Into the Black (11 page)

In the mirror he saw the aftermath of the encounter.  The array of headlights broke apart, losing symmetry as the various cars swerved to avoid the fallen man, or stopped to render assistance.  The maneuver had yielded a few seconds of lead-time—no great margin to be sure, but enough to begin formulating his next move.

"Irene, do you drive?"

"Of course..." She looked at his face, then at the elaborate system of controls on the dashboard.  "Oh, you're not serious."

"It's easier than it looks," he lied.  "Come on.  Slide over here and do exactly as I tell you."

She hesitated, then reached out to him and let herself be pulled close.  He liked the feeling of her body pressed against his, and had to force himself to shake off the distracting sensation.  "It's simple.  It drives just like a car.  You don't need to crank the wheel very far to get results.  It will resist if you aren't going fast enough, but if you're going too fast you'll roll it over."

"I'm going to have to turn this thing?" she groaned.

"Yes, but if everything goes as planned, you'll only have to do it once.”

"And where will you be?"

"I'm going to try to slow them down."  He quickly described the foot pedals and gave her a rough idea of how to downshift.  "Think you can do it?"

"No," she replied in all sincerity.

"Sure you can."  Before moving out from behind the wheel, he located the control box for the lift mechanism and experimentally pushed one of the green buttons.  The hydraulic lift lurched, sending a vibration through the body of the truck, and the dumpster rose up, briefly blocking their view as it passed in front of the windshield.  There was a deep rumble behind them as the contents of the bin emptied into the large holding canister. Kismet released the button, leaving the lift in the fully elevated position.

"That should do the trick.  Okay, your turn."  He unlocked the door and worked the lever, careful not to let it fly open.  With his other hand he kept the steering wheel steady and scooted to the extreme edge of the bench seat.  His right foot was stretched as far as he dared to keep the accelerator depressed.

"Grab the wheel," he instructed.  "Get ready to put your foot on the pedal.  Now!"

He slid out of the way and she did exactly as told, muttering pessimistically in Russian.  Kismet retained his hold on the wheel, but was now standing outside the truck, on the running board.  He felt an immediate decrease in power.  "Push down a little harder!" he yelled over the sound of road and engine noise.  She did, and the speedometer needle registered the acceleration.

"You're doing great!"

"When do I turn?"

"I‘ll tell you when," he replied.  Irene's confidence was already starting to overshadow her inexperience and Kismet felt certain that she was capable of executing his plan.  "Okay, you're on your own!"

He eased away from the door, slamming it closed when he was out of the way.  Utilizing the door handle and the extended mirror frame like ladder steps, he ascended to the roof of the cab, staying close against the side of the truck in case one of the Grimes' men thought he made a nice target.  Once atop the cab, he was blasted by the wind of their passage through the streets.  He risked raising his head just high enough to look over the inverted dumpster at the thoroughfare behind them, and saw two sets of headlights racing toward the truck, with a third, the police car, not far behind.

He had been fortunate that the controls for the hydraulic lift were fairly intuitive; the next part of his strategy would require only brute strength.  Keeping his arms spread wide for stability, he braced his back against the roof of the cab, extended his feet against the side of the dumpster and began pushing.

The mechanism of the lift was designed to raise the load evenly until, at the last moment, it would be turned almost completely upside down, allowing the refuse inside to fall into the cavernous interior of the garbage truck.  Kismet now saw that the lifting forks were not parallel to ground as he had hoped, but angled upward to prevent the dumpster from sliding off—which, unfortunately, was exactly what Kismet wanted it to do.

Nevertheless, the heavy container grudgingly yielded to the insistent pressure from his straining thigh muscles and began to slide.  As it crept up the length of the rails the resistance steadily decreased, and at the halfway point, gravity became his ally.  The brown dumpster tilted and began to slide independent of his efforts.  A moment later, it crashed noisily along the back of the truck before banging down onto the pavement.

Irene was maintaining a good speed and a straight course, using the horn as she entered and crossed intersections under solid red lights.  New York drivers answered with angry gestures and blasts from their own horns, but did not attempt to assert their legal right of way.  Kismet knew she was going to have to make a turn at one of those intersections, and quickly, so as not to lose any advantage he might have gained with the dumpster maneuver.  He cautiously rose to a crouch, peering over the end of the truck to see if his ploy had achieved the intended results.  The container had stopped bouncing and now rested on its back, straddling the broken white line in the center of the avenue.  The pursuing vehicles had been forced to take evasive action, but were quickly recovering and again closing the gap.  It was time to take the next step.

Before he could move from his perch, another intersection flashed by—the perfect opportunity, but already lost.  Sliding cautiously toward the right side of the cab, Kismet lowered himself onto the running board.  Before he could open his mouth to speak however, something cracked against the outer wall of the refuse canister, pinging away in a flash of sparks.  Someone was shooting at him.  He pressed himself tight against the door.

"Irene!"

"Now?" Her voice was barely audible.

"No!  Take the next right!  Got it?"

There was a brief silence and Kismet repeated himself, and then heard her shout an affirmative. He risked a forward glance, marking the distance to the next traffic signal, and then turned his attention to the next part of his plan.

When they had first commandeered the truck, Kismet had spied the mobile control box hanging from a bracket just behind the passenger door.  He had suspected its purpose even then, filing the information away without really knowing why.  Now he knew.  He took a moment to study the switches so there would be no surprises.

The engine revved loudly as Irene depressed the clutch prematurely, her other foot still holding the accelerator.  Kismet looked forward again, realizing that she had misunderstood his instructions and was turning down a narrow alley instead of waiting for the next major intersection.  The mechanical whine subsided after a moment and Kismet felt the truck slowing as she braked.  He mentally commended her for not panicking and more or less getting it right, but his relief turned sour in the next instant.

Irene tried to steer and shift at the same time, and failed to do either very well.  The truck angled toward two o'clock, not enough to make the right hand turn, and continued to lose speed.  Gears shrieked in metallic agony as the clutch engaged, and then the truck stopped dead.  A moment later it lurched forward again, throwing Kismet against its side and nearly dislodging him from his foothold.  Only a fierce grip on the frame of the side mirror kept him from spilling into the street.

As the truck began to move again with painful slowness, Irene threw her strength into the labor of turning the steering wheel.  The vehicle grudgingly complied and crept into the narrow side street.

Kismet turned back to the avenue behind them.  The first of the chasing cars screeched into view.  It lost some traction as the driver attempted the turn too fast, but he knew what he was doing and corrected, regaining control without sacrificing any speed.  Kismet knew he had to act immediately or his efforts would be for nothing.  He pushed the button.

Twin hydraulic cylinders lifted the hatch covering the back end of the refuse canister, exposing its cavernous interior.  Kismet's fingers danced toward a different switch, activating a much larger device.

The front end of the enormous tank-like structure began swinging up and immediately the contents of the container were vomited into the alley.  A number of plastic garbage bags burst on impact with the street, spewing a foul-smelling mixture of food refuse and other debris into the path of the oncoming vehicle.

The driver of the Buick evidently failed to appreciate what this would mean in terms of road surface.  Undaunted, he aimed the car into the heart of the growing obstacle and sped forward.  The front bumper plowed into the mound of trash, but then the tires lost traction and the car skidded haphazardly across the narrow street.  The sedan's rear end crashed into the wall of a six story apartment building, leaving a trail of sparks as metal scoured brick, before it came to a halt, effectively blocking the street.  A second car screeched into the alley, and its driver hit the brakes too late to avoid plowing into the first sedan and disabling both vehicles.

Kismet's triumphant grin lasted only a second.  Irene suddenly stomped the brake and the garbage truck's wheels locked.  This time he was caught unprepared and was thrown forward, landing on his shoulder and rolling several yards down the street.  The fabric of his suit jacket afforded some protection but was nearly shredded by the rough asphalt.

"Damn it, Irene," he rasped, struggling to his feet.  "What the hell—?"

As he looked down the alley he saw why she had stopped.  Illuminated in the beams of the truck's headlights, behind a fence of blue and white wooden barricades, was a mountain of steaming rubble.  A glance to the sidewalk revealed that one of the structures had recently burned and been gutted.  Furniture, appliances and other large pieces of debris had been dragged into the street, where they now effectively blocked the way.

Kismet sagged in defeat.  Irene's head popped out of the open door of the cab, her face desperate for an answer to the question she framed.  "What now?"

Behind them the doors of the wrecked sedans flew open, disgorging seven armed men eager to finish the pursuit on foot.  They were less than half a block away.

"Looks like you were right," Kismet muttered, turning to his companion.  "I can't be right every time, and I'd say my luck just ran out."

The first of Grimes' men to attempt the mountain of garbage found the obstacle more daunting than he had anticipated. After only a few steps, he lost his footing and vanished into the heap. Seeing this, his comrades approached the slippery mass with more caution, but they too had difficulty crossing.  Kismet could hear them shouting to one another that the best course lay in trying to go around the perimeter of the spill. Time was running out.

"You've brought us this far," Irene urged.  "Don't give up now."

He darted toward the driver's side door of the truck and snared Irene's wrist, pulling her without explanation from behind the wheel.  "Right. We're not dead yet."

Despite his assurance, he had not yet settled on his next course of action; he only knew that they had to keep moving.  He glanced at the heap of rubble, then at the street around them. Just ahead was the shell of the building that had been ravaged by flames. Its windows were boarded over and smoke stains were visible on the brick of the upper three stories. The skeletal remains of a fire escape hung mockingly above the entrance.  Because the edifice shared walls with adjoining buildings, the fire damage had spread out, blackening the exteriors of the neighboring apartments.  The damage appeared extensive enough that the structure was almost certainly vacant.  As he took stock of his surroundings, the thread of a plan materialized.  With Irene's hand locked in his own, he charged toward the steps.

"Where are we going?"

"I wish you hadn't asked that," he muttered. Then, more loudly as if to reassure her, he added: "I've got an idea."

A voice from behind them commanded that they halt. The order was punctuated by the crack of a gunshot. The bullet, perhaps intentionally aimed high as a warning, smacked into the wall overhead, spraying chips of brick and mortar.  Kismet steered toward the front porch of the burned out building and bounded onto it in a single leap. Irene slipped as she tried to keep up, landing painfully on her knee, but nothing more than a grunt of discomfort escaped her lips.  Through what must have been a monumental display of self-restraint, she did not ply him for the details of his obviously desperate bid for survival.

Four slats of wood blockaded the doorway—a poor substitute for the heavy wooden door that had been hacked apart with a fire-axe and now lay in fragments on the front porch of the building.  Kismet did not even slow down as he crossed beneath the lintel, smashing the thin boards apart as if they were strips of paper.  The first floor landing was slick with water and debris.  He navigated toward the stairs, slowing down just enough to keep Irene half a step behind him.

"Hold on to the rail!" he shouted.

She slipped, landing again on the same knee, but nodded in agreement even as she muttered frustrated curses. The stairs, at least two-dozen steps to the next landing, were structurally sound, but bore the irreversible side effects of the tragedy that had befallen the whole building. The carpet adorning them was swollen and mildewed from the deluge of water that had been used to battle the flames, and the bare wooden banister was coated with slimy, wet ash. As they reached the top of the staircase, their gun-toting adversaries were exactly one flight behind them.

Kismet did not hesitate or look back. He used the railing to launch himself around the turn onto the second floor landing, and held on to it as he ran along the flat balcony to the next flight of stairs. Bullets erupted through the floor, splintering the landing. The shots had no lethal effect, but did trigger a surge of adrenaline in both Kismet and Irene, and subsequently a burst of speed.  They gained the third floor before the first of their foes had rounded the bend of the second. Kismet could hear more gunshots, loud in the confines of the stairway, but saw no evidence that the shots had penetrated the walls or steps to endanger them.