The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [103]
Naomi didn’t hear it. The world was muffled—her vision narrowed—like sitting in the bottom of a well and looking up, up, up. Wow. Two biplanes. Lucas would like those.
And then . . .
Ow.
On the back of her shoulder. A mosquito bite.
No, not a mosquito bite. It was burning.
“—omi! Nomi, you okay!?” a frantic voice screamed in her ear.
“S-Scotty? Where—? Why’re you yelling at me?”
“I heard a gunshot! You okay!?”
“I’m fine,” she stuttered, trying to raise her head and finally seeing the puddle below her. “I got— Is that my blood?”
“I think you were shot. Don’t move, Nomi! I think Ellis shot you.”
“I broke his nose,” she said as the pain in her shoulder sent an electrical fire down her arm. “He pulled— He had another gun. A real one.”
“Don’t move! Ambulance is on the way.”
“No, that’s not . . . aaahh . . . he shot me!” she said, gripping her shoulder as tears of pain flooded her eyes. The wound was wet and mushy, pulsing with its own beat. “That’s two hospital visits in twelve hours. How cliché,” she added, her voice wilting. “I—I broke his nose.”
“Nomi, don’t pass out on me.”
She shook her head wildly, refusing to fade. “He’s still . . . Ellis is up the hallway . . . and Cal . . . if he heard the gunshot . . . Cal’s going for his car. The LoJack. Check his car.”
“Already did,” Scotty promised. “He’s still there.”
“Look again,” Naomi grunted, lying on her back and using her heel to shove herself across the floor. A wide streak of blood trailed along from the puddle. But at the wall, she fought hard to sit up straight. Straight. Better to get her head up. And to get a look through the glass doors.
Outside, across the street, Cal’s white rental car flew from the mouth of the parking garage, its tires screaming as it fishtailed to the right and disappeared up the block.
“Knew he’d go for his car,” Naomi whispered, gritting her teeth and fighting to keep her head up.
“Nomi, Cal’s moving! They’re definitely moving!”
“G-Good,” she muttered. “Call in state, federal . . . tell ’em you want helicopters, fighter jets . . . bring damn tanks if they have them. Then call my son. Tell him I’ll be okay.”
69
Cal’s white rental car was moving quickly—not too quickly, no reason to stand out—as it dashed down the final empty stretches of Martin Luther King Jr. Drive and headed toward the entrance ramp for I-90 that was up ahead.
Thankfully, there still weren’t any nearby sirens or much traffic. In fact, as the car blew past the empty bus stops in the Siegels’ old neighborhood, it became abundantly clear that it was one of the only cars on the street.
It wasn’t hard to figure out why.
“This is not good.”
Already racing up the on-ramp, the white Pontiac followed the corkscrew and climbed toward the interstate . . .
. . . where a barricade of half a dozen police cars, motorcycles, and unmarked federal vehicles were blocking the way and at least a dozen state troopers and other agents were ducked down with their guns drawn.
“Freeze or we will shoot you!” one of them barked through a megaphone.
The rental car screeched to a stop just as a silver-and-blue police helicopter rose straight up, appearing from nowhere.
“Out of the vehicle! You’re under arrest!” a speaker in the helicopter blasted from the sky as the ground agents swarmed the rental car, guns still drawn. Within seconds, they tore open all four doors, searching for Cal and his father.
But the only person inside was the light-skinned black woman sitting behind the steering wheel.
“I’m sorry. I give up,” Serena said as she held up her hands in surrender.
“Out!” yelled one of the state troopers, yanking her from the car.
“Whattya mean, they’re gone?” a female voice squawked through a nearby walkie-talkie. “Christ on a crutch, don’t you see what he—? Get someone back to that parking garage! Now!”
“Is that Naomi? Is she okay?” Serena asked, meaning every word.
“Let me be honest with you,” the state trooper said as he clamped handcuffs around Serena’s wrists. “You’ve got far bigger things you need to be worrying about.”
70
It was easy for us to swipe