her against the marble wall with a burst of automatic fire. She hit the floor dead.
Nordeshenko and Cavello were running as they reached the security station.
They heard a shout. “FBI! Everybody get down!”
Nordeshenko took a look and saw a figure at the end of the corridor, arms extended in shooting position, trying to get a shot off through the crowd. Shit. He pressed Cavello in front of him. A round whizzed past his face, ripping into the chest of one of Cavello’s hoods. Reichardt returned the fire. The noise of the gunfire was deafening. People were screaming and scrambling for their lives.
Nordeshenko shielded Cavello with his own body. It was the job. He pushed through the doors. Outside!
It was chaos all around them. Cops were running toward the entrance to the underground garage down the block. The detonated bomb had worked well. A cloud of dark smoke rose into the sky.
A young cop came up to them, not sure what was going on. “We’re hurt,” Nordeshenko said to him. “Look.” As the cop leaned closer, Nordeshenko stuck the muzzle of the Heckler into his chest and pulled the trigger. With a groan, the policeman sank to the sidewalk.
A black Bronco screeched to the curb in front of them. The back door was flung open, and Nordeshenko, Cavello, and Reichardt dove inside.
Nezzi was at the wheel. Without coming to a complete stop, the Bronco sped away.
A commercial truck pulled out directly behind them, then suddenly stopped in the street, blocking any pursuit.
At the corner the light was green. They shot onto St. James and drove up two blocks, through Chatham Square, then made a right on Catherine, in Chinatown. They made another quick right on Henry, then Nezzi pulled the Bronco into a vacant lot.
Nordeshenko leaped out, still shielding Cavello’s body, and ripped open the sliding door of a blue minivan. He pushed the gangster in. Then he jumped behind the wheel. Reichardt and Nezzi got into a tan Acura parked across the street. The Israeli saluted them.
For the first time, Nordeshenko felt a cautious sense of optimism. No one was following them. No one was shooting either.
The two vehicles pulled away.
A block away, three police cars sped by, lights flashing. They were going in the opposite direction. Nordeshenko let himself smile. One day they would hold a clinic on this escape.
“Are we free?” a