Judge & Jury - James Patterson [97]
The color in Cavello’s face began to drain. “You’re a federal agent, Pellisante.”
“Actually, not anymore. What do you think of that?”
Cavello sniffed. “Well, waddaya know. I’m impressed, Nicky Smiles.”
In a swift motion, Cavello took the small writing desk by the window and hurled it.
Nick fired. The bullet tore into Cavello’s shoulder.
Nick jumped back as the desk crashed against the wall. Cavello made a leap for the window, hitting it with his clenched fists. He crashed through the glass.
Both Nick and Andie ran to the broken window. They saw Cavello writhing on the ground, three stories below. Then he started to rise. He struggled to his feet, clutching his shoulder. And he began to stagger away.
Chapter 122
I BOUNDED DOWN the stairway at the end of the hall, two steps at a time. Then I remembered Cavello’s other bodyguard. He was still guarding the hotel entrance, and that was a problem.
I came to a stop on the second floor. The elevator was there. I reached in and pushed the button for the lobby, sending it on its way. Then I backtracked and crept along the staircase, following the clanking elevator down.
I waited for the doors to open to the lobby.
The second I heard the elevator rattle to a stop, I stepped out, my pistol drawn.
Cavello’s bodyguard must have heard the commotion upstairs because he had his semiautomatic pistol trained on the opening doors. He heard a noise and spun toward me. I squeezed, popping two rounds into the logo on his mint-green warm-up, blowing him back into the empty elevator car. Then I ran out the front door.
Outside the hotel there was no sign of Cavello.
I took off in the direction of the harbor, back toward the Bar Ideal, where the Range Rovers were parked.
As I turned into the square I saw Cavello. He was limping toward the cars, getting close.
With a glance back, Cavello pulled himself up into the lead Range Rover and started the engine. He jerked it into reverse, did a three-point turn, smashing into a street sign and sending a few onlookers jumping out of the way.
I ran over to my Land Cruiser, which was parked across the square. I pulled out after him. I knew that if he got to his ranch, he was lost to me. At best, there’d be months of red tape and diplomatic protocol, and a lot of explaining about my involvement.
Besides, I hadn’t come down here to see him put on trial a third time.
Cavello gunned the Range Rover through the town streets, careening around tight curves, flying through any stop signs and red lights. I followed a few car lengths behind.
We made it to the east road out of Ushuaia—then he accelerated, going seventy, eighty, in the direction of his ranch. I picked up speed behind him. He passed a slow-moving truck, gunning for the narrow space between it and an oncoming bus, loudly honking its horn. Cavello didn’t move out of the way. The bus driver hit the brakes. Cavello jerked the car back in its lane, missing the bus by inches.
I passed the truck, doing everything I could to keep the Land Cruiser on the narrow, weather-beaten road. The speedometer climbed. We both got up to about 160 kilometers, close to a hundred miles an hour. I could make out the back of Cavello’s head, checking me in the rearview mirror as I closed on him. His Range Rover began swerving. Once or twice I thought it was going to fly off the road.
Suddenly Cavello’s window went down. I saw a semiautomatic.
I slammed on the brakes as bullets ricocheted off the Land Cruiser. I hunched low over the steering wheel.
Up ahead, I spotted a road sign, and a road approaching on the right. DAWSON GLACIER. I hit the gas one more time, making up distance. Then I plowed into Cavello at full speed!
The Range Rover shot forward and spun. This time he couldn’t control it. He hit the brakes, screeching into a hundred-and-eighty-degree spin. I thought he was going to roll over, and hoped he would. The Range Rover somehow righted itself and clung perilously to the shoulder, dust and gravel billowing everywhere.
I pulled forward and slammed my brakes,