The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [99]
Once he was moving, it was much better—so long as he didn’t lean too far to the left. If he did that, the sudden pain knifing into his back became unbearable.
The elevator on the fifth floor was sitting there. He and Sarah had probably been the last ones to use it that night… The final gunman must have gone down the fire exit stairway, the way they had entered. Stefanovitch took the elevator.
Downstairs, the lobby was rapidly filling with tenants. A wall of blank, terrified faces greeted him.
Stefanovitch pushed his way through the milling, frightened crowd. He was oblivious to everything around him, to the frenzy and commotion. All Stefanovitch cared about was the third gunman.
“Open the front door,” he called ahead to the doorman. I’m not useless in the street, he thought. It was some consolation.
Then Stefanovitch was outside in the hot and humid night air. Finding the gunman suddenly seemed hopeless. He didn’t have to think that way for long.
A running figure dashed from the alleyway, about half the building’s length away. The man didn’t pause to look back; he just sprinted toward Madison Avenue.
Stefanovitch immediately began to follow him up East Sixty-sixth Street. Was it the Grave Dancer?
As he reached the corner of Madison, Stefanovitch could see that the other man was limping. He was wounded, too.
Stefanovitch turned onto Madison, heading south after the gunman, steadily picking up speed. The wheelchair jumped a low curb at the corner.
Then he was out in the street, right out on Madison Avenue.
The street was flat and its surface was a lot faster for the wheelchair. He would be able to sprint—truly to race.
He hadn’t counted on a flurry of traffic at a little past three
A.M. The New York bar scene began to close down at three. Traffic had obviously picked up since then. A burst of yellow cabs and other vehicles was barreling up Madison, coming almost directly at him.
The drivers of the automobiles saw a man in a wheelchair riding the wrong way against traffic—a crazy-looking man in a wheelchair, wearing a bathrobe. A hospital escapee? Even in New York, the sight was completely unexpected.
It instantly got worse.
Stefanovitch pulled the .22 revolver from the folds of his bathrobe. He began firing down Madison.
Stroke the chair, he remembered, not knowing if he had any real hope of closing the distance between himself and the hit man.
Traffic began to swerve wildly in order to avoid him. Taxis and other cars angled sharply out of the inside lane, their angry, blaring horns underscoring the danger he was causing.
Was it Alexandre St.-Germain up ahead? There was no way Stefanovitch could tell. He had to close the gap. He tried to remember everything he’d learned about racing in the Chair.
Stefanovitch found that he was gaining ground as his head rose for another quick look at the running man. His chest was on fire, but he was gaining. Inches, but something. His body was tingling all over. He could feel wetness underneath him, and he knew it was his own blood, pumping out with each heartbeat.
Stroke! he repeated to himself.
Stroke!
Watch nothing except the lead racer.
Nothing else exists.
The gunman had stopped. He was turning back, standing less than thirty yards away. The gunman was leveling his gun at Stefanovitch—who was wildly caroming into better range.
Stefanovitch recognized his potential murderer. He knew the man… Chaos… madness filled his head.
John Stefanovitch swung up his revolver, losing control of the wheelchair as he did. The lesser of two evils, he thought in a flash. Maybe.
He fired before the other man. He didn’t see anything after that, because he was heading directly into the side door of a swerving yellow cab. The taxi was only inches from his face.
He caromed hard off the cab door, and was instantly hit by a speeding, low-slung red sports car.
Horns were screaming everywhere on Madison. A startled, angry swarm was all around