“Problem.” He gave her a wide stare. “Seat belt’s stuck.”
“Is it your hands? Did you get hurt?”
“No, it’s the buckle. I keep trying and it won’t unlock.”
“Move ’em, let me.” Heat had to put her chin in the water to be able to reach the fastener. Somehow it had jammed from the impact or because of all the wet. “Damn.” She brought her face up and the look they shared in one instant spoke volumes about how bad it was — and how little time they had.
“Can you squirm out?” He tried. Sideways, upward, nothing. “Reach down. Can you put your seat back?”
Rook leaned down for the release, needing to submerge his right ear to do it. “Fuck me. That’s jammed, too.” He pressed his feet against the fire wall and shoved backward with all he had. Still no good. “You got a knife?” She shook no.
The car shifted slightly in the flow and more surge rolled in. The swirl was up to his chin now and Heat had to press her head against the roof liner to get air herself. He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them he said, “Get out while you can.”
“No.”
“Don’t be stupid. Why both of us?” He shook his head and made a small wake with his chin. “Stupid. You go. Maybe you can take them out and come back before…” He left it there. They both knew there was no time for that.
“Try again. Harder.”
He reached down and did his best. “Not budging.”
“One more try,” she said, trying not to panic. And he did try.
He craned his neck to keep his mouth clear and gripped her hand. “I love you, Nikki Heat.”
“Fuck you,” she shouted. “Fuck you, Rook, you are not dying.” And all the feelings, all the built-up anger — all the rage — her shrink had tried to get her to confront, erupted. Nikki gulped some air and dove under.
Heat knew it would be pure desperation. But desperation was where they were. In training, she had heard about it. She had even watched a slow-motion demonstration video on the Internet proving it would work. That wasn’t her concern. Nikki wanted only one thing: For it to work now.
She grabbed the sash just above the buckle with her left hand and tugged it as far away from his body as she could. When she had cleared enough room for it to fit, with her right hand Nikki brought her Sig Sauer down, carefully aimed it away from his thigh, pressed the muzzle against the seat belt — and pulled the trigger.
The gun fired.
Underwater, and in that oscillating light, she couldn’t see if it worked. But she didn’t have to. The belt in her left hand went slack. Heat yanked the fabric loose from the eye of the buckle and felt him rise and float free.
They crawled out the wide-open back window swimming butterfly strokes across the trunk to keep low enough not to be seen over the hood of the BearCat that loomed over them gunning its engine. Nikki mimed for him to follow her, and she slipped into the water. The current caught her by surprise. Rook snagged her by the collar to keep the jet from propelling her forward into full view of their attackers.
Heat collected herself, filled her lungs, and submerged. Grabbing hold of the BMW next to them, she pulled herself hand over hand under the width of its bumper until she reached its opposite side. Her searing lungs cried out for oxygen and, when Nikki broke the surface, she inhaled too greedily, choking on briny water. Rook emerged seconds later, also gasping. They signaled each other they were ready, then fought the stream, hauling themselves up the incline, using car-door handles as grips. At one point she caught movement in the passenger window of the truck and saw Zarek Braun staring right at her. He said something to his driver and then brought up his HK assault carbine, swiveling it to the gunport.
“Gun.” Giving up on stealth, Heat churned her knees against the cascade with Rook hauling it, too, right on her tail. They managed to get far enough behind the vehicle to get in Braun’s blind spot so when the short burst from the automatic weapon came, it only spit lead into the painted brick wall behind them. If they could just reach the sidewalk, they might escape, but the BearCat shifted into reverse backing up the ramp. Soon it would be even with them, making them easy targets or blocking their way out.
Heat knew there was no point shooting. The truck had ballistic glass windows and steel plating capable of resisting a full AK-47 magazine. Which gave Nikki an idea. She hollered, “Stay close,” and changed course, running right for the BearCat.
Pilot fish avoided getting bitten by sharks by riding on top of them where they can’t be reached. If bullets from the outside couldn’t pierce the armor, neither could they from the inside. She hopped on the rear bumper and lunged for the roof rack. Heat extended her free hand to Rook, who snatched her forearm so she could lock onto his wrist. His wet shoe slipped on the runner, and the motion of the vehicle nearly pulled them both off. But she held strong until he could get a foot on the metal.
The side and rear windows still exposed them, in fact, she could see Zarek Braun coming toward them through one of them. “Up top, fast.” Rook grasped the top rail of the metal ladder and climbed up, two steps at a clip. Heat rolled onto the roof beside him just as the truck backed out onto the street.
It stopped, idling.
Heat and Rook panted, alive for now, barely hearing their own breaths in the tempest. Sirens in the night offered hope, but that faded as they wailed off into the distance away from them.
Somewhere beneath them a latch popped. Nikki drew her Sig and put her head on a swivel scanning 360s for movement. “There,” said Rook. A Glock came up from the driver’s side. It fired wildly over their heads and then disappeared. Heat waited. Didn’t take the bait. Held for what she knew would be coming. And when a top slice of Zarek Braun’s head popped up on the passenger side with his assault rifle, she fired. Nikki figured both her shots ended up misses, but it got him to duck and take cover inside.
She checked her cell phone. Waterlogged. Dead.
“Mine, too,” said Rook.
They felt the BearCat jar as the transmission kicked into drive. Heat said, “Get a grip.”
“Oh, if I had a nickel,” he replied.
The driver floored it, and the motion forced their bodies backward. But halfway up the block, he slammed the brakes, and momentum carried them the opposite way. Both of them nearly slid off right over the windshield. The truck then lurched into reverse, at speed. The wheelman executed an abrupt turn, which slammed the rear tires against the curb. Heat and Rook both got bounced up and down, but managed to stay on for the next forward acceleration that sped them down the block and into a hairpin right onto the next street. Centripetal force swung Nikki’s legs over the side. Rook let go of the bar with his near hand and clutched her jacket while she swung one knee over the rail and used it to haul herself up and roll flat again beside him on the black steel plate.
A prolific rooster-tail wake churned behind them on Pearl Street. Heat figured their speed at near seventy. At one of the numerous alleys around there, this one named Coenties Slip, the driver hit the brakes hard and steered them into a sharp left that felt like it would roll the truck. This time it was Rook’s turn to slip over the side. Only one leg went over, though, and he made a quick recovery just before the BearCat plowed through the park benches and cement chess tables in the neighborhood plaza at Water Street, nearly sending both of them off the top.
The truck stopped there. Idling again.
An angry bear at rest.
Heat shivered. The temperature was mild, in the sixties, but she was soaked through. Her fingers were growing numb. She forgot all that to listen in the maelstrom for what might come next. Rook caught her eye when they both detected some kind of movement below.