Bronx Requiem(88)

By the time Demarco emerged on the fourth floor, Amelia had burst out the ground-floor door into the parking lot. She ran toward the green Malibu parked on the north side of the motel.

*

Ciro came running out the front entrance on the south side, looked right and left, saw nothing. He made a fast decision. Instead of running to check the other side of the motel, he sprinted for his Escalade.

*

Demarco glanced into Amelia’s room just long enough to confirm it was empty. He raced down the back stairwell almost twice as fast as Amelia had, taking the stairs in huge three-step strides, grabbing the handrail and jumping down the last third of each flight.

*

Amelia had parked the Malibu far back from the street. As she ran for it, a clap of thunder sounded and cold rain suddenly lashed her face.

Out on the service road, Bondurant’s driver braked hard trying to make a turn into the south driveway, but the Lexus slid past the driveway on the rain-slick street. Bondurant pointed with his gun, “Go in the next driveway. Go.”

The driver wrestled the car straight and headed for the north side of the motel.

Amelia made it to her Malibu as Demarco emerged into the lot, his Glock in hand. He ran toward Amelia’s car, trying to get close enough to block her from pulling out.

Amelia saw Demarco. She saw the gun in his hand. She floored the Malibu and scraped the car next to her making a Y-turn. Demarco got close enough to bang on the trunk of the car and yell, “Stop!”

Bondurant’s Lexus reached the north driveway as Amelia accelerated toward the street. Bondurant yelled at his driver. “Stop!”

The Lexus slid into the driveway, blocking more than half the exit.

Bondurant stepped out of the passenger side and calmly rested his Taurus on the roof of the Lexus as Amelia accelerated toward the space between the Lexus and a painted brick wall dividing the parking lot from the sidewalk.

Bondurant tracked the car, and fired at the Malibu.

Demarco took aim at Bondurant, firing at the strange-looking man in the sunglasses. Bondurant turned in the direction of the gunfire.

The Malibu surged toward the small opening. Bondurant’s driver dove sideways onto the seat. Elliot was out of the back door, bringing his gun into position to shoot.

Inside the Malibu, Amelia hunched over the steering wheel, aiming for the small opening.

Bondurant returned fire in Demarco’s direction as the front of the Malibu simultaneously smashed into the Lexus and the wall with a deafening bang. A chunk of the brick wall exploded. The Lexus spun counterclockwise, away from Bondurant toward Elliot knocking him down, shattering his right pelvis.

The Malibu continued forward, scraping past the wall and the Lexus because the terrified Amelia had jammed her foot down on the accelerator. Scraping past the Lexus slowed her enough so Amelia was able to turn right onto the service road without colliding head-on into the guardrail.

Bondurant remained on his feet as the Lexus spun away from him. Demarco advanced on him, firing the Glock. Bondurant returned fire as he climbed into the Lexus, yelling at the driver, “Follow her. Go. Go!”

The steering on the Lexus had been compromised by the impact of the Malibu, but the driver managed to turn onto the road, swerving and wobbling as he accelerated after the green Malibu.

Ciro screeched around the corner and braked next to Demarco, who emptied his gun at the disappearing Lexus. He jumped into the Escalade.

Demarco reloaded his Glock and calmly told Ciro, “We’re not losing her now.”

“No f*cking way.”





52

By the time Beck pulled the Ford F-350 into the dirt parking lot next to Remsen’s bar, there were only two vehicles left in the lot. His Ford Ranger, and a blue 2001 Volvo V40 Beck assumed belonged to Janice the bartender.

He parked Remsen’s truck exactly where it had been and wiped down everything he’d touched with a microfiber towel he found behind the passenger seat. He climbed out, dropped the keys in the cup holder, threw the towel in the back, and closed the door with his elbow.

Beck headed for the bar, but had to stop as a wave of fatigue and nausea hit him. He bent over, hands on knees, waiting for the weakness to pass.

“Shit!”

He straightened up and continued walking until he got close enough to the bar’s front door that he could see inside. There were no customers. Most of the lights were off. Janice stepped out from the kitchen, turning off those lights. She walked quickly behind the bar, grabbed her purse, and headed for the front door with a bundle of keys in her hand.

Beck walked over and sat against the front fender of the Volvo. Janice stepped out and locked the front door.

She turned toward the Volvo, stuffing her keys into her purse. When she finally looked up, the sight of Beck startled her.

He held up a hand and said, “Sorry, I need to talk to you.”

She remained standing on the front porch of the bar, two steps up from the dirt parking lot. She looked out into the lot, saw Oswald Remsen’s truck, but no sign of him or the others. She looked back at Beck.

“What do you want?”

“Just a minute of your time.”

“Did you drive Remsen’s truck here?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s Remsen?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

She stared at Beck, bloody, beat-up, dirty. She asked again, “What do you want?”