Charges (10 page)

“How old are they?” he asked.

“Seven months,” Carla said.

“They been getting enough to eat?” The bottom of the stroller was loaded up with baby formula, and Vincenzo thought he could hear a few cans clinking around inside Bobby’s backpack.

“We’ll feed them again before we get on the bridge,” Mark said. He was a tall, slim man with olive skin and thick razor stubble. His nose was rail thin, as were his lips.

“You a
paisan
, Mark?” Vincenzo asked.

“Uh, no. I’m Armenian.”

Vincenzo nodded. “Ah. Sorry, just thought I’d ask.”

“Tony here’s headed for Los Angeles, of all places,” Everett said. He was back to scanning the crowd again.

“Wow, that’s going to be some trip,” Bobby said as he pushed the stroller up the ramp.

“Yeah,” Vincenzo said. “But Rochester’s not going to be a cakewalk, either.”

“We have a farm up there,” Carla said. When her husband and brother shot dark looks at her, she waved them away. “Come on. What’s he going to do? Follow us up and help plant seed?”

“Well past the growing season, baby girl,” Everett said. He continued panning the area with what seemed to be a practiced eye.

“Ken, are you ex-military?” Vincenzo asked.

“No, but I was a cop in my youth, before I made it through law school.” He pulled a moist-looking handkerchief from his back pocket and raised his Yankees cap, revealing a bald head that glistened with sweat. He ran the cloth over his scalp, dropped the hat back into place, and shoved the hankie back into his pocket. “Not here, though. Up in Rochester. Spent five years as a patrolman before I managed to get into Columbia Law School back in ’83. Thank God, I saved every penny I earned; I sure as hell needed it.”

“Guess it worked out for you,” Vincenzo said.

“Sure, it did, eventually. Had a huge condo at 101 Warren, two Mercedes Benzes, a fat expense account, and a salary of three million five a year. Look where it got me—flat-footing it up the on-ramp to Riverside Drive.” Ken looked around again. “What about you?”

“TV producer,” Vincenzo said. “Like I said, I just moved back. I was setting up our new place at the Metropolitan Tower. Guess I’m going to be late on the next hundred or so mortgage payments.”

“Attaboy, stick it to the man. I represented a lot of the big banks in the city. Believe me, it’s going to take them a while to come find you.”

Vincenzo shook his head. “I don’t think the apartment’s going to be there for very long. The day after the lights went out, there were already riots.”

“Same thing downtown,” Mark said. “Never thought the people in Tribeca would go nuts so fast, but it’s like once they found out all the espresso machines were never coming back on, it was more than they could take.”

“Espresso does count for a lot in this town,” Vincenzo said.

“So, Tony, what was your plan for getting across?” Ken asked.

“No plan. Just find a way across, and get into New Jersey, which is a first for me, actually
wanting
to get into Jersey.”

“I don’t think we should take the lower deck,” Ken said. “Might be cooler, but who knows how much light there will be by the time we get there. Don’t know who’s going to be waiting in the dark. You ask me, it seems like a good place to set up some ambushes, deprive the fair citizens of Manhattan and the outer boroughs of their goods as they try and make it out, if you know what I mean.”

Vincenzo nodded. “I get it. So it’ll be the upper deck, then. You have any trouble on the way up?”

Ken shook his head. “Not really. Some skeevy-looking people out scouting the area, but no one really took much interest in us. Carla thinks it’s because of the babies, but I think it’s because they’re looking for easier pickings. Singles, like you.”

“Got jumped by a guy, a white Rasta,” Vincenzo said. “I guess he thought I was the weakling type.”

Everett grunted. “You shoot him?”

“No. Knocked him down and somehow managed to beat the hell out of him. That’s how I got the second gun.” He paused for a moment. “Ken, would you know a service weapon if you saw it?”

Ken frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I think the guy might’ve had a piece lifted from the NYPD. It’s a Glock Seventeen.”

“Popular firearm. Standard issue for a lot of the NYPD, but there are some variations out there. Only difference I know of is the cop trigger requires a twelve-pound pull. Doubt I could tell just from looking at it. You really think this guy lifted it from a cop?”

Vincenzo shrugged. “I don’t know for sure.”

“Well, if you were able to beat the hell out of a cop killer, then maybe you aren’t such a lightweight, after all.”

“Maybe not, but it sure is hell on the knuckles,” Vincenzo said, rubbing his left hand.

8

A crowd had gathered at the approach to the upper level of the George Washington Bridge. All races and all walks of life were present—wealthy, indigent, white, black, Latin, Asian, and everything in between. People had brought their possessions any way they could: on their backs, in children’s wagons, in shopping carts, and strapped to bicycles. Vincenzo even saw one family with a boy pedaling a Big Wheel and another being pushed on a Kettler trike by his father. The little tricycle’s yellow plastic storage bin was full of Diet Pepsi.

The aid stations at the bridge had been dismantled. Only the remnants of tattered cardboard, shredded plastic bags, and mountains of discarded water bottles were any indication that they might have actually existed. The NYPD was present in substantial force, as were EMS and fire department personnel. Passersby shouted at them, screaming for them to provide the promised water and food. The police and firemen stared back with hard faces, while the EMS treated those who were suffering from heat exhaustion.

An undercurrent of desperation was palpable in the hot, humid air. Vincenzo’s thirst started to manifest with gusto, but he didn’t want to crack open the Hydro Flask just yet. At the same time, he also didn’t want to open a bottle in front of Everett and his family. They might ask him to share, and he didn’t know how he could refuse.
The things you have to think about when the electricity stops flowing…

“Okay, this could get a bit rough,” Ken said. “The cops, they’re not asserting themselves. That’s a bad sign.”

“Why is that?” Carla asked. She sounded exhausted. She was drenched in sweat, and she looked pale.

If Everett noticed her condition, he didn’t give any indication. “They’re here, but they’re not doing anything other than standing around. They’re relying on their numbers to keep the peace. That’s not going to hold. People are already pissed off and scared. Can you feel it?”

“Heck, yeah,” Bobby said.

One of the triplets began mewing softly, and a moment later, all three of them were in full-on cry mode. Vincenzo figured the noise of all the people, combined with the oppressive heat and humidity, had finally roused them from their slumber.

“They’re hungry,” Carla said. There was a good deal of lethargy to her movements as she left her husband’s side to go toward the stroller. “I need to feed them.”

“Carla, you okay?” Vincenzo asked.

She looked up at him from beneath her wide-brim hat then smiled. “Just hot, tired, and having to deal with not one, not two, but three cranky babies.”

Bobby stopped the stroller, and Carla raised the flap and looked inside. As she cooed to the babies, Bobby looked around and frowned.

Mark had bent over to check on the girls as well, but he stood up and saw his brother-in-law’s expression. “What?”

“I don’t like this,” Bobby said.

Ken set his jaw. “Gotta say, I don’t like it either.”

A building furor pulsed through the groups of people. The cops and emergency services workers must have sensed the hostility as well, because the officers began closing ranks, hands going to their weapons.
Yeah, this isn’t the place to be
.

Ken gave voice to his thought. “We really need to get going, guys.”

“Dad, the girls need to eat!” Carla snapped.

“Your dad’s right,” Vincenzo said. “This could go sideways real quick.”

“I. Have. To.
Feed them
!” Carla shouted.

A hulking black man pushed past Bobby, making the young man stumble. Bobby whirled to face the offender, but the man wasn’t alone. The large guy smiled sweetly at Bobby and adjusted his sunglasses while the rest of crew glared at Everett and his family with cold, predatory glances.

“Mothafuckah, you better watch where you standin’,” the big man said.

“White boy a pussy. Don’t be messin’ wif him,” another of the newcomers said. “I be all out a baby rattles.”

“Sorry about that,” Mark said, cutting off Bobby before he could say anything.

Vincenzo noticed Everett sliding one foot back behind the other and turning his left shoulder toward the group of black men. A fighting stance, Vincenzo realized, as the older man’s right hand stole toward the pistol in the holster at his back. Vincenzo moved into the same position, ready to yank up his shirt and pull the Berretta.

“I ’spect you ’member that I let you off easy,” the big man said, still wearing his humorless grin. Sunlight glittered across the gold grillwork around his teeth.

“We’re just feeding our babies. Is that all right?” Carla shot back.

Oh, you stupid bitch
. Vincenzo frantically looked over at the policemen standing two lanes away. A couple had their eyes on the brewing altercation, but the cops had problems of their own. A fairly large group of helpless New Yorkers had descended upon them, shouting at them for not providing water and demanding to know where the next aid station was. Things were getting a little heated over there, and Vincenzo saw flashes of handcuffs and drawn weapons.

The big man’s smile got even bigger as he spun to face Carla. “Whoo, you gonna whip out your white sugar titties, baby? You got some fa all’a us?”

Ken pulled his pistol, a Glock so huge that Vincenzo was surprised the older man had been able to conceal it despite his long shirt. “Get the fuck away from us!” Ken’s booming voice was eaten up by the rising furor surrounding the cops.

Two of the black men reached for weapons of their own.

Vincenzo drew the Berretta from its holster, clicked off the safety, and sighted on one of the armed men. He held the weapon steady, despite the sudden swelling in his bowels. He either had to release a gigantic fart, or he was about to shit himself. He didn’t know which. “Back off!” His voice came out high and girlish, not at all filled with the booming menace of Ken’s.

“Fuck you!” the man in his sights shouted. He was short and wiry with a do-rag on his head and scallop-shaped scars along the right side of his chin and cheekbone. Despite the scars, he was clean-shaven, and he wore a bright orange Under Armour sleeveless T-shirt.

The Beretta’s sights were lined up on the shirt’s insignia, and as Vincenzo’s finger found the trigger.
Holy fuck. I’ve got to shoot this guy.

Something sharp and loud roared, and people screamed. For a second, Vincenzo thought he’d fired, but the 92 was still locked on target. He hadn’t pulled the trigger. The man he had drawn on ducked and looked over his shoulder, his small pistol drifting to one side.

Vincenzo held the pistol on him regardless.

Shoot him shoot him shoot him—

An ATV roared through the crowd, followed by two more. Three or four dirt bikes blazed behind them, staying in a single file formation as they let the bigger ATVs open a path through the throng. All the riders were crouched low on their bikes, running full out. As the first ATV barreled toward them, Bobby and Mark grabbed the stroller and shoved it out of the way, right into Vincenzo, knocking his pistol off target. It didn’t matter. The thugs had spun toward the oncoming machines. The rider in the lead was bleeding from a deep gash in his right arm, and crimson droplets had splattered across his jeans.

“Get the rides!” the big black man shouted, pulling a pistol from his pants pocket. He opened up on the first ATV, holding the weapon sideways like those thugs in movies from the early ’90s. That ridiculous stance that might have looked cool, but it didn’t do shit for accuracy. Even though the rider took a hit, jerking sideways on his ATV, people on the other side fell too as bullets tore through them. The rest of the crew opened up, hammering the riders as they rolled up on them.

“Move!” Ken shouted as Carla screamed, running after her kids. “
Move
!”

Carla lurched into Vincenzo, and he lost his balance and fell. He managed to keep a hold on his pistol as people surged toward him, howling in panic. One of the ATVs banked away at almost forty miles an hour and plowed right through the crowd, its rider barely hanging on and jerking as bullets slapped into him. Vincenzo heard Ken calling his name, and he struggled to his feet just as the first wave of panic-stricken New Yorkers rolled into him like some unstoppable tide, carrying him away as he fought to find his footing. Plastic bottles and discarded bags crunched beneath his heavy boots. From the corner of his eye, he saw the big black man still hammering at the riders, hooting and hollering, consumed by some primal urge to kill and destroy, to use the power of his gun to its utmost. He wished Ken had just killed the guy when he had the chance, wished he had done it himself.

Then, one of the cops went down.

“Shit’s gonna get real.” He pushed off the people around him, trying to make it past the brewing shit storm before he was completely caught up in it, but it was too late.

The NYPD opened up, and unlike the hoods fleeing Harlem, they knew how to do it. The big black man danced and spun like a marionette being manipulated by a drunken puppet master as pistol rounds tore through him. His arms flapped as if he could somehow take flight. But the bullets didn’t stop there. A woman immediately to Vincenzo’s right went down as the left side of her skull exploded. She died without a scream, and for an instant, Vincenzo’s legs were caught up in hers. He stumbled and almost fell again, but he managed to grab onto a man in front of him and used his shoulders to stay on his feet. The man twisted and spun, lashing out at him, but he missed by a mile.

Vincenzo still had the Berretta in his right hand, finger inside the trigger guard. He indexed the weapon immediately as he had been taught in his old firearms class, suddenly mindful of the press of sweating humanity around him. He spotted Ken and his family—they were all alive—and the cop-turned-lawyer met his eyes. Ken called Vincenzo’s name and waved him over, but the current of the mob carried Vincenzo toward the tall cement barrier that separated the lanes leading to the upper deck. He slammed into the front of a dead pickup truck and immediately clambered onto it to stand on its hood.

After holstering his pistol, he waved at Ken. “Everett!”

“Tony, come on!” Ken yelled, his voice barely audible over the screaming crowd and ringing gunfire.

The truck lurched beneath his feet as someone practically vaulted onto it. Vincenzo turned and found himself face-to-face with the black hood he had drawn on. The man was bloodied and battered, and his do-rag was gone, revealing a clean-shaven skull shaped like a melon.

The man smiled. He was missing a tooth. “I know you, mothafuckah.” He leaped at Vincenzo, driving him backward against the top of the cement barrier.

Vincenzo lashed out with his right hand, but his fist just skipped off the smaller man’s sweat-slick skull like a tennis ball bouncing off a windshield. Then, gravity did the rest. Momentum coupled with the weight of his backpack sent Vincenzo right over the edge of the barrier. The black man in the orange Under Armour shirt came with him.

The landing was softened by all the people rushing into the GWB’s lower deck. In a crash of rattling gear and frightened yelps, Vincenzo bounced off people, scattering them across the roadway. The hood’s left hand was wrapped around one of the shoulder straps of Vincenzo’s pack. As they rolled around on the rough asphalt, the man leaned in, trying to bite Vincenzo on the face. Vincenzo reached out to push the man’s head away, and when his left hand closed around the man’s ear, he tore at it savagely. The smaller man shrieked in agony.

Vincenzo maintained his grip, feeling cartilage and tissue pulp in his grasp. He reversed direction, pulling the man across his body, making him yelp again. The guy released his hold on the backpack strap and tried to rake his fingers across Vincenzo’s eyes, but all he did was knock the khaki cap off his head. With his right hand, Vincenzo lashed out and punched the man in the throat. There wasn’t much force behind it due to their close proximity, but a gap opened up between them. Vincenzo pushed the guy away and flailed to his feet. People surged around the two combatants, concentrating only on getting themselves, their families, and their possessions to safety.