Page 130 of Two Kinds of Stranger

‘Fine, he’s turning onto Avenue A.’

‘How far ahead is he?’

‘Two blocks, but not for much longer,’ she said, the engine revving high, the gear changing, then more revs.

If he was headed south with a car on his tail, there was little to no way to shake it unless he was a highly skilled driver. My guess was he was nowhere near as good as Bloch. In that case, he had one chance–get off the island to give himself more options, including the interstate.

‘Don’t get killed,’ I said. ‘Just stay on him. He’s going for the Williamsburg Bridge. I’m going to stay on Second and cut onto Delancey Street, see if I can head him off.’

For once, even at this hour, I had a clear road ahead. Green lights all the way.

I crushed the accelerator into the floor, hit seven thousand revs, then heeled and toed the gear change into fourth and watched the needle on the speedo climb past eighty miles an hour.

At this speed, it didn’t matter what happened to the lights. If they turned red, there was nothing I could do. I pulled round a yellow cab, heard the horn blasting after me and prayed I didn’t run into the NYPD or a truck driver coming out of a side street.

I gripped the wheel, eased off the gas as I shot through the intersection onto Chrystie Street, blew past Sara D. Roosevelt Park and held my breath.

Foot off the gas. Clutch. I dropped into second, slammedthe wheel left and pulled the handbrake. The tires smoked and screamed in the turn as I laid rubber across three lanes and arced onto Delancey Street where I let the brakes go and hit the gas, fighting with the wheel to correct the slide and wrestle the Mustang into a straight line.

‘I’m on Delancey. Where is he?’

‘He’s on Essex, turning into Delancey now. Lake called it in. Police are on the way. They’re going to close the bridge on the Brooklyn side.’

Up ahead, maybe a block and a half away, I saw a black Toyota Camry fire straight across the intersection, its tail flicking out, catching another vehicle. The horns blared, but the bump helped the Camry bounce back on course.

I chanced a glance down Essex Street, saw Bloch’s Jeep easing out of the intersection. She fell in behind me.

Now there were two of us bearing down on the Camry.

And gaining.

The Camry’s brake lights flashed red, then it pulled out and overtook a camper van.

Sparks flew from the exhaust as it hit the slipway for the bridge and began to climb.

‘At this speed, he’ll be across the bridge in under a minute,’ I said. ‘Those cops better close it.’

‘They’re almost there,’ said Lake.

We climbed, and I followed the Camry, weaving through the light traffic as we rose above the city. Soon we would be over the East River.

This guy was incredibly smart. That’s what made him predictable. One way or another, this would all be over once we made the other side of the bri—

Jesus!

He was stopping.

I stood on the brakes.

The Mustang fishtailed, angled toward the concrete barrier separating me from a hundred-foot drop into the river. I fought the slide with the wheel, then pulled the handbrake.

The Camry, instead of speeding to get over the bridge before it could be closed, had pulled up in a cloud of tire smoke and angled his car to block both lanes of the bridge. The Mustang came to a stop just a few feet from the Camry. Then the driver’s door opened and a man, dressed in black, dived out onto the ground.

I unhooked my seatbelt, threw myself on the passenger seat just as the man’s head came up again over the hood of the Camry, a pistol in his hand. I heard three shots, two through the windshield and the third blew it out, showering me in broken glass.

More firing. This time I heard the rounds hitting metal, but not my car.

I took a quick peek in my side mirror, saw Lake and Bloch getting out of the Jeep, guns in their hands, using the heavy doors for cover as they fired back.