Resurrecting Midnight (42 page)

Capítulo 39

Thirty aggravating
minutes ago.

Medianoche shifted gears and came out of a fishtail, with Señorita Raven riding his bumper, her headlights flashing in his rearview mirror like the eyes of a monster.

He accelerated, sliced through the rain, sideswiped an ancient city bus, and ran a herd of motorcyclists off the road. Señorita Raven did the same, her charge causing a dozen motorcyclists to tangle and fall like tenpins.

The package was in front of them, fleeing at one hundred and thirty kilometers per hour.

The Beast leaned out of the passenger window, fired a series of shots.

Medianoche battled to get a better position.

Then The Beast came back inside the car, wiped rain from his face and from his salt-and-pepper mane. His angry Rocky Marciano expression deepened.

The Beast said, “Fucking rain and fucking traffic fucking up all of my fucking shots.”

Medianoche chased his enemy across the rain-slicked streets of Buenos Aires.

The deadly war to get the spoils continued.

It had taken hours, but they had tracked the moving target, found them on the limited-access highway, and chased them from the
autopista
to the maze of surface streets, this part of the battle moving from 9 de Julio to Avenida Santa Fe to Avenida Callao, then back to the edges of Recoleta. Gunshots from The Beast had sent them off the wide-open
autopista
and running into an area that had more nooks and crannies than an English muffin, zipping up and down streets smaller than the women from Peru and tighter than virgin pussy.

Driving their second BMW, a quick and agile 328i, Señorita Raven’s insane maneuvers had almost trapped the package, had forced them to accelerate, run the red light, crash into unaware and stubborn vehicles, then flee down Libertador, broken taillights broadcasting the car’s injury.

Scamz and his team were in two Peugeots, just like the one they had traced to Retiro.

Two Peugeots and one package.

Medianoche asked, “Which car has the prize?”

The Beast held the sensor, its beeps rapid and consistent.

The Beast said, “Fucking prize could be inside either fucking one.”

Señorita Raven said, “Fifty-fifty.”

Her voice came through the car’s speakers, crystal clear.

The Beast said, “Either or. Unless they fucking split, we won’t be able to fucking tell.”

“Sir, I can hit one with a grenade.”

“No. You hit the wrong one, we’re fucked because the package might explode and we’d lose a king’s fortune.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Draco, how are you holding up over there?”

“No worries, sir.”

Both BMWs had Bluetooth and hands-free systems built into the hardware. They used cell phones, kept the channel open. Medianoche hit the MUTE button, made it so the Bravo team couldn’t listen in.

He barked, “Contemptible, insubordinate bitch actually said I raped her.”

“Stay focused.”

Medianoche said, “Gideon is inside one of those cars.”

“You believe what he said?”

Medianoche swallowed. “Señorita Raven said that she had accessed other files.”

“Did she?”

“Said that I didn’t know what had happened in North Carolina.”

The Beast nodded. “Focus on the mission at hand.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“Stay focused.”

“Is that an order?”

“That’s an order.”

Medianoche nodded.

The Beast said, “We’ll continue this discussion at the appropriate time.”

Medianoche hit the MUTE button again, communication reestablished.

The Beast said, “Señorita Raven, maintain position. Anticipate the unexpected.”

They sped through the Paris of the South.

The enemies kept swerving, using narrow streets and open traffic to their advantage, zigging, zagging, and bumping across six lanes until they came to where Callao ended at Libertador. Both Peugeots made left turns, slid sideways and drifted across twelve lanes, made hard contact with fast-moving traffic and sped on, and tried to hide in the pandemonium.

Medianoche split lanes, sideswiped arrogant drivers who refused to get out of his way, the same thing that the fleeing cars were doing, the
calles
and
avenidas
lined with accidents.

The Four Horsemen chased Scamz and his people through the winter storm.

They were lions chasing gazelles through a forest, the gazelle knowing that if it made a bad move, if it slowed, slipped, or stumbled, the hunt was over.

The lion only had to remain in the race and stay patient.

Then they would have the second package.

Then he could get answers about North Carolina.

Recoleta became as surreal as a Salvador Dalí painting.

Buildings melted into the background.

They sped toward Palermo, made quick changes and bumped Fiats, Fords, and Renaults out of the way. Medianoche cut off incoming traffic, almost misjudged oncoming velocity, and swerved back just in time to avoid a head-on collision. The car he’d almost hit lost control, went into a skid, and crossed into opposing traffic, hit a Volkswagen head-on.

Headlights and rain came at them at dangerous speeds. Winds picked up, and the skies lit up with what looked like a streak of lightning. Windshield wipers were on high, moved back and forth and left the blur of thousands of red taillights in his eyes, taillights that looked like the eyes of demons. There were wide eyes and expressions of horror on every face revealed by slivers of bright lights. High-rises, embassies, and swank French-style homes were nothing more than shadows as they sped by the dramatic lights in front of MALBA.

By the time they reached Club de Amigos, Medianoche was almost on the target’s bumper. He wanted to ram their bumper, send them flying and flipping, crashing on the edges of the Japanese Gardens. But they changed lanes and kicked up rainwater as they sped toward the roundabout at Avenida Sarmiento, another goddamn roundabout that had never-ending traffic.

One of the fleeing Peugeots sideswiped an older Radio Taxi, a side impact that first shocked the driver, then forced the black-and-yellow taxi off the street and across the median. The taxi bounced around, out of control, until it struck a hundred-year-old tree dead-on.

Medianoche closed in on a target that fought to maintain control in the storm, jockeyed for position with Señorita Raven, that 51-50, 10- 56A slag trying to beat him to the prize.

As she had done on the roof.

Medianoche kept the lead, refused to let Señorita Raven pass his bumper.

Four seconds behind the closest target.

Three seconds.

The closest target swerved, tapped its brakes, had to slow down to keep from spinning out. The gazelle had stumbled, desperation in its body language as it struggled to recover.

The lead Peugeot accelerated away from its partners in crime. They were approaching a large monument at the center of the roundabout at Avenida Sarmiento. That was where six lanes of traffic crossed another six lanes of traffic. Medianoche knew that meant he and The Beast could get slammed by traffic in the intersection, knew his team could get knocked out of the chase.

He refused to let those fuckers escape again.

Medianoche gunned it, moved between cars at top speed, the four wheels of his BMW struggling to maintain a strong grip on the damp pavement. He slammed the back corner of the Peugeot, did a strong PIT maneuver. The Peugeot began to spin out of control, turned like a top, and crashed hard into the base of the statue of General Justo José de Urquiza.

Traffic lost control trying to avoid the inevitable crash, spun out as horns blared; some drivers ended up turned around 180 degrees, others ended up spinning out closer to the planetarium. Traffic heading toward the zoo slid to a bumper-bending halt.

The gazelle was down, knew the lion was on its heels.

Medianoche braked, skidded to a halt.

Then the second Peugeot reappeared. It had never left. The driver had maneuvered the roundabout, had covered most of the three-hundred-and-sixty-degree circle and boomeranged back, accelerating toward their BMW like the monument of General Justo José de Urquiza was Jupiter, and its gravitational forces had slingshot them out of the elliptical orbit.

Medianoche cursed. The Beast cursed louder.

Before Medianoche could kick into drive and engage in a defensive maneuver, the bright headlights came at him like enemy fire. The Peugeot rammed into the back quarter of the BMW, sent him and The Beast jerking, cursing and spinning out of control, crashing into the curb and short wrought-iron fence that was around the three-story-tall monument.

Fiberglass, metal, and glass met at high velocity.

Señorita Raven had come out of her own orbit and crashed into the second Peugeot, had sent that car reeling. The result of that unforgiving impact and velocity whirled Señorita Raven’s vehicle out of control.

Medianoche checked on The Beast, saw he was okay, already undoing his seat belt.

Medianoche shoved open his car door, stepped out into the frigid wind and rain at the same moment someone exited the back door of the first Peugeot. They came out of the Peugeot firing rapid shots. Medianoche ducked behind his door and drew his weapon, then stood and returned fire. He expected to see Gideon, wanted to see that sonofawhore and get his shot. He wanted to do that before Señorita Raven stole his kill. It wasn’t Gideon. They were being fired on by a man who, in the bad lighting and rainfall, looked like Cary Grant. He was quick with a gun and drew down on them, fired rapid shots as members of his team moved from wrecked cars.

Within seconds, The Four Horsemen had weapons drawn.

A muscular man with Asian features and long hair raised his weapon. He had exited the second Peugeot and joined the firefight. The Asian wasn’t as good as Cary Grant.

The Beast let off two shots. Both head shots.

The muscular man’s head jerked back, his body paused, then he crumpled.

The man who looked like Cary Grant continued to return fire, his shots directed toward Señorita Raven and Draco.

Then Draco went down. Wounded. Or dead. No way to tell in the rain.

Medianoche gritted his teeth. Hoped that gunsel wasn’t dead. They needed firepower.

A Latin man faced them as well, using the car as his shield, his gun drawn.

The gunfire paused. A momentary cease-fire.

The Beast yelled, “Scamz. Is that you?”

“It is.”

“Finally. You’re a hard man to find.”

“With whom do I have the pleasure of conversing?”

“The Beast.”

“You are a persistent man.”

“Money is a wonderful motivator.”

“I concur.”

Car headlights brightened up the scene; the Latin man nodded.

The Beast yelled, “You’re outgunned. We have an M16 grenade launcher. It’s over. Hand over the package, and I will let you and the remaining members of your team live.”

“That’s kind of you, considering the reputation that precedes you. The boy who survived in La Boca, he didn’t have anything positive to say about your encounter. I believe that you extended my people in La Boca the same offer. I hope declining that offer doesn’t offend you.”

The driver of the second Peugeot got out, left the safety of the vehicle. It was a woman. Long hair and Asian features. She ran to the Asian man who had stepped out of her car and been killed. She was unarmed.

The door to the first wrecked Peugeot opened.

The sensor sang an anxious tune made of rapid beeps.

The package was inside that car. A few feet away from them.

Medianoche trained his gun on that car.

A woman got out of the first Peugeot, the one they had rammed into the monument. Asian features again. She was pregnant. They had a goddamn pregnant woman on their team.

Women entered war like it was a goddamn tea party.

She made it out of the car and held her belly like she was about to miscarry.

The complications of war never changed.

Medianoche kept his weapon trained on a goddamn pregnant woman that made him, for a quick moment, think about the Israeli army T-shirts that depicted pregnant women in a sniper’s crosshairs, the message being that killing a pregnant woman was a two-for-one shot.

The Beast said, “Sorry I killed Gideon. But he left me no choice.”

Medianoche said, “That wasn’t Gideon.”

“So, he’s MIA.”

“He could be in one of these fucking cars that are stopped behind us.” Medianoche turned, positioned himself. “At least two more are on that goddamn team, and both are MIA. Rodríguez said that there was a big guy. The guy that you just put down doesn’t fit the description. He was muscular, but he was short, not big.”

The police were caught in the carnage of the other accidents that had spread from Libertador to Callao to the edges of the monument for General Urquiza. Sirens were in the distance, and a cacophony of blowing horns and screaming voices mixed to make this backed-up traffic looked like a parade of terror.

The pregnant woman held her belly and went to the other woman. She stood by the woman who was grieving over the body of the dead fool who had fired on them. The pregnant woman pulled on the arm of the grieving woman. The first woman pulled away from the pregnant woman, refused to leave the dead body of the Asian man in the freezing rain.

But then she did. She pulled away from the pregnant woman, stood and pulled out a weapon, a nine millimeter, and began firing. She walked toward them like she was Angelina Jolie.

Medianoche put a bullet in her shoulder, sent the gun flying and the woman falling. She took the bullet and went down without making a sound, not a scream, as the pavement rushed up to meet her. The pregnant woman fell to her knees, blocked the fallen woman’s body with her own, waved her hands in frantic and desperate motions to show her empty palms. She called out in the rain for them to not shoot, her body language begging them not to gun them down.