Altar of Bones (14 page)

H
E ROLLED BEHIND
the counter as more bullets slammed into the espresso machine’s big boiler, spewing hot steam down onto his head.

Ry had his gun out, but didn’t dare return fire. He heard the barista and the kid screaming, but couldn’t see them through the billowing steam. He couldn’t see the redhead either, but she suddenly made her presence known again by shooting up the computer he’d been using.

He’d been stupid, almost fatally stupid. He hadn’t thought they would come at him in a public place like this, where innocents could get caught in the cross fire.

She started firing again, pumping bullets into the wooden base of the counter. Ry pushed to his feet, put his arm across his face, and plunged into the scalding spray, through a swinging door, and into the kitchen. More bullets thudded into the door as it swung shut behind him—but from a different gun this time.

Ry ran through the kitchen, past tables, a baking oven, pantry shelves, a big stainless steel refrigerator.
Dammit, where’s the back door? There’s got to be a back door
.

He found it and was through it, standing on a narrow stoop at the back end of a blind alley filled with trash cans, a rusted-out Dumpster, and a pile of rotting lumber.

Across the alley was the solid brick wall of another building. No door, not even a single window, just a wrought-iron fire escape coming down from the roof, partly unfolded but still too high up for him to reach.

He was about to make a dash for the street when the black Hummer screeched to a stop across the mouth of the alley. He heard the swinging door bang open back in the kitchen, and he launched himself off the
stoop, out and up, and managed to catch the bottom rung of the fire escape with one hand. He jackknifed his legs hard and got enough momentum to pull himself up, just as a bullet slammed into the brick wall next to his head, so close he felt the heat of it.

He ran up the metal steps, ducking and weaving, while the redhead and a guy in a black-hooded sweatshirt stood on the kitchen stoop. He felt a sting on his neck, a splash of blood. He pulled himself onto the roof, and, thank God, he had a bit of cover for the moment.

He lay there, his chest heaving, listening. He couldn’t hear them coming up the fire escape after him, and he couldn’t hear any more gunfire from below.

He ran at a crouch over the flat tar and gravel roof of what seemed to be a converted warehouse, wending through brick chimneys and hooded vents until he found a door. He reached up, twisted the knob—

The fucker was locked.

He’d learned a long time ago to always carry a set of lockpicks, but he didn’t have time to use them now, and just then, lo and behold, and about damn time, he heard sirens. But could the redhead have some kind of juice with the local cops, such as some kind of federal badge she could flash at them? Shit, if she did, he’d be screwed.

Ry wasn’t going to stick around to find out. He ran toward the next building over. It looked like a set of condos, and it had a nice, terraced garden on its roof. It was also convenient that this roof was only a little bit lower than his roof, but shit, fuck, damn, there had to be a dozen feet between them, and it was a long, long way down to the alley below—six stories at least. He might be stupid, but not stupid enough to try jumping over a frigging abyss.

He heard the pounding of feet on the fire escape behind him. He looked back, caught a flash of red hair.

He turned and ran and jumped.

For a moment he seemed to be literally running on air, his legs pumping madly. He’d almost made it across to the other roof when he stopped going forward and gravity won out.

He just managed to snag a drainpipe with his fingertips. He hung there a second, dangling, and of course his fingers started to slip.

He lost his grip, but grabbed at the drainpipe with his other hand, got a better hold of it this time. He hauled himself onto the roof and nearly impaled himself on a tomato stake. He looked up and there she was, her wrists braced on the ledge of the warehouse roof, her gun aimed at his head.

He rolled behind a row of wooden tubs filled with palm trees and came up running.

The condo owners apparently weren’t worried about anyone coming in through their roof door because it was, blessed Jesus, unlocked. He took the elevator all the way down to the parking garage, then walked down the rows of cars, banging on hoods, setting off alarms. By the time he climbed the steps onto the street, the cars were playing a loud mad opera.

The Strand was a mess. A half dozen patrol cars ringed the café and one of the cops shouted into a bullhorn, scared that he had a hostage situation on his hands. But Ry would bet only the kid and the barista were still inside.

Ry pushed through the crowd, trying not to stick out while he headed toward his truck. He’d had the sense to park it a few blocks away, over on Seawall, where he could shoot straight down to the ferry, leaving in …

He checked his watch. Six minutes, dammit.

He started to run. He heard someone shout, “Hey, you!” and he looked around. But the yell hadn’t been aimed at him. He spotted the guy in the black-hooded sweatshirt, though, walking in the street with the Hummer inching along beside him.

He saw the redhead come up the steps from the condo’s garage, not even bothering to hide the gun in her hand. He made himself slow down again, tried to blend in—he knew now she didn’t give a shit if she killed every innocent in the street as long as she got him.

Dammit, he needed to get to his truck.

Then, music to his ears, he heard a horse’s whinny. He waited until the tourist carriage rolled up alongside him, then jumped inside, tossing a twenty into the startled driver’s lap.

“How fast can that nag of yours go?”

R
Y STOOD
at the end of the pier and watched the ferry’s lights disappear into the night. He listened to the diesel engines die away, then he heard nothing but the lap of water against the pilings beneath his feet.

He’d missed the boat, the very last fucking boat. After getting shot at, scalded, and almost falling into the abyss, he’d gone and missed the damn boat—

Headlights flooded the road behind him.

He’d left his truck idling behind him, the passenger door open, and Ry dove for it just as the whole world exploded into a whirl of noise, bullets splintering the wooden planks of the loading ramp and ricocheting off the metal railing. He sprawled across the front seat, covering his head with his arms as more bullets shattered the back windshield and slammed into the tailgate, shredding the metal into confetti.

The gunfire seemed to last forever, but suddenly there was a lull. He raised his head just enough to get a look out the side-view mirror. He saw that the behemoth black Hummer was blocking the loading ramp, and that really wasn’t good at all. They had him trapped—metal railings four feet high on both sides of him, the Hummer behind him, and the empty ferry dock in front of him. And beyond the ferry dock, only black night and blacker water.

More gunfire rocked the truck. He thought of her shooting Dom, and he wanted to take her out right now with his bare hands, but he was outnumbered three to one and they had Uzis and his dying wasn’t going solve anything.

He had to save his own ass first, then he’d kill her.

Crouched behind the steering wheel, he saw two men come out
from behind the Hummer, firing their automatics. The whine and ping and thud of bullets were all around him. Save his ass, hell. Who was he kidding? The chances of making it out of this alive were zilch, and that really pissed him off because not only did he not want to die, he didn’t want to give the bastards the satisfaction of killing him.

He fastened the seat belt with one hand, while he threw the gearshift into reverse with the other, floored it, and prayed. The truck roared backward so fast the steering wheel bucked. He twisted half-around to look out the shattered back windshield and aimed the truck right for the Hummer. He grinned like the very devil as he got closer and saw the men jump out of the way, their faces white in the Hummer’s headlights. He didn’t see the woman. Maybe she was still inside, behind the wheel.

Six feet until impact … four …two …

Now
.

In the last instant before his truck was going to crash into the Hummer, Ry slammed the gearshift into first instead. The back tires spun on the wet wood, throwing out sparks and smoke, and then, at last, he felt the tires get traction and the truck shot forward. The railings flew by in a blur. The end of the loading ramp loomed ahead, black and empty, closer, closer …

Oh, shit, maybe this really wasn’t such a good idea after all
.

The truck shot off the end of the ramp and out over the water. For one breathless instant it felt as if he were flying.

He plunged down so fast he barely had time to suck in air before the truck smacked the water, so hard his teeth rattled. Water poured through the shattered windows. Down, down. How deep
was
it here? It was pitch-black, so black he felt blind.

Then he felt another jolt, softer this time, as the truck hit the silty bottom.

He pushed up against the steering wheel, but he was wedged in. He nearly lost it then, until he realized the seat belt was holding him down. He felt for the belt’s lock and pressed, but it wouldn’t open, and he stopped himself just in time from yanking on it and maybe making it worse.

Okay, okay, don’t panic. Your chest feels a little tight, but that’s all in your head. You know you’ve still got plenty of time left before you run out of air
.

When he and Dom were kids, they used to compete with each other to see who could hold his breath underwater the longest. His brother had always won. The most Ry had ever lasted was about three minutes, enough time if he could get out of the damn seat belt. But the lock wasn’t budging.

He grabbed the knife he’d strapped to his ankle and began madly sawing, until finally it busted open, and he was free.

He punched his feet through what was left of the back window and pulled himself out of the truck. His arm snagged on something metal, and he felt a flash of hot pain. The darkness was absolute. He felt his way along the truck bed, the tailgate, back bumper, a tire.

Then he realized he was actually seeing the tire and he looked up. He could see the shine of the Hummer’s bright lights cutting through the water, and trails of bullets, looking like flickering silver snakes.

He felt along the tire’s rim until he found the air valve, then tore at the pocket of his priest’s coat to get at his burglar picks. He was starting to feel light-headed, clumsy, his chest seriously hurting now.

He fumbled with the picks, trying to feel for the slimmest one, and they slipped through his fingers. The picks hit his knee, but by some miracle he caught them before they fell into the silt and reeds. Maybe it was Dom, the spirit of Dom, looking out for him, because he ought to have died ten times over by now.

One more time, though, Dom. Just a little more help down here, because I’m out of air
.

White lights flashed in front of his eyes and his ears rang as he fought desperately to keep his mouth from opening to gulp at oxygen that wasn’t there.
One more time, Dom, one more …

At last, at last he found the tire’s air valve. He popped off the cap, poked the burglar’s pick into the valve, pushing in the seal. He closed his mouth over the valve and breathed in the sweet, wonderful air.

He closed his eyes for a moment in blessed relief, then covered the valve with his thumb so that bubbles wouldn’t rise to the surface and looked up. They were still there, Hummer lights still shining on the water, but they’d stopped wasting bullets. Soon, he prayed, she’d believe he was dead, but she wouldn’t leave even then. She would wait a long
while just to be sure, and she would have her two guys watch the shoreline to make sure he didn’t swim for it, and then she would wait some more, and he hated her for that.

Yeah, well, he would make her pay for all of it someday, but right now he needed her and the people she worked for to think he was dead. He needed time and the freedom from being hunted so he could find Katya Orlova and the film and get at the truth behind what his father had done. First, though, he needed to get over to Bolivar so he could read what Dom had left in Lafitte’s treasure chest, and he hoped to God he was right about that, that Dom had managed to write it all down and hide it away before they’d killed him.

Ry took another breath of the oily, compressed air. He wondered how long he would be able to breathe the stuff before doing serious damage to his lungs.

He breathed again and looked up. The headlights were still there, damn the bitch all to hell.

He breathed and waited. Five minutes, ten. Breathed and waited, and waited some more, and still the headlights were there, shining on the water. Suddenly his stomach cramped, so hard he almost opened his mouth and swallowed water. He hadn’t, though. He’d kept it together, and the cramping was probably nothing to worry about, just nausea from the oil in the air he was breathing. Just nausea from the oil.