The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(92)

Geiger and Armand were still rolling on the ground.

Engels was on the asphalt, screaming, his hand clamped around his ear and blood seeping between his fingers.

Lopez scrambled over to him, examined the wound, decided it was not fatal, drew the deputy's pistol, and went into a police crouch.

He glanced at Geiger, seemed to be deliberating how best to help him with Armand, when Clyde shot off another burst from somewhere in the back of the warehouse—bullets pinging like pin balls against the metal scaffolding. Lopez quickly retreated around the far side of the forklift, going into stalk mode for Clyde.

Geiger got the upper hand on Armand, started strangling the biker, but that just gave Armand new spirit. He rolled on top and smacked the deputy's head into the asphalt once, twice, three times. Geiger loosened his grip.

More gunshots sparked off the forklift.

Armand staggered to his feet, leaving Deputy Geiger curling on the cement like a steppedon spider. Engels was still yelling, bleeding from the side of his head. He would not be getting up soon.

I could see Lopez's feet on the opposite side of the forklift, sneaking around, but he couldn't see Armand, who mumbled, "Fucking cops!" and headed for the forklift.

Armand climbed aboard, cranked the engine to life, then swung the machine around.

Lopez fired once, ineffectually, then had to scramble to get out of the way.

Armand's turn was too tight. The forklift slammed into the lowest rack of boats and its Stingray payload keeled sideways, slipping off the prongs. Mr. McMurray's pride and joy hit the warehouse floor with a sound like a fortyton Tupperware bowl. It slid to a stop right next to the unconscious Deputy Geiger.

Lopez spilled onto the ground behind the forklift. He'd lost his borrowed gun. He was trying to get to his feet, but it looked like he'd broken something.

Armand slammed the forklift in reverse, trying to free it from its tangle in the racks.

Another spray of shots came from the back of the warehouse— probably meant for Lopez—but one of them hit Armand's thigh in a burst of red mist.

Armand bellowed, lost control of the machine. The forklift was now backing up toward Lopez, who was scrambling to crawl out of the way, much too slow.

I cursed, ran to the forklift.

I jumped aboard and Armand paid me no attention. He was clutching his thigh, rocking, screaming more Cajun obscenities. I tried to hold on to him and keep us both on the forklift while figuring out the controls fast. I did it, sort of. I managed to slam the thing out of reverse and back into full forward, which sent us away from Lopez but on an unfortunate collision course with Deputies Geiger and Engels.

I tried for a turn, slammed full steam into Mr. McMurray's Stingray—pushing it toward the warehouse doors with an immense fiberglass GRRRRRINNNND. We hit the doors? the corrugated tin bowed, gave way. Then we were in the open, pushing the boat along the asphalt.

When I finally got the forklift stopped, the boat jockeys were staring at us in horror. The rich Mr. McMurray was gaping at his boat, which had just been delivered the hard way.

Armand was still yelling, his blood soaking his pants.

Out of the warehouse came Lopez—rearmed with Clyde's Bizon2, limping, leading Clyde Simms at gunpoint. Garrett wheeled along behind. Garrett looked okay, but Clyde sported a large new welt on his temple.

Sirens were wailing far off in the hills.

I exhaled for the first time in several minutes, then looked at our audience.

"Mr. McMurray," I said, "your boat is ready now."

CHAPTER 38

The front of the Travis County Jail is a severe concrete triangle, jutting toward West 11th Street like the prow of a battleship.

Vic Lopez led Maia and me inside the tiny foyer. He deposited his gun in a police locker, then signalled the security guard behind the bulletproof glass. We were buzzed through the double airlock door.

The guard on duty was busy explaining parole forms to a guy in a threadbare suit.

I looked at Lopez. "Do we sign in?"

"Yeah," he said. "Take a tag—doesn't matter what colour."

It's not often I get to be someone's attorney. I took a red tag.

"Bad enough you don't invite me to your parties," Maia murmured. "Now you want to replace me."

Her mood had not been sunny since she received word of our expedition to the marina. Lopez had, amazingly, gotten off with only a mild censure, thanks again to his prominent attention in the press for bringing in three dangerous men. Deputies Engels and Geiger had been taken to the hospital, where they, too, were receiving accolades from the press.

I'd been released after questioning, with no punishment but cold stares. Lopez had vouched that I'd saved his life by stopping the forklift, but I wasn't sure that had won me any points with Lopez's superiors. The marina had been closed until further notice.

Clyde Simms and Garrett had both been taken here—the county's maximum security facility for violent offenders.

Strangely enough, Armand, who'd started the whole thing, was the only one who got out on bail. Perhaps that was part of his plea bargain for copping to assault charges—something Clyde had not been willing to do. Perhaps the police simply failed to provide a Cajun interpreter when they read Armand his rights.

As for Garrett, his bail had been revoked. The fact that he hadn't directly resisted arrest was ignored. Maia's best speeches and tirades didn't help. Wheelchair or not, Garrett had now graduated to hardcore incarceration.