Fifth Ave 01 - Fifth Avenue (37 page)

Michael looked out the rear window. A cab was following them at a dangerously close distance.
 
He turned back to Spocatti.
 
“Can you lose them?”

“The driver probably has a gun to his head.
 
Shut up and let me concentrate.”

“Just one question.”

Spocatti gritted his teeth.

“You were following me.
 
You must have been.
 
Why?”

“Your father told me to.”

“Why?”

“That’s two questions,” Spocatti said.
 
“If you ask one more, I’m throwing your ass out of here.”

They hurtled across 21st Street.
 
Traffic was dangerously light.
 

Michael looked out the rear window, saw the cab trying to pull alongside them and was about to speak when Spocatti spun the wheel to the right.
 
There was a sudden scraping of metal against metal, the blaring of a car horn and the cab was behind them again, front end dented.

Tires screaming, they turned onto Second Avenue. Although traffic was heavier here, the cab was able to pull alongside them.
 
Michael looked down at the cab.
 
At the same moment he saw a glint of steel from the cab’s rear side window, Spocatti darted right, busted a red light and swung onto 19th Street, leaving a traffic cop blowing her whistle.

The cab followed.

“We’re not going to lose them,” Spocatti said.
 
“The driver is too skilled.
 
To stay alive, he’ll do anything those men tell him to do.
 
I won’t be able to lose them unless you listen very closely to me and do exactly as I say.”

Michael was surprised by how calm Spocatti sounded--how measured and precise his words were.
 
“What do you want me to do?”

Vincent told him what he wanted him to do.

Michael told him he’d be shot.

“No, you won’t.
 
If those men wanted you dead, they would have killed you earlier. Now, move.”

Michael moved to the back of the van, pushing his way through a sea of large cardboard boxes.
 
He looked out the front window.
 
They were rapidly approaching Third Avenue.
 
Traffic was backed up 19th Street and the light at the end was red.
 
If it didn’t turn green soon, there would be no escape--no matter how well Spocatti drove, no matter how well Michael did as he was told.

Michael braced himself by gripping a rusty steel rod bolted to the metal wall behind him.
 
He waited, adrenaline pumping.
 
Never in his life had he been filled with so much hatred or fear--hate for his father, hate for Santiago, hate for these men chasing them, fear for his life.

He remembered his dog’s brutal death and the fear turned to rage.

The light at the end of the street turned green, traffic lurched forward and Spocatti said, “Do it now, Michael.”

Michael tightened his grip on the steel rod, threw open the door with his free hand and was struck by the sudden suction of wind.
 
He glimpsed the startled expressions on the men in the cab, saw them reach for their guns, and then he began kicking out the boxes that surrounded him, one after the other, in a steady stream of cardboard.

The driver was overwhelmed.
 

He swerved left, then right, attempting to dodge the boxes, but he wasn’t that skilled.
 
The boxes struck the hood of the car, rolled over the windshield, obscuring the driver’s vision.
 
Michael turned to kick out more boxes--but as he swung around, the steel rod he was holding onto suddenly gave way and he toppled out of the van, his head and shoulder striking the pavement as he rolled.

The cab screeched to a stop behind him.
 
As he lay there, stunned, his body screaming with pain, he watched in disbelief as Spocatti shot around the corner to Third Avenue, leaving him alone.
 
He turned his head toward the people on the sidewalk.
 
They were either standing back in shock or hurrying past him, heads lowered.
 
No one would help him.
 
He had to get out of there.

He tried to struggle to his feet, but he was too weak.
 
He heard the distant shrill of police sirens, the sudden opening of car doors, the controlled voice of a man saying, “Put him in the back.”

At the same moment Michael recognized the man’s accent as French, strong hands lifted him from the pavement and shoved him into the back of the cab.
 
Michael knew it was over when his eyes met Ethan Cain’s.

*
 
*
 
*

They drove back to Michael’s apartment.

The city sped by, flashing vignettes were briefly framed by the window, but Michael didn’t notice.
 
He was sitting between two men in the back of the cab who looked like twins with their slick jet ponytails and oversized bodies.
 
The other man, the older and seemingly wiser of the three, sat in front, smiling over his shoulder at Michael, pressing a gun against the cabbie’s side.

Michael was paralyzed by fear.
 
There was a roaring in his ears that had nothing to do with the sound of the cab’s engines.
 
If they’re not going to kill me, then they’re going to hurt me.
 
Badly.

He closed his eyes.
 
His head and shoulder ached from the fall.
 
There seemed to be no strength left in his body.
 
He wondered how much more of this he could take.
 
What was his limit?
 
Whatever it was, Michael knew he was approaching it.

The cab driver, an Iranian, was whispering something in a language Michael didn’t recognize or understand.
 
He listened.
 
The man was repeating the same phrase over and over.
 
It was a form of chant.
 
And then Michael knew.
 
The man had been confronted with death several times today and he was praying.
 
Michael wondered what God could save them from this.

A window was open and he could hear the fading shrill of the police sirens.
 
The cabbie was losing them.
 
Michael wondered where Spocatti went.
 
They slowed to a stop outside his apartment building.
 
Cain said something in French to his men and looked at Michael.
 
“Understand this,” he said.
 
“We will kill you if you try to escape again.
 
Do you understand me?
 
I’ll put a bullet through your head myself.”

“I doubt that,” Michael said.
 
“I have a week to come up with the money.
 
If Santiago wanted me dead, you would have killed me when I fell out of the--”

His words were cut short by a crushing blow to the stomach.
 
Michael doubled over in pain and two fists slammed hard against the small of his back.

For a moment, he couldn’t move or breathe--then Cain grabbed a handful of his hair and jerked him into an upright position.

“Listen to me,” he said, his accent stronger than before.
 
“It would be very easy for me to tell Santiago that you pulled a gun on me and I had to shoot you in self-defense.
 
Don’t for one minute think I won’t do it.”

Michael spat in his face.

Cain pulled back a hand and was about to strike when the cabbie’s voice suddenly rose and his praying became hysterical.
 
Cain looked at the man, grimaced and reached into his jacket pocket.
 
He removed a silencer, attached it to his gun and glanced out the windows.
 
No one on the street was looking in their direction.

Like a flash, he covered the driver’s mouth with one hand, jammed the gun into the man’s stomach with the other and fired four shots in rapid succession.
 
The cabbie’s eyes grew huge with sorrow and disbelief, a wet, clotted gasp escaped his lips, and he slumped forward, dead.

Cain turned to Michael.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said.
 
“We’re going to cross this street and enter your apartment and you’re going to act like we’re friends.
 
Because if you don’t, if you make even one false move, I’m blowing your fucking head off.
 
Got it?”

Michael was pale with fear.
 
He nodded.

Satisfied, Cain turned to the man seated at Michael’s right.
 
“You’re coming with me,” he said.
 
“And if you even sense he’s about to try something, I want you to shoot him. Understand?”

The man smiled.
 
He understood.

“And you,” Cain said to the other man.
 
“I want you to get rid of the driver and the cab.
 
Dump them both someplace close and hurry back.”
 
He opened the door and stepped into the morning sun.
 
“I might need you to dispose of another body.”

*
 
*
 
*

They entered Michael’s apartment.

“Sit down,” Cain said.
 
“We’ll talk in a minute.”

While Cain went to the window to see if the cab had left, Michael glanced around the small room, looked at his unmade bed and went to it.
 
His legs were trembling as he sat--both from exhaustion and a sudden surge of hope.

Beneath the mattress would be the loaded gun he purchased a week ago for protection.
 
He could almost feel its steely hardness pressing against his thigh.
 
Earlier, there was no time to grab the gun before he fled his apartment.
 
Now, if he could somehow slide a hand under the mattress without being seen, he could kill these men and leave before the other returned.

He looked over at the man blocking the doorway, saw the hard, probing eyes taking in every inch of him and turned away, afraid that his secret would be revealed on his face.
 
There was no question this man would kill him if he went for the gun.
 
If I don’t get him first.

He glanced across the room at Cain, who was leaning out the open window, his jacket slightly parted.
 
Between the shimmering folds of black leather, Michael could see the man’s shoulder holster and gun.
 
There’s no way I’ll be able to shoot them both
, he thought.
 
No matter how quick I am, it won’t happen.
 

Still, he knew if the opportunity presented itself, he would take the chance.

“You know,” Cain said as he turned away from the window and leaned against the sill, “I’m a big fan of yours.
 
I’ve seen your films, read your books.
 
You’re quite big in Europe.”

Michael had to turn slightly to look at him.
 
He used the motion as an opportunity to lift himself and position his hand closer to the gun.
 

“Yesterday, when I got the call from Santiago, I have to tell you I was disappointed. Not because I was being given the opportunity to kill you--that has been surprisingly challenging--but because someone I respected so much had allowed themselves to get caught up in something so stupid.
 
With all of your novels and films, with all of your financial success--how could you possibly have run out of money?
 
Unless you were so careless as to have spent it all--which the fan in me seriously wants to doubt--then where did it all go?”