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His heart vibrating from the shock, the snakehead scrabbled backward, his lucky gun up, as he looked for a target. The INS was here? How?
"It's a trap," he raged to Yusuf. "Back to the car!"
Chaos now filled Canal Street. More shouting, passers-by and store clerks diving for cover. Up the block the doors of two white vans opened and men and women in black uniforms, carrying guns, leapt out.
And what was this? The Wus themselves were drawing weapons! The husband pulled a machine pistol from the plastic bag he'd held. The wife was lifting a weapon from her running suit pocket . . . . And then the Ghost realized that they weren't the Wus at all. They were decoys--Chinese-American police officers or agents wearing the Wus' clothing. Somehow the police had found the couple and sent these people back in their place to lure him out of cover. "Drop your weapons!" the man masquerading as Wu shouted.
The Ghost fired five or six shots at random, to keep people down and stoke the panic. He shot out a window in a jewelry store, adding another siren to the tumult of sounds on the street and bolstering the chaos.
The Turk in the driver's seat opened the door and began firing at the white vans. Running, looking for cover and looking for targets, the police scattered on the far side of Canal.
As he crouched beside their four-by-four, the Ghost heard: "Who fired? . . . Backups aren't in position . . . What the fuck happened? . . . Watch the bystanders, for Christ's sake!"
A panicked driver in a car in front of the Wus' apartment started to speed up to get out of the line of fire. The Ghost fired two shots into the front seat. The window glass vanished and the car skidded into a row of parked vehicles with a huge bang.
"Kwan Ang," came an electronic shout from a bullhorn or vehicle loudspeaker, a different voice this time. "This is the FBI. Put down--"
He shut up the agent by firing twice more in his direction and climbed into the Blazer. The Uighurs climbed into the back. "Kashgari! He is inside," Yusuf cried and nodded toward the Wus' apartment, where the third Turk waited.
"He's dead or captured," the Ghost snapped. "Understand? We're not waiting."
Yusuf nodded. But just as the Ghost turned the key and started the engine he noticed a police officer step from a line of cars, motioning bystanders to get back and take cover. He lifted his pistol, aimed toward the front of the four-by-four.
"Get down!" the Ghost cried as the officer fired repeatedly. The three men ducked, expecting the windshield to shatter.
Bu
t instead they heard loud ring after loud ring as the bullets struck the front of the vehicle. Eight or nine of them. Finally there was a huge clanging as fan blades were knocked out of alignment and jammed into other parts of the engine, which gave a huge squeal, steam pouring from the pierced radiator. Finally it went silent.
"Out!" the Ghost ordered, jumping out and firing several shots at the officer to drive him under cover behind a row of cars.
The three men crouched on the sidewalk. For a moment there was a lull. The police and agents were holding their fire, probably waiting for the arrival of the backup officers--more emergency cars, sirens howling, were racing down Canal Street toward them right now.
"Drop your weapons and stand up," the staticky voice called through the loudspeaker again. "Kwan, drop your weapons!"
"We give up?" asked Hajip, his eyes huge with fear.
The Ghost ignored him and wiped his sweating hand on his slacks, then slipped another clip of ammunition into his Model 51. He looked behind him. "This way!" He rose and fired several times toward the officers then ran into the fish market behind them. Several patrons and clerks were cowering behind bins of fish and eels, racks of food, freezer cases. The Ghost and the two Turks ran to the back alleyway, where they found an old man standing beside a delivery truck. Seeing the guns and the masks, the man dropped to his knees and lifted his arms. He began wailing, "Don't harm me! Please! I have a family . . . . " His voice trailed off into sobbing.
"Inside," the Ghost shouted to the Turks. They leapt in the truck. The snakehead looked behind them through the doorway and could see several officers cautiously approaching the store. He turned and fired several shots in their direction. They scattered for cover.
The Ghost then spun back and froze. The old man had grabbed a long filleting knife and had taken a step forward. He stopped and blinked in terror. The Ghost lowered his pistol to the old man's age-spotted forehead. The knife fell to the wet cobblestones at his feet. He closed his eyes.
*
Five minutes later Amelia Sachs arrived at the scene. She ran toward the Wus' apartment, her pistol in her hand.
"What happened?" she called to an officer standing beside a shot-up car. "What the hell happened?"
But the young cop was badly shaken and just glanced at her, numb.
She continued down the street and found Fred Dellray crouched over an officer who'd been shot in the arm, holding an improvised bandage on the man's wound. Medics ran up and took over.
Dellray was furious. "This is bad, Amelia. We were an inch away from him. A half inch."
"Where is he?" she asked, holstering the Glock.
"Stole a delivery van from that fish market 'cross the street. We got ever-body in town with a badge looking for it."
