Текст книги "Among thieves"

Автор книги: John Clarkson

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

*   *   *

Seconds can seem like an eternity when people are shooting at you. But it hadn’t taken Demarco Jones more than ten seconds to make his move. He’d been concealed behind a patch of overgrown bushes and scrubby trees that ran along the fence of the empty industrial lot opposite Beck’s building.

He’d waited patiently for Kolenka’s men to start shooting at Manny. Then he rolled out onto the sidewalk, crouched low, and moved quickly toward the shooters from behind, fluidly, effortlessly, unheard against the gunfire.

In his left hand he carried a Spyderco Warrior combat knife, in his right hand a crude fifteen-inch galvanized iron pipe with the bottom taped for a secure grip. A beautifully designed and expertly honed cutting tool in one hand. A crude bludgeon in the other.

Demarco moved like a wraith behind the five men shooting at Manny. They never saw or heard him. Even if they had, there wasn’t much they could have done about it.

Demarco’s first slash severed the thick hamstrings on the legs of the two men leaning over the SUV’s hood. One fast hard slash cut through the muscles and tendons of four legs. Both men screamed, reached backward toward the searing pain, turning toward the iron pipe that smashed into their heads with two fast hits. Both were down in just under three seconds.

The third shooter, leaning over the roof of the SUV, turned toward Demarco as the pipe crunched into the middle of his forehead, splitting the skin, breaking his nose, and knocking him unconscious. The combat knife’s blade swept down and sliced through the arm that held his gun, cutting through muscle and tendon, all the way into the hard humerus bone just above the elbow.

The fourth shooter holding the rifle turned it toward Demarco, but way too late. Demarco was already too close to him, the barrel of the rifle pointing past him. Demarco punched the iron pipe into his stomach and slashed the rifle out of his hands.

The last shooter crouched behind the back end of the SUV had been shooting with his left hand. He had to spin all the way around to get a shot at whoever was attacking them from his right.

Demarco wasn’t even breathing hard. He spun toward the last man, his back now against the SUV. He was so calm, so fast, that he actually had to wait a beat for the man to finish turning toward him, and then Demarco slashed his blade down on the man’s gun hand, cutting all the tendons running along the wrist to the thumb. Followed by a fast uppercut with the galvanized pipe that shattered the man’s left mandible, knocking him unconscious. He fell in a heap, his gun hand useless.

The gunfire had stopped almost as suddenly as it had started.

Manny Guzman smiled.

He stood up, holding the Mason jar filled with homemade napalm, the soaked piece of dish towel burning and smoking.

He stepped out from behind the light pole and stepped toward the SUV, taking no chance that he would be throwing it from too far away. But Manny had forgotten about the driver. He had apparently followed orders by staying in the SUV, but now that he saw Manny approaching with a flaming bomb of some sort, he jumped out onto the street, gun in his hand.

He took aim. Manny overhanded the jar like a major league pitcher. The driver fired. Manny threw. Bullet versus firebomb.

The momentum of Manny’s throw pulled him down low. The bullet missed his chest, but caught him on the top of his right shoulder, gouging out a trail of flesh and blasting through the top tip of his clavicle.

The jar shattered. The homemade napalm splattered into the gasoline. The driver pulled off a panicked second shot, but Demarco Jones had already thrown his iron pipe. It smashed into the driver’s back. The shot went wide. A soft whump sounded and everything burst into a roaring black inferno of flames.

*   *   *

Stepanovich’s men were caught between two impulses.

Shoot back at whoever had shot up their SUV. Or, keep running through the lot to get into position behind Beck’s building to intercept anybody fleeing the flames clearly visible on Conover Street.

Stepanovich stood near the middle of the lot, about twenty yards back from Beck’s building, yelling orders.

Beck moved closer to the gate now, to keep his eye on what Stepanovich and his men were doing.

His original plan had depended on the cops being in the neighborhood by now, responding to gunshots, while Manny, Ciro, Demarco, and Joey got the hell out of the area.

He looked across the street to make sure that the Porsche was moving. It was. Ciro and Joey B were driving out of the lot to swing around to get Manny, who should be running as fast as his old legs would carry him into the empty industrial lot opposite Beck’s building where Ciro and Joey would pick him up.

Demarco was supposed to head quickly in the opposite direction and get the Mercury which was parked over on Beard Street, meet Beck, and drive out of the neighborhood.

But there were no cops swooping in and taking out whatever was left of the Russians on Conover and the Bosnians in the empty lot.

He checked again after the Porsche. It was out of sight. Good. Manny, Ciro, and Joey would be safe. Beck wasn’t worried about Demarco. He was probably already climbing into the Mercury on Beard Street.

Beck could have turned around and hustled over to Van Brunt, where Demarco would find him, but no. No way. Not now. Not with these bastards and that bald maniac alive and able to come after them.

He went through a quick calculation. His men were safe. He had all the weapons he could carry. His Browning was registered. The Benelli legal. He could hear Phineas making the argument that his client had been forced out of his home, only to be ambushed, whereupon he had no alternative but to fight to save his life.

Beck smiled in the dark red glow that pulsed on the other side of his building. It would end here and now, one way or the other.

68

Beck kept moving toward the disabled Suburban blocking the entrance to the empty lot, watching Stepanovich and the others as best he could. They were midway in the dark empty lot, having spread out behind his building.

He saw Stepanovich pointing and ordering two of his men to go back to the Suburban and see who had shot the SUV to pieces. That left six, plus Stepanovich out in the lot.

Beck watched the two come running back toward him. He slipped forward, staying low and squeezed between the SUV and the open fence gate.

He carried the shotgun in his right hand, and moved toward the rear of the SUV. If he could take out these two, that would cut his enemies to seven, but he had to do it silently or he’d lose any advantage surprise might provide.

Beck stayed where he was, watching the two men slow down and approach him across the empty lot. As they came near, they split apart so they’d approach on either side of the SUV. Beck cursed. Now he would certainly have to shoot them.

They walked bent over, wary of becoming targets for whoever had shot up their SUV.

Beck knew he could get the one advancing toward him on his side, but it would be tough taking out the second one.

Suddenly, the first of Stepanovich’s men loomed out of the darkness only about three feet from where Beck crouched, his attention focused across the street trying to spot who’d shot up the SUV. He never saw the butt of the Benelli which rammed straight up into the underside of his chin. Both sides of his jaw shattered, three teeth cracked, and his head snapped back so fast that his top two vertebrae ruptured.

The sound attracted the second attacker. He spun toward Beck, aiming an assault rifle at him.

Beck saw the weapon out of his peripheral vision. No way he could flip the Benelli around and get off a shot. Maybe he could fire wild, make the shooter duck or flinch, and hit him with the second shot.

He tried to turn the Benelli so he could get a finger on the trigger. Too long, too long, the assault rifle pointed right at him, he was going to die.

And then out of nowhere the solid form of Ciro Baldassare flew between the SUV and the small opening in the gate.

The man aiming the rifle at Beck heard Ciro. He turned toward the sound as Ciro’s huge right fist smashed into his face, splattering his nose and cracking his right eye socket.

Ciro hit him so hard, the man’s head snapped back with such force, that Beck thought Ciro might have broken the man’s neck.

Jeezus, thought Beck. Ciro. Ciro saved my life.

Ciro stomped the side of the shooter’s head for good measure, ripped the rifle out of his inert hands, turned to Beck, and asked, “How many left?”

“Six, plus the leader. Stepanovich.”

Just then, sirens could be heard in the distance. Beck listened, but couldn’t tell if they were police or firemen.

“Ciro, what the fuck, man. What are you doing? You have to get out of here.”

“Saving your ass. Don’t worry, I dumped all my guns with Joey. He and Manny are getting rid of everything like we planned. I’ll meet ’em over by the warehouses.”

Beck and Ciro heard yelling out in the lot. Nobody had come out from Beck’s building, and now the sirens were getting louder. They seemed to be coming from every direction, both the high-pitched wail of fire trucks, and the deeper pitched sirens of police cars.

There was more yelling and movement out in the darkness in front of them. Ciro and Beck saw the shapes of men running toward them, trying to get out of the lot before the cops arrived.

Ciro laid the rifle on the ground near him and yelled at Beck, “Gimme the fucking shotgun. I’ll take these guys. Go after the leader.”

Beck tossed the Benelli to Ciro and yelled, “Don’t kill them unless you have to. Keep them pinned down for the cops, then dump the weapons, and get the hell out of here!”

Beck took off after Stepanovich.

Ciro went down on one knee and started blasting shots at the men running toward the gate. Then he picked up the rifle and started shooting with that.

He aimed shots high and low, alternating between the shogun and the rifle, moving right and left from behind the Suburban, varying the angles, trying to give the impression that more than one person was firing.

The Bosnians dropped to the ground, trapped in the open. They began to return fire, even though they had little idea where to shoot.

Wailing fire trucks began arriving over on Conover. The police sirens were closing in fast on the Reed Street side.

Beck angled toward the south side of the lot so he wouldn’t be seen and ran toward the middle of the field, trying to get behind Stepanovich, who was now running full blast, away from the sirens, heading toward the fence at the other end of the lot.

Beck ran parallel to him, about fifteen yards to Stepanovich’s right, but far enough behind so that Stepanovich didn’t yet know he was being chased.

The shotgun blasts from behind ended. Beck figured Ciro had emptied the Benelli. He hoped he wouldn’t stay to empty the rifle. Get out now, Ciro, thought Beck. If you get caught by the police, everything goes to shit.

Beck closed some of the distance between him and Stepanovich, but he was still ten yards behind him.

Police cars were converging on Reed Street.

Stepanovich turned to see the first police car slide to a stop, lights flashing. Then two more. And a third. He had a Mac-10 machine pistol in his right hand. He stopped and threw it as far away as he could.

Beck closed the distance between them by a couple of yards, but Stepanovich was still out ahead of him. Beck’s only hope was that the fence on Beard would slow him down.

Stepanovich ran full speed toward the fence.

Beck knew Stepanovich’s goal. Get out onto the street, unarmed, and try to walk out of the neighborhood. No way. No fucking way.

He heard a garbled voice yelling commands through a police loudspeaker. All of the remaining six men began firing. A fusillade of bullets erupted from the cops. More police cars arrived, screeching to a halt, adding to the forces.

Beck ignored everything and kept running.

Stepanovich approached the fence at a full run, jumped, and grabbed on nearly halfway up. He quickly climbed up until his waist was level with the top of the fence. A single spiral of razor wire was all that prevented him from going over. He leaned his right arm and shoulder between two loops of razor wire, pushing them out of his way.

Beck closed in on him fast.

Stepanovich leaned sideways, his winter coat protected him enough so that he managed to get one leg over the fence.

Beck ran furiously to catch Stepanovich before he made it over.

Stepanovich finally heard Beck’s footsteps. He turned to look behind him.

A full-scale gun battle raged on Reed Street between the Bosnians and the cops.

Beck leaped at the fence, lunging for Stepanovich’s leg still on his side.

Stepanovich lifted his right foot away from Beck and kicked downward, stomping into Beck’s left shoulder. He dropped to the ground. Stepanovich made it over the fence.

Stepanovich hit the sidewalk on Beard Street. Beck leapt onto the fence, scrambled up and jackknifed over, ignoring the razor wire, depending on his leather coat to protect him. He made it to the other side, ready to drop down when Stepanovich ripped a vicious punch into Beck’s kidney. The searing pain made him lose his grip on the fence. He fell to his knees, smashing them into the hard pavement.

Stepanovich immediately tried to kick Beck in the face, but Beck grabbed Stepanovich’s right leg with both arms. He stood and lifted the leg out from under the Bosnian. Stepanovich went down hard on the sidewalk, but ripped his leg free and tried to kick Beck, who backed away still grimacing from the pain in his right kidney. Beck rolled his left shoulder, swinging his arm, trying to dispel the effect of Stepanovich’s kick.

Stepanovich spun around on the ground and kicked Beck’s right leg out from under him. Beck went down sideways, but he was up quickly. Stepanovich made it to his feet, too.

Beck gave a quick glance over to Reed Street. The street was filled with flashing blue and red lights. The gunfire continued, but it was starting to wane. It seemed like more fire engines were pulling onto Conover. So far, Beard Street was clear. All the cops had converged on the gunfight, but Beck knew the entire area would be sealed off soon.

Stepanovich backpedaled away from the fence so that the police on Reed Street wouldn’t see him. Beck followed, knowing only one of them was going to leave this street alive.

Stepanovich bared his teeth at Beck, and spit at him. Rolling his head. Flexing his long, powerful arms, ready to do battle.

Beck bent his knees trying to dispel the pain from landing on the sidewalk. He rotated his left arm. It was still numb. Stepanovich’s kick must have hit the brachial nerve bundle. Feeling was coming back, but maybe too late.

Suddenly, Stepanovich jumped toward Beck, reaching for his head with both hands to pull him in close.

Beck ducked under Stepanovich’s arms and twisted two right hooks into his ribs. The Bosnian mostly blocked them with his elbow, and grabbed the back of Beck’s head, pushing down hard as he lifted a knee into Beck’s face.

Beck barely managed to block Stepanovich’s knee with crossed forearms, but the force of it drove Beck’s arms up into his face. Stepanovich tried to knee Beck in the face again. Beck countered by grabbing Stepanovich’s thigh and tried to twist the taller man down onto the ground.

Stepanovich pushed Beck away and pulled his leg free. Beck lunged forward and punched Stepanovich hard in the side of his neck. He kept coming forward, banged his forehead into Stepanovich’s broken nose, and hooked punch after punch into Stepanovich’s face before Stepanovich landed a desperate blow into the side of Beck’s head, knocking Beck four feet back.

For a moment, everything went black. Beck instinctively ducked and covered up with his forearms. Another punch landed on the other side of his head. Beck twisted a blind left hook into where he figured Stepanovich’s ribs might be. The punch landed solidly. He heard Stepanovich grunt in pain. Instantly, Beck hit again, with all the force he could muster. And again. He felt a sharp pain as the impact against Stepanovich’s ribs crunched his knuckles and bent his wrist. He accepted the pain, knowing he had done major damage.

Stepanovich twisted an elbow at Beck’s head that would have knocked him out if it landed, but Beck just managed to duck under most of the strike, feeling Stepanovich’s elbow skip off the side of his head.

Beck straightened up and backpedaled. He felt the sickening nausea from Stepanovich’s roundhouse punch, but he shook his head, breathed deep, managing to dispel the dizziness.

Beck knew he had cracked Stepanovich’s ribs. He knew that he’d further damaged Stepanovich’s already broken nose. He circled away from Stepanovich, taking more deep breaths, blinking, sucking in the cold night air, getting his focus back, estimating how badly Stepanovich was hurting.

A nose further smashed. Broken ribs. Press him now, Beck thought. Make sure he can’t breathe. Smash him. Finish him off. Get inside where the man’s longer reach and advantage in size and strength wouldn’t help.

Beck tried to move in for the kill, but he felt like he was moving through molasses. His legs weren’t working. His focus was still hazy.

And then Stepanovich pulled the knife.

The sight of it sent a cold, sickening chill flaring in Beck’s chest and stomach.

Beck backed away quickly. Shit. The thing Beck hated most. He would rather face a bullet. He’d seen too many men stabbed and slashed in prison. Memories of horrific wounds, limbs made useless because of sliced tendons flashed through his mind.

Stepanovich took a quick swipe at Beck’s face, trying to take out his eyes. Beck leaned away from the blade and stepped back farther.

Over on Reed Street, the gunfire had ceased. Beck heard muffled commands sounding through a police loudspeaker telling whoever was in the lot to come out with their hands on their heads. He hoped there wasn’t anybody alive to obey the order.

Stepanovich gathered himself, his blade ready, closing in.

Beck continued circling away from Stepanovich, moving out into the empty street as he pulled his own knife out of the sheath on his ankle.

Stepanovich paused to check out Beck’s blade. He smiled. It didn’t seem to matter to him. He knew he had a much longer reach, and in a knife fight, that was all it took.

Beck knew it, too. For a moment he thought about just pulling out his Browning and shooting Stepanovich, but that would certainly bring the cops flooding into Beard Street. Demarco was parked at the end of the block. Shooting now would trap him, too. There was only one way he could do this. And it meant overcoming the overwhelming, instinctive urge to get away from that blade.

Stepanovich slowly weaved as he carefully edged closer. Beck circled to his left, away from Stepanovich’s right hand. Stepanovich looked like he had done this many times.

Beck held his knife low, at the level of his thigh. He crouched over, his left arm out in front to block Stepanovich’s knife if he could. He pictured blocking and immediately punching roundhouse stabs into Stepanovich’s ribs, kidney, and liver.

But Stepanovich didn’t move closer. He stood upright, slashing back and forth, without much speed, testing Beck’s reaction. Beck stood his ground. Stepanovich feinted a stab, then a slash. Relaxed. Almost lazy.

Beck knew it would be coming now. The kill move. He stayed low. Blocking arm ready. And then as if powered by an electric jolt, Stepanovich leaped at Beck with shocking speed, his right hand coming down at him with a long, looping overhand stab.

It was a move intent on burying the full length of his knife into the crook between Beck’s neck and shoulder.

Beck saw the knife coming down at him. But instead of reflexively turning away from the blow, or stepping back, he did the opposite. He moved straight into the oncoming blade’s downward path, completely surprising Stepanovich, who tried to change the angle of his downward stab. But Beck had gotten too close. The blade came down, just past Beck’s left shoulder, slicing through Beck’s coat, cutting into his upper back.

Stepanovich let his momentum carry him forward, turning away, but Beck spun right with him, turning clockwise, almost as if he were attached to Stepanovich, flipping his knife into an ice pick grip, and stabbing the point of his blade into the left side of Stepanovich’s neck, quickly, precisely, and without hesitation.

The knife punched through the carotid artery. Beck spun away from Stepanovich’s counterthrust like a matador avoiding the horns of a bull.

They ended up five feet from each other. Both still standing. Both bleeding. But only one dying. Stepanovich stood stunned, grabbing at his neck, trying to staunch the massive spurts of arterial blood his racing heart pumped out onto the dark Red Hook street. There was very little pain. Just the paralyzing terror of knowing he was going to die.

Beck backed away from the spurting blood.

Stepanovich wobbled. He swiped his blade at Beck in a desperate, hateful attempt to hurt one last time. Beck stood fast, staring into Stepanovich’s eyes, watching until they glazed over and his enemy slowly folded to his knees, and then fell over onto his side, eyes open, his life draining away.

Beck ignored his own warm blood seeping into his coat. He knew the slice in his back was long, but not deep. There were no arteries or veins back there that could have been severed. He hoped Stepanovich’s knife hadn’t cut through too much muscle. He rolled his shoulder. It was all right. It hurt, but he could move his arm without too much trouble.

He stepped around Stepanovich’s body, watching the last slow pulses of blood turning the remnants of snow and ice on the street into black slush.

Beck began shivering. He crouched down to fight a wave of nausea that hit him. Get to the car, he told himself. Have to get out of the neighborhood. Can’t be caught on the street with this corpse. But he knew he wasn’t done yet.

All right, he told himself, you have to do this. He looked at the corpse of Stepanovich. Concentrated. He had a chance to make the death look like an accident.

Stepanovich had fallen fairly close to the fence.

Beck walked hunched over, and grabbed Stepanovich’s right foot. He pivoted the body around so the feet faced the fence and dragged the body just a foot or so closer, estimating where Stepanovich would have landed if he had fallen back off the fence, and how far he might have staggered back. The blood everywhere could make sense, because it would have taken some time to collapse and bleed out.

He positioned the body. Looked at the fence one more time. Close enough.

Beck quickly made his way to the far end of the fence.

The cops now had spotlights glaring into the lot at the Reed Street end, illuminating everything for about twenty yards out into the field, but leaving the Beard Street end well in the dark.

At that end of the lot, it looked like one of Stepanovich’s men had surrendered. Beck could see him laid across the hood of a police car. Hopefully, that would keep their attention off what he was about to do.

Beck climbed up at the far corner where the razor wire ended. He managed to pull a bit of wire free, and used the serrated edge on the top of his knife blade to bend and rip off a piece with a razor edge attached to it.

He dropped off the fence. The impact sent pain through his bruised knees and body. The cold was making his hands numb. He was already stiffening up from the blows Stepanovich had landed. He crouched low and quickly made his way to the body. He didn’t have much time.

He went down on one knee and bent over to examine the wound in Stepanovich’s neck. His knife hadn’t gone in too deep. He took the razor wire, tried to picture the angle. There were rips on the right side of Stepanovich’s coat from the razor wire. Beck’s knife had punctured the left side of his neck. Beck imagined the tall man at the top of the fence, trying to push the razor wire away, stepping over the top of the fence, which would turn his left side toward the wire that had cut the right side of his coat. Beck pictured him falling sideways and backward, catching the left side of his neck on the razor wire.

Beck placed the sharp edge of the barb in the wound and carefully pulled the edge through the flesh.

He then laid two fingers in Stepanovich’s blood, again painfully climbed the fence just high enough to dab blood on the razor wire to make it look like it had cut the dead Bosnian.

Done.

A searchlight from the police cars over on Reed flashed across his end of the lot.

Beck dropped down from the fence and crawled out of sight. Crawling was about all he could do.

Black smoke rose over the buildings on Conover. Flashing lights illuminated the area. Two more cop cars raced past up on Van Brunt.

Beck told himself, Got to get the fuck out of here, now.

He pocketed the piece of razor wire he’d used to cut Stepanovich, stood up, but the quick move made him suddenly dizzy. He had to go back down on one knee. He felt exhausted, enveloped by pain now, stiff and weak.

He cursed, forced himself to stand again, determined to make it down the block to where the Mercury was parked. And then he saw the black car, backing up toward him, all the lights off, coming for him like a dark ghost vehicle in the night.