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Justine got out to find smoke billowing from the Nissan’s engine, which had been exposed after the hood crumpled on impact. The front bumper had become part of the Chevrolet. She hurried to the driver’s window of the other vehicle and saw the cab was empty and the passenger door open. Angel was twenty yards away fleeing toward Grand Avenue, a busy road that connected the residential neighborhood with the Long Island Expressway. He had a pistol in his hand.
Justine was about to set off after him when she heard a voice yell, “Help me!”
She ran to the rear doors and flung them open to discover Alison Lucas lying on the flatbed. She’d been bound but had managed to work her gag loose.
“Alison!” Justine had met Rafael’s wife at a couple of corporate events. “Thank God you’re okay.”
“Justine?”
She glanced round to see Sci and Mo-bot emerging from the Nissan. Sci looked the least dazed.
“We found Alison. Keep her safe. I’m going after Angel,” said Justine.
Sci grimaced as he nodded.
Justine glanced west to see Angel run around the corner. She set off after him at a sprint.
CHAPTER 53
JACK HAD WARNED them not to engage Angel, but adrenaline flooded Justine’s system and she didn’t stop to think about whether it was wise to be chasing such a dangerous man alone.
She sprinted to the corner, grateful she limited high heels to evening dinners and cocktail parties. Her trainers slammed the sidewalk as her legs pounded out a rapid beat. She reached Grand Avenue, a broad street flanked by a run of local stores, most of which weren’t open yet. Their parking lots were largely empty and Justine saw Angel running across the nearest one toward the road, where a steady stream of commuter traffic was building.
He glanced over his shoulder and fired a couple of wild shots at her in an attempt to discourage her and slow her down.
They had the opposite effect and spurred her on. That this man could be so casual about inflicting death, that he could socallously maim and kill her colleagues, that he could try to bomb them all … these things disgusted her, and she felt her anger mount when she thought about everything he had done.
Angel reached a line of traffic waiting at the intersection with Flushing Avenue. He ran toward the lights and opened the driver’s door of the vehicle at the very front. He brandished the pistol as he pulled a startled man from the driver’s seat. Angel gave Justine a taunting look over his shoulder, jumped in, slammed the door shut, and sped away.
Deflated, she slowed to a halt, put her hands on her hips and drew in deep breaths of air. She had let him get away and a sense of failure hit her hard. Then she heard the roar of an engine and the screech of tires approaching. She turned to see Salazar’s Dodge Charger shudder to a halt. He leant across the cabin and opened the passenger door.
“Get in! We can still catch him.”
Justine jumped in the passenger seat and Salazar stepped on the gas. “I couldn’t authorize another deployment,” he said. “But that doesn’t stop me taking a cruise back this way.”
He reached for his radio as the Charger shot forward.
“Dispatch, this is Salazar. I’m in pursuit of a black BMW 325, license plate 2240 PMA, heading south-west on Flushing Avenue. Request immediate back-up and a two-mile perimeter with intercepts.”
He reached under his dash for the cherry, lowered his window and stuck it to his roof. With the light flashing, he set his siren going and shot head-first into oncoming traffic, which swerved to avoid him.
The radio came alive with instructions from the dispatcher as further police vehicles were deployed in the area.
“I figured it was unlikely you guys would be wrong twice in one day,” Salazar said, without taking his eyes off the road.
Justine put her hand to the dashboard as though the gesture could ward off the vehicles speeding toward them.
Salazar seemed unfazed by the sanctioned game of chicken and kept his course as traffic veered out of the way. The engine roared and through the open window Justine caught the smell of gasoline, motor oil, and rubber as the detective put his powerful ride through its paces.
They closed the gap between them and Angel, who didn’t have the advantage of lights or sirens, and was fighting slow-moving traffic on the correct side of the road. Justine wasn’t sure he’d seen them, but when they got within fifty yards he left them in little doubt he’d been caught by surprise. The BMW jerked across the median and accelerated suddenly, taking advantage of its path being cleared by the Charger’s sirens. The BMW raced toward the next intersection with 61st Street and Justine saw two patrol vehicles blocking the roads north and south.
Salazar surprised her by suddenly turning right and veering across the road. The Charger mounted the sidewalk and sped toward the intersection, Justine praying they wouldn’t hit anything. Most of the stores were set behind parking lots, but there were a couple of diners that were flush to the sidewalk, and all it would have taken was for one early-morning breakfaster to step out at the wrong time …
She realized she was holding her breath and gasped whenshe saw the reason for Salazar’s seemingly reckless maneuver. One of the uniformed cops blocking the intersection unfurled a Stinger with split-second precision, leaving Angel no time to react.
It didn’t stop him trying. He stepped on the brakes as the BMW rolled over the strip of metal spikes, which punctured all four tires. Angel couldn’t have picked a worse time to have his foot on the brake pedal. The tires burst and the rapid deflation, plus the wire rims hitting the asphalt, sent the vehicle out of his control and into a violent spin. Justine watched the BMW careen across the intersection, whirling like a spinning top, until it came to an abrupt halt when it collided with a lamp post on the corner. The hood crumpled, airbags deployed, and smoke started billowing from the engine.
Salazar parked near the officer who’d deployed the Stinger, jumped out of the car, and ran toward Angel.
