Risk (3 page)

She was plastered against the wall and waved him down the stairs, then pounded after him. She shot past him to the breezeway exit, used her hips to push on the bar that opened the door, and ran backwards, facing the building's rear wall while holding a pistol in both hands that she aimed at the second floor windows. He stumbled behind her, swallowing his fear and wondering just when his life had gone haywire.

He ran to his car then, fumbling with the key to beep the doors open, and they tumbled into the seats.

“Reverse out of here and leave through the alley. The Porsche is parked out front.”

“Are you sure it was the Porsche?” he said.

“I'm sure. Head south, curve around to Alton again and then go north.”

Ryan directed his attention to driving, put the car in gear and backed out of the parking spot. In his haste he hit the gas too hard and the tires squealed as he swung around. He shifted into drive, glanced at her and stared. She was leaning forward with her hands held below the dashboard and reloading the gun.

“You need to get a head start on a Porsche,” she said. “You'll never outrun it in this car.”

“I'm not going to outrun anything in this traffic. Can you call the police?”

She nodded. “Just get some distance between us and the Porsche while I do.” She glanced in the sideview mirror and straightened. “Here they come. Hit it.”

A quick check in the rearview mirror confirmed what she'd said. The Porsche had turned into the alley and was accelerating toward them. Ryan hammered the gas pedal and the car moved out, but at a painfully slow pace that made the contrast between the two cars abundantly clear. The alley ended at a cross street, and he swung left, nearly clipping the rear bumper of a vehicle parked at the alley's entrance. He went a block and halted at a stop sign at Collins, where a line of cars was cruising in the slow fashion common on a Friday night on the Beach. Everyone wanted to see and be seen and speed ruined the effect.

Ryan shot through at his turn and watched the Porsche heading toward him, three cars back. He kept moving through the blocks, stopping at the end of each and sweating and cursing under his breath as he did.

“I'm calling the police,” Caldridge said.

She placed the gun in the car's foot well and pulled a phone out of her back pocket. “What do you think they want from you?”

“They said ‘Pay up.' ” His eyes kept flicking between the road and the rearview mirror. The Porsche was shooting through each block, barely stopping at the intersections. He could hear its engine roar with each acceleration, and the aggressive sound was grating to his ears.

“Pay up on a policy?” she asked.

“Or just pay up with my wallet.” At the next intersection the Porsche turned right and disappeared from sight. His relief was instantaneous and profound. “They're gone,” he said.

She looked into the sideview mirror before speaking into the phone. He listened as she explained the situation to the police dispatcher, confirming that she was in a car and moving. “We'll be right there,” she said, then hung up. “Police station. Now. They said there's a mob on Fortieth and shots fired and between that and the gridlock, so it will take them half an hour to come to us.”

“The Porsche is gone. It's rented from a dealer. Maybe it's unconnected to the robbery. Just someone in town for hip hop. You know how crime spikes. Maybe you're wrong and the Porsche is not after me.” He inhaled a deep breath. It seemed like the first he'd taken in minutes.

Caldridge shook her head. “I'm not wrong. The Porsche is after you. I don't know why they turned off, but that's not the point. They'll be back.”

“No, they—” Before he could complete the sentence he saw the Porsche coming on from the left. She saw it too.

“They went around the block.” She had the gun back in her hand but still kept it low, below the window line. Ryan had reached the road's end. All that was before them was the marina, and beyond that, the sea. He turned right and headed toward Fifth. Behind them he saw the Porsche moving in fits and starts as it tried to maneuver around some slower traffic. It shot to the right and once again disappeared from sight.

“I hate it when they disappear,” he said.

“They have to know that we're heading toward the police station. They'll try to cut us off.”

Ryan swallowed. What she said made sense. He drove through the clogged streets and thought about how surreal the whole evening had become.

Fifth Street was one of the main arteries that fed from a causeway connecting Miami proper to South Beach. It ended at Ocean Drive, where the cruising traffic would turn and begin its slow march north, with the drivers and passengers gawking at the sidewalk scene. It was four lanes wide, separated by a median strip. Ryan caught a light and started forward. He would need to cross all four lanes in order to continue moving north and to the police station.

The Porsche took that option away. He saw it in the corner of his eye. It barreled toward them at a speed that made it clear it wouldn't stop, no matter what the color of the light. Ryan peeled off to the left, off the north-south street and heading west on Fifth and to the causeway. The Porsche was one car back and to their right.

“He's herding you to the causeway. We can't let him do it,” Caldridge said. Ryan thought she sounded remarkably calm under the circumstances.

“Why not? We can hit it to Miami and go to the station once we've crossed the bridge.”

She kept her eyes on the mirror while she shook her head. “That's far too risky. Once on the causeway there's nothing but water on either side. They'll drive us off the road and into it. But I suppose it's not as though we have a choice.”

She was right. They were stuck on Fifth, hemmed in by traffic and being funneled onto the causeway. They crossed onto it and Ryan saw the water appear to his right.

“Got any statistics on those who drown when their car hits the water?” She asked the question while never taking her eyes off the sideview mirror, and again Ryan was struck by her calm. He swallowed and tried to answer her with equal calm.

“Florida has the highest number of vehicular drowning deaths,” he said. “Once in the water, the vast majority of those die.” He swallowed and watched behind him as the Porsche veered back and forth as it attempted to pass the cars that blocked them. She flicked him a glance.

“Not sure I really needed to hear that after all. If we go in, the trick is to wait until water completely fills the car. When the pressure on the outside and the inside is the same, you'll be able to open the door. Or you can lower the windows now.”

Ryan hit the button and his window went down. Caldridge did the same.

“Tell me who else you insure, besides the hip hop mogul,” she said.

“Everyone. Diplomats, CEOs, celebrities. We're the biggest insurer in the world.”

Ryan maneuvered around a slow moving van but got hung up behind a pickup truck. The Porsche had moved one car ahead.

“Can you access the records from home?”

He surged ahead of an ancient Crown Vic and accelerated past a motorcycle. The Porsche gained two cars. Now only the Crown Vic and the motorcycle separated them.

“I can access them from anywhere.” In front of them and far ahead, signal lights began flashing. The line of cars slowed and then stopped.

“Not good,” she said.

“But they're stuck as well,” Ryan pointed out. “That's all right.”

“Not at all. They just got out of the car. Run.”

She threw open her door and was gone. Ryan wanted to argue, but instead he grabbed the key out of the ignition, flung open his door and followed her. Farther down the row of cars he saw the heavyset man running along the causeway's edge. He didn't stay to watch anything more.

She was moving fast, and he thought she looked exactly as she did each morning on the beach. Her stride was long and ate up the pavement. She hit the intersection where a bridge led to Star Island, the enclave of the rich, and she turned onto it.

Ryan was a cyclist, not a runner. He knew he could run for a short while before slowing, but Caldridge was setting a screaming pace and he didn't think he could keep up with her. His lungs started to burn and he felt a line of sweat trace a path down his side under the jacket, long-sleeve shirt, and tie. The only thing that kept him moving was the fear that she was right and the heavyset man who was after him.

The bridge to Star Island had a three-foot-high wall topped with a metal guardrail. Triangular lights glowed in a regular procession along the bridge. At the end was a small guard house, and Ryan focused on it as he ran.

Something hammered into the metal rail and ricocheted off and he winced at the noise. He took a quick glance behind him and saw that one of the men from the car was standing on the causeway's shoulder aiming a pistol. Caldridge had stopped as well and braced her forearm on the guardrail while she aimed her own gun. Ryan thought about the odds of hitting an innocent bystander and panicked.

“Don't!” he shrieked.

She fired.

The heavyset man yelled and grabbed at his arm.

She lowered the gun and waited while Ryan closed the distance between them. When he reached her, she said, “Keep going. I'll cover you.”

He was breathing heavily, like a bellows, and his chest and legs already ached from the exertion. Still, he gathered his scattered wits about him. She couldn't be allowed to engage in a gunfight.

“Don't shoot again. You might hit the wrong person.”

She snorted. “I'm not
that
bad of a shot. Now go!” She dropped lower and kept her focus back at the causeway.

“Maybe someone will hear the gunfire and contact the police,” he said. He was bent over, hands on his knees as he gasped for air.

She shook her head, knelt down on one knee and aimed at the man in the distance. “Doubtful. Lots of shooting during hip hop. Get to the guard house. Let him call it in. Perhaps they'll pay special attention.”

Ryan lined up behind her and kept his eyes on the causeway. The traffic was stopped as far as he could see.

“I don't see how they'll wind through the traffic in time to help us. The causeway's jammed all the way east to Ocean, and to the west there seems to be an accident blocking the right lanes.” He swallowed.

She kept her focus on the man at the causeway's edge. “You'd better run. He's getting ready to fire.”

“It's a bad angle and the guardrail should protect us.”

“Why are you still here?” she said.

A bit of gravel and bits of stone flew into the air, as if on their own, close to his feet. Ryan needed no other urging. He stumbled forward again, running for all he was worth toward the guard house.

Two white cameras on a tripod focused forward, and a mechanical arm blocked the entrance to the island. Ryan saw the guard step out of the hut as he approached, wearing a frown on his face, a brown uniform, an official looking hat, and holding a clipboard in his hand. The guard looked past him and his eyes widened. Ryan couldn't resist looking back. Caldridge closed the distance between them at a rapid clip, and the gun in her hand flashed in the glare thrown by the lights. The guard scrambled back into the hut and Ryan saw him hit a button just as Caldridge pulled even.

“Call the police,” she said to the guard. “There are two men behind me. They've shot at us twice already.” She knelt down again and aimed down the long bridge. It was empty.

“I have a direct line to the station,” the guard said. “They're already on their way. And the only gun I see here is yours.” He pointed at the cameras. “They're taking your picture.”

She glanced at his hand. “Please tell me you have more than a camera and a clipboard to defend yourself.”

Before the man could answer, Ryan heard the sharp report of a gun, and pieces of the hut splintered off. The guard yelled something incoherent in Spanish and stared in astonishment out of the hut's small front window.

Caldridge stood up, grabbed his sleeve and yanked the man out of the structure. “Get the hell out of sight and stay there until you see the police.” She spun around. “Ryan, keep going. The police won't be here in five, but those two will.”

The guard was sidling to the left, keeping Caldridge in his sights as he did, presenting his back to the bridge and the real danger. Another crack pierced the air and the guard hunched over, holding his arm. Blood poured down it.

“I told you to move!” Caldridge said, and the guard finally did, stumbling right and disappearing behind a white house at the corner.

Ryan sprinted straight onto a long, oval road that looped down and around the entire, manmade island. A grassy rectangular park with tall trees lined the road, as did light posts, each equipped with security cameras. He continued down a short drive to a wrought-iron gate with the letters
RC
monogrammed in the center. He stopped, pressed the buzzer near an intercom, and once again leaned over to gasp at the ground, resting his hands on his knees.

“Come on,” he muttered under his breath. Caldridge jogged up next to him but kept her attention toward the island's entrance.

“We should keep going,” she said. “Climb one of these walls and hide near the houses. The large guy is hurt but the other joined him and he's skinny and running fast. They'll be here any minute.”

“This is one of our insureds. I know him. I'm waiting for an answer.” Ryan punched the intercom again.

“They're not home,” she said.

“He never is, but a condition of our policy is that he maintain private security guards at all times.” Ryan wiped sticky wetness from his forehead and was appalled to see that it was a mixture of sweat and blood from being banged into the furniture. He swatted at a mosquito that tried to land there. No one was answering the bell.

“Well clearly security's out. Maybe enjoying hip hop weekend in your guy's absence. Let's go before they reach us.”