Later, he’d consider the irony that all the flailing and the dog piling had disconnected the audio line for real.
First came the sole of a construction boot, filling up his view.
Tony Briggs gunned the Ranger out of the parking lot, cornering onto Saddle Creek, black duffel bag full of Uncle Eddie’s cash on the passenger seat beside him.
He’d avoid major traffic zones as far as he could. West to 50th, then south through the residential streets. He’d hop Grover to 42nd, then hit the interstate.
By the time anybody managed to sort through the pandemonium he’d left behind in the bar, he’d be long gone. He could ditch the truck at a rest stop or filling station. Boost another car, keep on going. With a quarter million in cash, plus the bogus IDs, he’d be able to lay low indefinitely.
Tony hadn’t traveled half a block before a set of flashers turned on behind him.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
In the rearview mirror, he saw the black-and-white coming up on his tail, lights swirling. He couldn’t believe the pure dumb luck. The unit must have been hanging out in the vacant car wash next to the bar, waiting for last call.
What, no violent criminals? These Northwestern jerk-offs didn’t have anything better to do?
He dug the .32 out of his coat pocket and considered how to play the situation. He didn’t want to waste a fellow cop on purpose, but he wasn’t stopping here. Somebody in the bar had called 911 by now; in another few minutes, the Homey would be crawling with radio cars and EMTs.
Tony checked the mirror again.
Make that two sets of flashers behind him. The squad units drifted apart while he watched, straddling the center line between them. They took up both lanes, flanking him. One of the units hit the spotlight; the beam hit the rearview mirror, half blinding him.
Unbelievable.
Up ahead, Saddle Creek fed into a roundabout. Tony entered and followed the circle around. One of the squad units followed him in, hitting the siren once. Bweep.
The other unit swung around, cutting off the return lane.
Could there be some kind of alert out on Grocery Boy’s truck?
No. Too quick. Unless…
A third cruiser rolled into play from the south, blocking the last turnout onto 50th Street.
Tony scrambled, trying to assess. He pulled the wheel left, hugging the turn. As he came around nearly full circle, he saw something curious.
A white van with no markings barreled out from behind the laundromat down the street. The van roared across 47th, across the parking lot of the car wash, across 48th, and into the parking lot of the Homey Inn.
As the van skidded to a halt, Tony pictured Matthew Worth, back in the bar, sitting on the other side of the table. Looking smug. Pieces clicked together in his mind, trying to fit.
The unit following him tapped the siren again. Bweewheep.
Tony checked the rearview again. He looked over his shoulder. Bottom line: It didn’t matter why he suddenly found himself inside a barricade.
Gangway, douchebags.
He punched the gas.
At least Grocery Boy’s pickup had some guts. Tony took the last curve of the roundabout hard, tires whining, gathering speed. He aimed the nose of the Ranger at the rear quarter panel of the cruiser up ahead.
The spotlight hit him in the eyes as he closed the distance. Tony hit the cruiser right where black paint met white.
The force of the impact rocked the truck, swinging the tail end around. The Ranger broadsided the cruiser with a long screech of steel on steel.
Tony jammed the gas pedal to the floor. He banged up over the curb, head hitting the roof of the cab. But he made it through, straightened the truck, and roared back down Saddle Creek in the direction he’d come.
He blew past the Homey, where people were already spilling out into the lot. The back doors of the white van stood open: He saw guys in black coats fighting their way into the building, initials OPD and DEA in reflective white letters on their backs.
The units following him out of the roundabout had gone to full sirens now. No more warnings.
Tony sped on, planning alternate routes in his head. Saddle Creek widened and turned south at the bottom of the hill; it was a major artery, meandering on a diagonal all the way through midtown.
His new best friends would be all over the radios. Once somebody assessed the basic situation at the bar—about two minutes from now, Tony speculated—they’d try to set up snares at the nearest interstate on-ramps.
He swerved to avoid oncoming traffic, shooting through the stop sign at the three-way intersection where Saddle Creek crossed Hamilton. Tires screeched, horns blared. Sirens howled.
Three cruisers behind him now. He saw a fourth speeding down the north branch up ahead; he didn’t know if the unit was responding to a radio call for the Homey or angling to intercept him.
It didn’t matter. Tony grimaced and bore down. He reached the junction on a collision course with the cruiser and faded to the right, plowing into the front end of the oncoming unit just head of the front wheels.
The squad car spun. Tony jumped another curb, clipped the stop sign there, and fishtailed into the southbound lane.
One of the units behind him stopped to help the car he’d hit. That left two on his tail, red stoplights ahead. Tony floored the gas, bore hard to the left, and pounded across the median into the oncoming lanes.
Cars swerved. Traffic parted.
He ran straight down the wrong side of Saddle Creek, trading sideview mirrors with a Plymouth Grand Voyager in a glittering spray of glass. Unit number one stayed on him. The other ran parallel, across the median, slowly drawing ahead.
At Leavenworth, Tony cut back over, shooting behind unit number two. Both squad units braked and swerved, but there wasn’t enough street left between them. They piled into each other.
Tony let out a whoop and sped on, approaching the very SaveMore where Grocery Boy and Gwen Mullen had cooked up their little scheme.
He couldn’t help glancing at the big glowing letters over the front of the store. They seemed to tower there, encircled in a hazy red corona.
At that moment, Tony wished more than anything else that he’d done them both.
The Mullen girl for Uncle Eddie; that had been his thinking. But it wasn’t right.
He should have done them both. He should have taken them outside, behind the building, knelt them down in the dark. Two bullets: one for Uncle Eddie, and one for Ray.
He snapped back to attention just in time to see the little Honda pull out in front of him. Young girl at the wheel, not even looking.
The stupid kid saw him coming too late; her eyes flew wide. No time to swerve. Tony stood on the brakes.
Everything slowed down.
The car stopped dead in front of him. He could see the girl flailing her arms. Somehow, even as he braced for impact, she managed to find the reverse gear. The little Honda scooted back up into the parking lot.
Tony couldn’t believe it. Attagirl.
Then the truck suddenly lost traction. The tires were screaming, shedding long smears of rubber; then, all at once, the street seemed to glide out from under him.
Hell no.
In that yawning moment, Tony had time to identify the problem: Dirty snow piles on either side of the parking lot entrance had melted into thick pads of ice.
He had time to feel the truck bounce over the curb, time to feel the wheel slip out of his hands. He had time to see a wall of pebbled concrete approaching fast. He even had time to think: I’m going to hit a goddamned grocery store.
Ray Salcedo would have liked that one.
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