Bronx Requiem(36)

Ciro and Manny both ducked and turned their weapons on Amelia, but their discipline held, and they didn’t shoot her.

Beck was about to lunge off the couch to knock her down, but held back, knowing if she kept pulling the trigger she might hit Manny as she fell.

And then, as quickly as it had started, the gunfire stopped.

While she pulled the trigger, she’d kept her eyes on her target, but now Amelia swept the gun from side to side, yelling, “Stay back. Back away,” as she walked toward the front door.

Beck held up a hand. Manny kept his gun lowered. Ciro did the same with the shotgun. Demarco stood between the door and Amelia. He had laid down the Winchester and now held his Glock 17 behind his back, his eyes never leaving Amelia as she moved toward him. He glanced at Beck, knowing the safest thing would be a head shot, killing her instantly, eliminating any chance she could pull the trigger and injure one of them.

The decision had to be made now. Shoot her, or let her go. Demarco glanced again at Beck. He gave him a quick headshake, no. Demarco reached up, grabbed the top of the battered door, and tipped it open, holding it between him and the girl, his Glock still ready behind his back. Amelia pointed her gun at Demarco as she slipped out the door.

As soon as Amelia disappeared, Demarco, Manny, and Ciro turned to Beck. He knew he didn’t have much time to make several crucial decisions. In fact, he had no time.





18

As John Palmer drove down Jerome Avenue toward Mount Hope Place, he thought he heard the sound of four, quick, distant gunshots. But the strain of the last hours combined with his fatigue made him unsure. And then he realized how close he was to a known location for Derrick Watkins. Gunshots, definitely.

He flicked on the grill-light flashers and stopped in the middle of Jerome Avenue to report shots fired at the address he had been given for Derrick Watkins. He called for assistance from any available units in the area, turned on the rest of the unmarked Dodge Charger’s emergency lights, and accelerated forward, tapping his siren when needed to clear away traffic. He glanced at his GPS screen and saw the turnoff onto Mount Hope Place was two blocks away.

*

Beck cursed in frustration. Where the hell did she get that gun? It must have been hidden somewhere in the apartment. She’d brought it back in the pocket of her hoodie. No time to worry about it now.

He patted his shirt pocket to make sure he had the IDs Manny had collected from Derrick’s crew. In three seconds, he ran through a series of decisions.

Let Derrick’s crew go. He didn’t want them around identifying him. If he had to, he’d find them.

He confirmed to himself that he’d wiped down the guns they’d collected enough to obliterate Manny’s prints. Leave them. Too dangerous to be caught with two pillowcases filled with guns.

Anything else? Gather the cartridges from the shots fired by Amelia? No. There’d be nothing about them that could lead to Beck or his men.

Beck stood, yelling at the five on the floor. “Get up. Get the f*ck out of here. Now! Use the fire escape out back. You come out the front door, we’ll shoot you. Go.”

They didn’t need any encouragement. Four jumped up and scrambled toward the back of the apartment. Beck and Manny had to lift Tyrell Williams to his feet and push him in the right direction. He wobbled away, bracing himself against the hallway wall.

“D, get the car.”

Demarco tossed his shotgun to Beck and ran out the door, using the handrails to fly down the stairs four and five at a time.

The others shoved their guns into pants pockets and waistbands and rushed after Demarco. By the time they were halfway down the stairs, Demarco had the Mercury fired up. He pulled out into the street just as John Palmer turned onto Mount Hope Place.

Demarco saw Palmer’s lights flashing behind him at the top of the block.

Up ahead, Beck and Manny stepped out of the house, followed by Ciro a few paces behind. They walked quickly, Beck and Ciro holding the shotguns down out of view.

Demarco accelerated toward them, the Mercury’s wide tires screeching and melting rubber into the asphalt.

Palmer noticed immediately. He turned his sirens on full blast and accelerated after the black car up ahead, taking note of the two men heading toward the street, followed by a third man.

Demarco screeched to a halt. Beck jumped into the backseat, climbing over Leon Miller, Manny coming in behind, leaving the front passenger seat for Ciro.

The unmarked NYPD Charger closed the distance fast.

Without a second’s hesitation, Ciro Baldassare strode into the middle of the street, raised the Benelli and pumped round after round of 12-gauge shot into the onrushing police car.

His first blast blew apart the grill, radiator, and emergency lights. His second two shots tore the front tire off the right wheel. The Charger swerved on its bare spinning rim and crashed into a parked car. But Ciro wasn’t finished. He blasted two shots into the engine block, and two more into the front window.

When the Charger smacked into the parked car, John Palmer pitched forward into the exploding steering wheel airbag. The impact momentarily paralyzed him, but he quickly shoved aside the deflated bag and threw himself down behind the dashboard as shotgun pellets disintegrated the windshield above him and tore through the upholstery and interior of the car. Palmer didn’t even think about returning fire.

Walking backward toward the Mercury, Ciro expended his last shell into the wrecked hulk of Palmer’s police car and calmly slid into the passenger seat.