An Eye for Danger (17 page)

"Stop." Sam held fast to my hand.

"You want to die on me, then you're going to hear this. All of it." I squeezed his hand hard, holding his attention. "February, 2003. A small region of Sudan explodes in civil war. Shit, Americans don't even know where Darfur is, let alone why tribes are butchering each other in the desert. Fifty-thousand people died in the first eighteen months. Not from guns, but from starvation. Can you believe that?" I shook my head, sucked in my lip for the words I could barely spit out. "That provided very dramatic headlines, very surreal images. But the camera adds ten pounds, even to children. So my editor says, 'They don't look like they're starving.' What an asshole. So he sent me back to get better shots. And you know what, Sam? I got them." Tears flooded my eyes. "Sixteen gigabytes of beaten, bruised, mutilated bodies. That was my job, and I got really good at it. So they signed me up for more. And more, and more."

"Fuck." He blinked at the ceiling. "A war photographer. I didn't know."

"Sure you did." I set his hand to my cheek, pressed his flesh in place like he belonged there. "People like us, eh, Sam? No, we don't live in pretty places. We don't know how. But we don't have to die in rat holes, either."

Sam's brows knotted and he licked his dry lips as if to speak.

"You asked who died on me," I said. "Besides Luke? Everybody."

His fingers flexed and spread over my cheek. His eyes rounded, shimmering with emotions I knew he wouldn't spill.

"Now please, Sam. Please, get up. I can't leave you here. I just can't."

A distant bell rang—the deli's front door. Petosa's cigarette break was damned short.

Sam clenched his gun as I backtracked, peered into the store, then flattened my back against the hallway wall. The black biker jacket made the giant look bigger, but his thick black beard and scowl were unmistakable.

"Shit." Slowly, I reached for the carbon dioxide can, looped my fingers through the metal grip as my toe held the door, and quietly slid the can free. The door hinged and closed with a
whoosh
.

"Our mutual friend's here," I whispered, passing Sam and looking for anything in the bathroom that might help me block the deli door. The best I found was an industrial-strength plunger.

"Damn Petosa."

"No, your other buddy." I zipped past Sam with my plunger readied like a sword.

"Troy? Fuck!"

"You said you saw someone in the park, someone not your partner."

"My handler. He's clean."

"No offense, but in war zones we learned not to like unexpected company."

As Sam tried to exhume himself from the bench, I broke off the plunger's wooden handle, shoved the splintered side under the door lip, then kicked to wedge the stick into place.

When I turned, Sam slumped, so I set on him with shock and claw. "Get on your feet, soldier."

"Ow." He snapped awake when my nails dug into his biceps. "God, you're mean."

"I'm about to get a lot meaner if you don't start dancing."

"No, I'll cover you." He dragged his gun onto his thigh, looking toward the deli with droopy eyelids. "Go."

"You're not getting rid of me that easily."

Again with my fingernails. I got him up and stumbling down the hall. As we took the two short stairs to the exit, the deli's back door rattled behind us.

Wham!
The deli door cracked open. Troy was easily busting through my mini-barricade. Another whack and Troy's thick skull squeezed through the breech. The sight of him punched the air out of me.

"Move." Sam pushed me up the stairs to the exit door.

I rammed my shoulder into the door's bar latch to clear our escape hatch, only Sam was no longer attached to me. "Sam!"

When I reached back, he stepped up the stairs and shoved me into the alley as he aimed his weapon on Troy. He'd kill the man to help me escape, a man he was meant to deliver to justice. I couldn't close the distance fast enough to stop Sam from shooting. And part of me didn't want to.

The crack pierced my eardrums. Sam dropped sideways, halfway out the door, as another explosion echoed down the hall. I reached for him, glancing through the door.

Bong, bong, bong.
Shit, the carbon dioxide. He'd sent the canister bouncing against interior walls, a pinball set wild. And coming straight for the back door.

My hand latched onto Sam's collar and I yanked him into the alley. The canister vaulted over our heads, slamming into the opposing stone wall. Chips of white stone fell to the ground, where the canister spun out the last of its energy, a hole in the metal spewing gas.

I scrambled to shut the exit door and caught the image of my enemy lying on the ground, a line of blood cut across his forehead, his eyes closed. Dead or not, I couldn't take chances Troy would resurrect.

With Sam leaning on my shoulder, I pushed us toward the end of the alley. In the fading light I could see Raul parked up the street. But we were at a dead end. Black iron gates blocked both alley entrances. And climbing the fence with Sam on my back wasn't an option.

Sam tried the gate. Locked. He considered his weapon. "Too dangerous. Could ricochet in these tight quarters"

Checking the chamber, he leaned on the fence, wiped sweat from his eyes, and turned to face the exit door we'd just escaped. Neither of us trusted that grizzly to stay down.

"Go first." Sam waved me up.

I grabbed the wrought-iron bars, as cold as popsicles, and hoisted myself up. I looked down. Sam was squatting against the fence now. He hadn't the strength to scale a ten-foot fence without help. Fact was, he wasn't even going to try.

I dropped to the pavement.

"Damn it, follow instructions for once," he barked.

"No hablo Ingles." With both hands I grabbed Sam's wrist, jammed the gun's mouth into the keyhole, and squeezed off a couple rounds. Either the ricochet would kill us, or Troy would.

The thrust of firing the gun echoed in my bones. I'd closed my eyes. For several seconds I tried stilling my muscles. Then Sam said, "Nice work, Rookie."

I opened my eyes. The shots had blown a slanted hole through the metal, enough to disengage the locking system. Once I peeled Sam off the wall, we lunged through the gate.

Raul's head popped out of the taxi window and he stared, as if he'd never seen a man walk like a drunk or wield a gun in New York.

"He shouldn't be here," Sam slurred. I'd failed to mention I'd instructed Raul to circle the block and wait for us.

"So spank me later."

"Promise?"

"You have a one-track mind, Detective."

"Gotta keep up my bad-boy reputation."

"Drop the weapon." The voice wasn't Troy's, but wasn't unfamiliar.

Pivoting slowly, we faced Petosa's gun as he stepped off the sidewalk and into the street.

"This isn't what you think." I shifted Sam till I stood between him and Petosa. Sam wasn't wearing a vest, and I hoped the odds of a cop shooting a woman were lower.

"Out of the way, Larson. God knows how you're involved, but I don't want to shoot you. At least, not today."

"He wants me, not you," said Sam, stepping to my side on his own two feet. His Glock smacked the pavement, then Sam clasped his hands behind his head, wincing as his ribs shifted.

"Alright by me to get you both." Petosa drew handcuffs from his belt. "Stone's gonna love this."

Sam's body snapped tight, his eyes focused behind Petosa. My head whipped around. A black shadow stomped down the alley and Troy kicked open the gate.

Petosa spun toward the noise at his left flank. I instinctively ducked and reached for Sam's weapon, but Sam drove me to the ground, landing on my back.

A shot rang overhead, shattering a brownstone window across the street. Lights turned off in apartments. Neighbors screamed for someone to call 911.

The Glock was out of reach, and Sam's weight had me pinned in the middle of the street.

Another shot boomed followed by a wet thwack. This time nothing shattered or broke. The echo chilled me.

I looked up. Petosa crumpled. Then tree-trunk legs and size twenty feet blocked my view. I froze, found death's gaze shining down on me.

Troy had stepped into the streetlight, revealing the blood sheeting down his face into his beard, looking like one pissed-off grizzly. His eyes were glued to Sam, who wasn't stirring. From Troy's distance he could swiftly shoot either of us, but with his gun limp at his side, he clearly wanted another go at Sam's punching-bag torso. Judging by Troy's hand on his own ribcage, I suspected Sam had returned the favor of a few broken ribs.

By now the dull thuds of pain focused in my own body. My shoulder spasmed from slamming the ground, my cheek stung from slapping the pavement, and my hands burned from gripping the gun. But I couldn't let pain keep me from action.

"You sonavabitch." I fought to get out from under Sam, drawing Troy's attention away from him.

I watched helplessly as Troy kicked Sam's Glock into the gutter. Seeing that Sam was unconscious, Troy's eyes bared down on me.

Sam wasn't awake to see Troy shoot me, and I was grateful for that small favor. A man like Sam—the honest cop I knew, not just believed, him to be—couldn't live with that vision. Didn't deserve to.

Troy yanked me out from under Sam's weight by my arm. "So Sam's got a little girlfriend." His teeth gleamed when he smiled into my face, so close I could smell the blood and sweat mixing with cheap beer. "Hello, little honey. I'll enjoy tearing you limb by limb."

Wheels screeched. Troy and I snapped our attentions toward the lurching taxi.

Dropping me, Troy shot at the windshield. Raul ducked, flashed on his brights, and slammed into Troy, who rolled onto the hood and half-way up the windshield.

Raul braked and Troy flew ass-first toward the deli fence.

Everything stopped. Both Petosa's and Troy's bodies looked deflated, but I'd been fooled before. I waited for screams or sirens or any sign of life.

"Vamanos! Vamanos!" Raul opened his door and waved us aboard.

"Ayúdame," I pleaded.
Help me
.

Raul looked at Troy's body, and then jumped from the car and rolled Sam onto his back to get him into the vehicle. Meanwhile, I reclaimed Sam's gun from the gutter. Maybe his fingerprints weren't in the system, but mine were.

Sirens erupted in the distance and Raul's eyes flared. "No me gusta la policía."

"Yo tampoco."
Me neither
. Together, we slung Sam into the car and I crammed myself into the footwell, yelling "Go, go, go."

Raul punched the gas and we flew onto Central Park West, tucking between other cabbies so we blending in. Flashing lights of emergency vehicles canvassed the blocks behind us.

"Que pasado?"
What happened
, Raul kept asking before I finally registered he was talking to me.

"Dame su teléfono." I grabbed Raul's cell phone through the hole in the Plexiglass and tried to make a call while holding Sam still through all the swerving.

"No policía," said Raul. "Por favor."

"No policía. Neccesita un doctor."

CHAPTER 13

George finished counseling a couple with a screaming baby as I paced the aisle. "Come on, come on," I muttered, not bothering to straighten my hair or brush the street grime from my torn jacket. I looked exactly the way I felt: scraped off the pavement.

The child's father heard me and crossed his arms. I shrank. The baby was in so much pain, wailing and crying. When the couple turned to exit, George glared molten fire over his glasses. I bowed my head.

"I need to speak to your wife." I shifted heel to toe. "I can't reach her at the hospital, and nobody will give me her cell number."

"She's busy. With real patients, who have real appointments. Explain the problem to me."

"Woman stuff. I'd rather ask her."
Breathe, Jules, or you'll blow it.

He angled his head for a better look at my coat. "I've known you since you were ten years old. And I've only seen you this riled twice: after your parent's accident, and then after Luke's."

I winced at the reminders. "It's my friend. I can't get his fever down."

"Name." George crossed his arms. "I know everyone in this neighborhood, young lady."

"He's new here. He's embarrassed because he got mugged."

"Then you need to take him to the hospital."

"My truck's dead." I bit my lip. The Land Cruiser sat in a garage a block from my house, but I'd not driven it since the accident.

"Then call a cab," said George. "Or an ambulance."

Raul's cab idled in the side alley, its rear to the road to hide the blown-out windshield. If Sam was right, an ambulance could be a ride to the coroner's table. But I couldn't tell George the situation without endangering his life as well. "He won't go," I said. "No health insurance."

"Money or not, he's in trouble if that fever's caused from a beating. Could be something ruptured. Like an organ."

Glancing to the shelves of bottles, I said, "Don't you have something he can take?"

"Absolutely not. He needs to be examined. By a doctor. Not a pharmacist, or a photographer." George leaned over the counter, his caterpillar eyebrows shifting. "This got anything to do with that prescription you filled, or that detective asking questions about you?"

I gulped, thumbing the recording device in my pocket. I didn't have time to explain the scratches on my face and hands or Stone's inquiries or Sam's injuries or the failed drop or Petosa's murder. George would read the headlines soon enough.

Hands splayed, I said, "Please, George, please trust me."

He pulled out his cell and weighed it in his palm.

I fixated on the lifeline, ready to rip it from his grasp.

His face twisted with doubt, but he pushed a button and handed over his cell phone. "Whatever you're into, she won't like this."

***

Sam shivered in violent bursts, so I leaned inside the taxi and tucked Grandpa's tattered coat under his chin. As his eyes blinked open, I smoothed hair from his cold, damp forehead. He looked like he needed last rites.