Vanishing Point - Marc Cerasini [55]
At least one of the gunmen was inside the building, too.
Clutching the dock, Curtis groped for the door to the next room. He found the doorway, slipped through it — and the butt of a rifle slammed into his guts.
Curtis doubled over, the breath dashed from his lungs. Dimly, through a haze, he saw the dark silhouette in the darker void as the man loomed over him. He raised his dock feebly, and another sharp blow set it flying from his stunned hand.
To avoid a third strike, Curtis rolled onto his side, kicked out with the last of his strength. He heard a satisfying grunt as his booted foot connected with flesh. Curtis kicked again — this time with both legs — and his timing was perfect. His attacker was falling forward, kneecap shattered, when Curtis' boots sunk into his midriff. Helpless, the man was lifted up and thrown backwards by the powerful double-kick. He crashed through the front window, plunged onto the curb of Browne End Road.
Curtis clutched the battered desk and hauled himself to his feet. He heard heavy footsteps behind him. With nowhere else to go, Curtis followed the man through the window. His victim, sprawled on the ground, clutched at Curtis as he tried to limp away. Agent Manning smashed the man's throat with a booted foot, felt bone and cartilage snap under his heel. The groping hands fell away. Stumbling forward, Curtis searched vainly for the dead man's AK-47.
Across the street, at Bix Automotive, men were streaming out of the garage, a few of them armed. Curtis turned and loped down the street, one leg stiffening from the still bleeding wound. He knew running was useless, but he wasn't ready to give up yet. He glanced over his shoulder. Already his pursuers were in the street. In another few seconds, they'd start shooting and it would be over. Only a miracle could save him now.
Amid shouts of surprise, Curtis heard the roar of a high-performance engine, the squeal of tires. The men in the street scattered as the vehicle raced through them, threatening to run down anyone who didn't get out of the way. Then the custom painted cherry red BMW skidded to a halt between Curtis and his pursuers. The passenger side door opened.
"Hurry up, get in," a familiar voice called.
Crouching, Curtis dashed to the car, dived into the seat. The woman reached her arm over him, slammed the door. Still half-sprawled across the front seat, Curtis was slammed backwards by the sudden acceleration. Hand against the dashboard, he pulled himself up. Out the windows, Browne End Road was speeding by. Bix Automotive and the men chasing him shrank in the rear view mirror.
Curtis faced the woman behind the wheel. "Thanks, Stella... I don't know what you were doing here, but you saved my life."
Stella Hawk said nothing, her eyes on the road. Finally she peeked at Curtis through long eyelashes. "You're bleeding on my leather upholstery."
Curtis looked down. Blood seeped from the bullet graze in his leg. He'd also gashed his side on jagged glass when he jumped through the window.
"Sorry," he grunted. "I'll have it cleaned for you."
Curtis stared at the road, orienting himself. "Make the next right," he told the woman. "I need to get back to the Cha-Cha Lounge as soon as possible."
Tires howled again as Stella negotiated the turn without slowing down. Sniffling, she reached a manicured hand into her purse.
"I'm not kidding, Stella," Curtis said, touching his guts gingerly. "You really pulled my ass out of the fire back there."
Curtis blinked in surprise when he saw the thing in her hand. Before he had time to react, Stella Hawk raised the .38 and shot him in the chest.
* * *
7:33:12 p.m. PDT
Babylon Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas
Sherry Palmer returned from her pre-banquet appointment at the Babylon's beauty spa, to find her husband standing alone on the balcony.