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Bam!
Another female pedestrian is struck and seemingly killed by Mike Patel.Nope, he’s getting away,Freddie thinks.We’re going to lose him.
Mike runs a red light on West just as a bright-red NYFD truck comes barreling down Vesey Street, lights flashing, sirens screaming, horns blaring. The fire truck slams right into the side of the accelerating van.
Bits of metal and glass fly into the air as the van spins in two complete circles and then hits a dark-green utility pole, nearly knocking it over. The fire truck’s sirens wail out as the truck skids, bounces, and then recovers, finally coming to a halt, with smoke rising from its wide tires.
Freddie runs up to the van.
The windshield is gone, and the driver’s door has popped open.
The steering wheel is right into Mike Patel’s chest.
Blood is streaming from his mouth and nose.
He slowly turns his head, looks over at Freddie.
“Help me, please,” he gurgles out.
“Sure, I’ll do that,” Freddie says.
And he takes his illegal Glock 26, puts it against Mike’s forehead, and pulls the trigger.
Chapter117
LIKE THEpro she is, my old friend Lisa Bailey knows not to argue or persuade. Seeing the facts on the ground, she knows there’s only one thing left to do.
We’re maybe a meter or two above the various freight cars and tankers of the southbound train, closing in on the lead diesel electric locomotive, and now Lisa slows the Bell 429’s rate of speed. As we near the train’s center exhaust, the stench of the burning diesel fuel makes me gag. The locomotive is also tossing heat into the air, causing thermal bumps and uplifts, but expert fly girl Lisa keeps her craft straight and level.
In my earphones I hear her copilot, Joe, calling out their altitude, any obstructions, and anything in the distance—like utility wires or pedestrian bridges—that can knock us from the sky.
He says, “Lisa, you got it.”
Lisa says, “Amy, go.”
As I brace myself for the downwash from the overhead rotor, Lisa says, “Put ’em in body bags, Amy. I’ll try to keep them occupied from up here.”
I tear off my earphones, unbuckle my seat belt, push open the door with both hands. And then I jump.
I’ve jumped from Blackhawk helicopters, C-130s, and C-17s, but this is one short and violent fall. No parachute, just an ungraceful drop where I hit and try to roll. But the roof of the locomotive is slippery with water and diesel fuel, so I fall flat on my back. The noise from the diesel engine is deafening, compounded by the roar of Lisa’s twin engines as she flares off and moves ahead of the train.
I reach for my waistband to get my Beretta.
Nothing.
I fumble around in my slacks, poking, prodding, but there’s no comforting touch of gunmetal.
The third line from the Ranger’s creed comes to mind, memorized as I became one of the first group of women to pass Ranger training:
Never shall I fail my comrades.
Well, failure is staring me in my damn face without a weapon. I scurry and feel something against my lower left leg, sit up, reach down, and there it is.
Fallen through my slacks.
I grab the pistol, flatten low again for a moment. Lisa is up ahead, moving up and down, side to side. Off to my left, buildings on the island of Manhattan are coming into view, filled this morning with millions of innocents—my comrades.
The top of the train has a flat, slippery section in the middle, with the left and right sides of the roof sloping down. Right off a narrow catwalk on either side are doors leading into the cab.
