The Best American Mystery Stories 2020

Wallace Stroby Nightbound

from At Home in the Dark

“Leave him,” Crissa said. “He’s dead.”

Adler was facedown in the alley, not moving, Martinez kneeling beside him. She could see the entry wound in Adler’s back, the blood soaking through his field jacket. From the location of the wound and the speed he was bleeding out, she knew he was gone already, or would be soon.

They had to keep moving. Back at the stash house, the Dominicans would be recovering from the flashbang she’d thrown on her way out the rear door. The three of them had been halfway down the alley when one of the Dominicans had stumbled out of the vacant brownstone, firing blindly. She’d snapped a shot at him with her Glock, chased him back inside. But Adler had caught a round, gone down hard.

Now Martinez looked up at her, panic in his eyes, all that was visible through the ski mask. She shifted the strap of the gear bag, heavy with money, to her left shoulder, grabbed him by the coat sleeve, pulled him up. “Move!”

Forty feet away was the mouth of the alley, the street beyond. To their left, more empty houses. To the right, a high chain-link fence that bordered a vacant lot. The only way out was ahead.

More shots behind them. She spun, saw two men run out into the alley, guns in their hands. She fired twice without aiming. One round ricocheted off blacktop, the other punched through a plywood-covered window. The men ducked back inside.

She fired another shot to keep them there, shoved Martinez forward. The street ahead was still empty. Where was Lopez? The Dominicans would be going out the front door as well, would try to circle around, block the alley. If they beat Lopez there, she and Martinez would be trapped.

Broken glass and crack vials crunched beneath her feet. She could hear Martinez panting behind her.

A screech of brakes, and the Buick pulled up at the end of the alley, Lopez at the wheel, the rear driver’s-side door already open.

She tossed the gear bag into the backseat, threw herself in after it. A shot sounded. Martinez grunted and fell against her.

“Get in!” Lopez said.

She gripped Martinez’s field jacket, pulled him to her, and they fell back onto the bag. His legs were still hanging out of the car when Lopez hit the gas. As the Buick lurched forward, she heard rounds strike the left rear fender. She pulled Martinez all the way in just as the Buick made a hard right turn. The momentum swung the door shut.

Martinez moaned. She rolled him off her onto the floor, sat up. They were in a residential area, dark houses on both sides of the street. The transfer car was still a couple of miles away.

“What happened back there?” Lopez said.

She pulled off her ski mask, had to catch her breath before she could speak. “Too many of them. Seven, maybe. At least. More than we thought.”

Through the rear window she saw headlights way back there, coming fast. No other cars around.

“They’re on us,” she said.

“Shit.” Lopez gunned the engine. The Buick swung a left, then another right onto a main thoroughfare, sped by darkened storefronts.

She pushed the mask into a jacket pocket. If she had to do a runner from the car, she didn’t want to leave it behind. There would be hair in the material, DNA. Evidence if the cops found it.

Martinez moaned again. She laid a gloved hand atop his. “Steady. You’re going to be all right.”

They’d scouted this area of East New York for weeks, timed the route, and she knew the chances of running into a squad car were slim. It was midnight shift change, the same reason the Dominicans chose that time for their weekly money pickup. Lopez was an ex-cop, knew the area, the players. Martinez was his brother-in-law. The two of them had found the stash house, gathered the intel, then reached out to her through a middleman. She was the one who’d brought in Adler.

Two blocks ahead was the business district, an intersection controlled at this hour by only a blinking yellow light. She looked back at the street behind. A pair of bright headlights swung out onto it, moving fast.

“They’re coming,” she said.

Martinez made a slow sign of the cross. His breath was ragged now, wheezing. Collapsed lung, she thought.

Lopez took the left at the yellow light, cut it too close, the driver’s-side tires bumping hard over the curb. A red light began to blink on the dash, in time with a soft beep.

“Fuck,” he said.

“What?”

“They must have hit the tank. We’re losing gas.”

Behind them a dark SUV made the turn, staying on their tail. High beams flashed on, lit the inside of the car. The Buick began to sputter and slow. The next turn was still a block ahead.

“Get down!” Lopez said.

The SUV swept into the left lane, came abreast of them. The front passenger-side window slid down, and a shotgun barrel came through.

Lopez slammed on the brakes. It threw her forward onto Martinez. She heard the roar of the gun, an explosion of glass. The Buick slewed to the right, hit the curb, rolled up on it, and came to a stop. The SUV braked just beyond it, then reversed.

She heard the shotgun being ratcheted. Another blast, and safety glass sprayed over her.

She jerked up on the latch of the passenger-side door, pushed it open, and rolled out onto the sidewalk, the Buick between her and the SUV.

How many men? Two at least, driver and shooter, but maybe others in back. Likely more on their way from the stash house in another vehicle. She couldn’t stay where she was, couldn’t run without presenting a target.

A third blast, this time into the rear driver’s side. The car rocked with the impact. She heard a door in the SUV open. They were getting out to finish it. Now, she thought.

She raised up, aimed the Glock over the roof of the Buick. The man with the shotgun stood there, lit by the streetlight. Shaven head, facial tattoo. She’d seen him at the stash house. He swung the muzzle toward her, and she fired twice, saw his head snap to the side. He fell back against the SUV, dropped the shotgun, and slid to the pavement.

She aimed through the open door of the SUV, but the driver was gone. The rear windows were tinted. She couldn’t see inside or through.

She steadied the Glock with both hands, waited. Would he come around the front or back? Were there more men inside, ready to open a side door, start firing?

The driver popped his head over the top of the SUV, pistol resting on the roof. She fired once to get him to duck, then lowered the muzzle and began shooting through the SUV’s side windows. The smoked glass exploded and collapsed. She could see the driver on the other side, saw him take the impact of the bullets. She kept firing until he fell out of sight. The rear of the SUV was empty.

Shell casings clinked on the sidewalk behind her. Gun smoke hung in the air. There’d been fifteen rounds in the Glock — ​fourteen in the magazine, one in the chamber. How many left?

She went around the front of the Buick. The man with the shotgun lay on his side. A rivulet of blood ran out from below him, shiny on the blacktop, coursed toward the gutter. She kicked the shotgun away, circled the SUV. The driver lay on his back, motionless, eyes open. She put a foot on his pistol, swept it into a storm drain.

In the Buick, Lopez was slumped over onto the passenger seat. He was dead or close to it. There was blood on the dashboard, the steering wheel, and what was left of the windshield. The fuel light still blinked red.

The rear door was pocked with buckshot holes. She pulled it open. Martinez lay still and silent on the floor. His own gun had slid partly out of his jacket pocket, the same model Glock as her own. She took it.

Headlights back at the cross street. She leaned into the car, hauled out the gear bag, swung the strap onto her shoulder.

A block ahead was another intersection, another blinking yellow light. To her right was a wide, unlit alley that ran behind a row of commercial buildings. Their storefronts would face onto that main street. High above, a bright half moon shone through thin clouds.

Headlights lit her, the vehicle coming fast. She took a last look at the Buick, then ran into the darkness of the alley.

Breathe. Think.

Fire escapes here, but their street-level ladders were raised and unreachable. She ran on, the bag thumping against her back. A cat darted from behind a dumpster, crossed her path, and disappeared.

She heard a vehicle brake on the street behind her. If it turned into the alley, she’d be caught in its headlights. They’d send someone to the other end too, to cut her off, try to pin her between them.

Ahead on the left was a one-story brick building with a loading dock, a green dumpster and a pile of discarded tires beside it. The metal pull-down gate was covered with graffiti. On the dock was a single fifty-five-gallon metal drum. She stuck the Glock in her belt, tossed the bag onto the dock, and climbed up after it.

There was a heavy padlock at the bottom of the gate. She tugged at it, but there was no give. She looked around, considered the dumpster for a moment. Knew that would be one of the first places they’d look.

No way in, and she couldn’t go back. She felt the first sharp edge of panic. She tilted the barrel toward her, heard its contents slosh, smelled motor oil. The drum was half full. She swung and wheeled it closer to the gate, then scrambled atop it. It rocked unsteadily beneath her feet.

The roof was gravel and tarpaper, bordered on all sides by three limp strands of barbed wire. Broken bottles glinted in the moonlight. There was a silent air-conditioning unit in one corner, its grille dark with rust. A few feet away was a closed wooden hatch.

She climbed back down, the barrel shaking. She could hear urgent voices in Spanish on the street back there. They’d be coming this way soon.

Hoisting the gear bag to her shoulder, she climbed carefully back onto the barrel, almost overbalanced. She heaved the bag onto the barbed-wire strands, weighing them down, then crawled onto and over it. Pulling the bag free, she rolled away from the edge, the roof creaking under her.

She backed away farther, out of eyesight from below. Seven men at the stash house. She’d killed two at the SUV. By now they might have called for more men. Likely why they hadn’t come down the alley yet. They were waiting for reinforcements.

She crawled toward the air-conditioning unit, got her back to it, tried to slow her breathing. The Glock’s magazine was empty, with a single round left in the chamber. She took the full clip from Martinez’s gun, transferred it to her own, and slapped it home. She pulled the bag toward her, unzipped and opened it. His Glock, her mask, and the empty magazine went inside.

She pointed her gun toward the edge of the roof, the butt resting on a thigh. There was nothing she could do about the drum. If they saw it, figured out what she’d done, then it would be all over. But she’d take out as many of them as she could before they got her.

With her left hand she rifled through the money. Packs of bills, some bank-strapped, some bound with rubber bands. Street money, hundreds, fifties, and twenties. She did a rough count in the moonlight. Maybe a hundred thousand altogether. Less than they’d expected. Lopez had said there might be as much as three hundred thousand at the stash house.

It hadn’t been worth it. Lopez, Martinez, and Adler all dead, and everything they’d planned gone to hell.

Headlights below. She looked over the edge of the roof, saw a dark SUV come to a stop just inside the alley. Its high beams lit dumpsters, fire escapes, and brick walls. A side door opened and two men got out, both carrying pistols. They’d search the alley on foot. The SUV stayed where it was, engine running.

She could hide here for now, wait them out. But soon they’d know she hadn’t come out on any of the neighboring streets, was still somewhere on this block.

How far away was the transfer car? Would she even be able to find it? It was a banged-up Volvo wagon, inconspicuous enough not to draw attention, too old and ugly to invite theft. Lopez had stolen it the day before in Yonkers, cracked the steering column so the ignition could be easily hot-wired again. She’d shown Martinez and Adler how to do it. If something went wrong or they got separated, anyone who could make it to the transfer car would still have a chance of getting clear. But now there was only her.

She gripped the gun, rested the back of her head against the cool metal of the air-conditioning unit, looked up at the moon, and waited.

When she looked at her watch again, it was one thirty. A half hour had passed. The SUV was still there. They’d turned off the engine but left on the headlights.

She crawled toward the front of the roof. The street was lined with dark stores, most with riot gates. No traffic. To the left, past the blinking yellow signal at the intersection, a storefront threw light on the sidewalk. Neon signs in the window read BURGERS PIZZA FRIED CHICKEN 24 HRS. There was a cab parked outside, no one at the wheel.

Stay or go? With the alley blocked, the only way out would be through the front, with the hope she could make it to the cab without being spotted, find the driver. Get away from here.

The other option was to wait until daylight. There would be more cars then, people. The searchers might have given up. But she didn’t want to stay here in the meantime, trapped like some animal, her fate being decided by someone or something else.

She took two banded packs of money from the gear bag, stuffed them in her jacket pockets. The bag would be a burden, would slow her down. She’d have to leave it here, come back another time, hope no one found it in the interim.

She zipped the bag back up, wedged it behind the air-conditioning unit, covered it with a loose piece of aluminum flashing. It would have to do. If they searched the roof and found it, it would just be her bad luck. There was nothing for it.

The hatch was locked from the inside, but it was old wood. She took out her buck knife, opened the three-inch blade, and went to work on the hinges, slicing away wood until the screws were loose. She pulled the hinges free, then pried up that side of the hatch high enough that she could reach in. Her fingers found a bolt. She opened it, then lifted the entire hatch free, set it gently on the roof.

An iron ladder led down into darkness. The familiar smells of motor oil and rubber drifted up. She closed the knife, put it away, took out her penlight. She shone the beam inside, saw an oil-stained concrete floor, a lift pit with no lift. More tires. She switched off the light, put it away.

Go on, she thought. You can’t stay here and wait for whatever’s coming.

She tucked the Glock in her waistband, sat on the edge of the opening, swung her legs in, felt for the rungs with her feet. She let herself down slowly. Five rungs. Six. Her feet touched concrete.

To the front was a bay door, a single window set high in its center letting in streetlight. On the other side of the lift pit, an open doorway led to an office.

She circled the pit, staying out of the light. Inside the office was a battered metal desk and a filing cabinet. The cabinet’s drawers were open and empty. The desktop was filmed with dust. On the floor was an auto parts calendar from 2015.

She took out the Glock, held it at her side. A wide-gridded riot gate covered the front window, faint streetlight coming through. To the right of it was a glass door in a recessed doorway, with cardboard taped over a missing panel. From here she had a clear view of the street in both directions. There was only one pole light working on the block, maybe twenty feet to her left. Beyond that, across the intersection, was the bright storefront. The cab was still there.

Headlights from the right. She stepped away from the door, back into the shadows, watched a dark Navigator approach and slow.

She took steady breaths. Don’t panic, she thought. Watch. Wait.

Another pair of lights came from the opposite direction. It was a low-slung two-door Acura. The vehicles stopped abreast of each other, window to window, the drivers talking. The car drove off.

The Navigator crossed the intersection, pulled up behind the taxi. Three men she hadn’t seen before got out and went inside the restaurant. After a few minutes they emerged and got back in the Navigator. She watched it pull away.

They might be doing circles, grids, looking for her. The Acura too. One or more of them might be coming back this way before long. It was time to move.

With her left hand, she unlocked the door. It had swollen in its frame, wouldn’t open. She pulled hard, shook it. It rattled and creaked as it came free. Cool night air flowed in. She put the Glock in her pocket, kept her hand on it.

Outside, she cut left up the sidewalk, walking fast but not running. She crossed the street, stayed close to the storefronts on the other side. Ahead the yellow light blinked, lit the blacktop.

On the other side of the intersection, she stopped short of the restaurant, looked through a side window. It was bright and stark inside. Plastic tables and chairs, a counter window with thick bulletproof glass. Behind it a young Black man in a white T-shirt and apron was texting on a phone, thumbs busy.

A single table was occupied. A thin, dark-skinned man with glasses and graying hair was reading a newspaper.

She tried the rear door of the cab, wanting to get in, out of sight. It was locked. She went up to the window near where the man sat, tapped a knuckle on the glass. The second time she did it, he looked up from his paper. The counterman had put down his phone, was watching her.

She pointed at the cab. The thin man nodded briskly, took off his glasses and stowed them in a jacket pocket. He got up, left the newspaper on the table.

She waited beside the taxi, looking in both directions. No headlights, no police cruisers, no sirens.

The thin man came outside. “Miss, may I help you?”

He had an accent she couldn’t place, West Africa or somewhere in the Caribbean.

“I need a ride,” she said. “To somewhere not far from here.”

He looked around, then back at her. “Are you alone?”

“Yes.” Her breathing grew faster. She wanted to get in the cab, off the street.

“Where are you coming from?” he said.

“Queens. My car broke down. Can we go?”

With her left hand, she worked loose a bill from the pack. Her other hand stayed on the gun.

She folded the bill, held it out. It was a hundred.

“Just a few blocks,” she said. “But we need to leave now.”

He looked in the direction the Navigator had gone, then at her, the hand still in her pocket.

“Now,” she said. “Let’s go. Please.”

He took out keys, hit the remote button, unlocked the cab. The headlights blipped.

“Of course,” he said. “Anywhere you want.”

She watched the signs on the deserted streets they passed, giving him directions through the grid in the Plexiglas divider. When they came to a block that looked familiar, she said, “Slow down.”

She recognized the neighborhood now. Warehouses, muffler shops, and garages. Ahead was the side street where they’d left the Volvo. A dark White Castle on the corner had been their landmark.

“Turn left up there,” she said.

From a wide alley on the right, an SUV charged out, blocked the street. The Navigator. The taxi driver braked hard, sounded the horn, stopped when he saw the men spilling out of the Navigator into the cab’s headlights.

She threw herself across the backseat, clawed at the passenger door handle just as the first shots came through the cab’s windshield. She got the door open, tumbled out onto the ground. The cab was still rolling. It thumped solidly into the side of the Navigator.

She pulled out the Glock, brought it up. Three men were still shooting into the cab, glass and upholstery exploding. They hadn’t seen her get out.

She stood, took one of them down with a center-mass chest shot, swung her muzzle toward the next one, fired, and missed. The round blew out a side window in the Navigator. The two men dropped down behind the cover of the cab.

Farther down the street behind her, another vehicle was coming fast. The Acura. She ran into the alley the Navigator had come out of, heard the pop of guns behind her. A bullet ricocheted off the pavement to her right. She cut across the alley into a vacant lot, ran through thigh-high weeds. More shots. Something tugged at the tail of her jacket.

The Acura turned down the alley after her. There were men on foot as well, coming through the weeds. But she was away from the streetlamps now, and they had no clear target. She hurdled an overturned shopping cart and then she was back on cracked sidewalk, another empty street, this one wider. There was an elevated roadway ahead, cars speeding along it, a dark underpass below. She heard the men behind her, didn’t look back.

She crossed the street, ran for the shadows of the underpass, cars humming above. The Acura turned left, caught her in its headlights. She made the underpass, lungs burning, came out on the other side. There on the right was a lot full of tractor trailers, surrounded by a high fence topped with razor wire. Parked in front of the closed gate, facing away from her, was a police cruiser.

She stumbled onto the weedy shoulder at the fence’s far corner, about thirty feet behind the cruiser. She couldn’t breathe. To her right, a dirt access road ran parallel to the overpass.

The cruiser’s interior light was on. A uniform cop sat behind the wheel, drinking from a Styrofoam cup.

The Acura emerged from the underpass, the front passenger window gliding down. The car slowed and came to a stop, headlamps illuminating the cruiser. The uniform turned to look back at it. Traffic rumbled by above.

The Acura didn’t move. After a minute the window slid closed again, and the car made a long, slow U-turn away from the cruiser. Giving up.

She raised the Glock above her head and squeezed the trigger three times. The sharp cracks split the night. The Acura’s tires squealed as it pulled away fast. The cruiser’s rollers flashed into life, and the cop swung it into a hard U-turn, headed after the car, siren rising and falling.

Across the street, the lot was empty.

She sat down in the dirt of the access road, couldn’t seem to get enough air. Head between her knees, she resisted the urge to be sick. She put the Glock away, felt the right side of her jacket, the rent where a bullet had passed through the material without touching her. Pure luck, she thought. The only reason you’re alive.

From the access road, an embankment led up to the overpass. She started up it, heard another siren. A second cruiser sped past below, lights rolling, following the first. Backup.

Once on the elevated roadway, there was a shoulder wide enough to walk on. A car flew past, so close she felt its slipstream. Another slowed, beeped its horn, came abreast of her. She put a hand on the Glock in her pocket. A man yelled something at her from the passenger-side window, then the car sped up and passed her.

She walked on. There was a major intersection ahead, where the highway dropped down to cross another main road. On one side of the road was a dark strip mall. On the other, a three-story building with a bright lobby and a sign above it that read PARKWAY MOTOR INN.

She let two cars pass, then sprinted across the road toward the motel. The parking lot was less than half full. She stopped to get her breath back, brushed grit and dirt from her clothes as best she could.

She gripped the big silver handle of the glass door, pulled. It wouldn’t open. Inside the lobby, a turbaned clerk stood behind bulletproof glass at the front desk. He frowned at her.

Wearily she took out the hundred she’d offered the cabdriver, unfolded it, and pressed it against the glass. She held it there, waited. The door buzzed.

She opened it and went in. She was done running.

The clerk took the two hundreds she gave him without a word, offered no change, and asked for no ID. A key card attached to a diamond-shaped piece of green plastic came back in the pass-through slot. Room 110.

The lobby smelled of stale cigarette smoke and disinfectant. There was a skinny ATM near the front desk counter, a couple of worn chairs, and planters full of dusty plastic flowers.

She went down the orange-carpeted hallway. An ice machine rattled in an alcove at the end of the corridor. She heard grunting from behind a door she passed.

The room was as she’d expected. Mirror on the ceiling over the bed. Dresser and nightstand, a single chair, and no windows. White shag carpet and a TV bolted to a brace on the wall. The cigarette smell was strong in here as well.

A door led to an adjoining room. The connecting door was locked. She put an ear to it. No sound inside. She closed her door again, bolted it.

The bathroom was small, the sink mineral-stained. She realized then how thirsty she was, ran water, cupped some and drank, then spit it out. It tasted of metal.

The chair went against the hall door, the top rail wedged under the knob. It would give her warning at least, if the clerk or someone else with a key tried to come in. Then she took the Glock into the bathroom, set it on the toilet tank, undressed, and showered, let the spray wash the last bits of safety glass from her hair, the tension from her shoulders. She would be sore and aching tomorrow.

When she was done, she dried off with a towel that smelled like burned hair, dressed again. She checked the doors a final time, then sat on the edge of the bed. She thought about the cabdriver. He was dead, almost certainly, and for no other reason than he had tried to help her.

She stretched out atop the comforter, not trusting the sheets, looked at her watch. Three a.m. Only three hours since they’d gone in the back door of the stash house. You’re alive, she thought, and a lot of people aren’t.

She needed sleep. Tomorrow she’d get a cab to take her into Manhattan. From Penn Station she’d catch a train south to New Jersey and home. It wouldn’t be safe to go back for the money tomorrow. They’d still be looking for her. She’d have to wait, return another time, hope it was still there when she did.

She moved the Glock to the bed, in easy reach. She was too tired to turn out the lights, too tired to do anything. She looked up at her reflection and closed her eyes.

She woke in silence, not sure why, raised her watch. Four thirty.

Muscles stiff, she slid off the bed, picked up the Glock, went to the hall door, and listened. Outside, the hum of the ice machine. Then, from the direction of the lobby, the quiet voices of men, too low for her to make out the words. After a moment she realized they were speaking Spanish. Her stomach tightened.

She slipped on the jacket and gloves, pocketed the Glock, got out her knife. She went to the adjoining door. Still no sound from the other side. She worked the blade into the jamb of the inner door, pried at the deadbolt. The wood there was soft. The door opened easily.

This room was the mirror image of hers. She went in, closed both connecting doors behind her. On the far side of the room was another door. She used the knife again. The next room had the same setup but this time no connecting door. It was the last room in the hall.

She closed the knife, went to the hall door, looked through the spyhole, got a distorted, fish-eye view of the hallway, the vending alcove with the ice machine. Next to it a stairwell door.

She took out the Glock, held her breath. The voices down the hall had quieted. Easing the door open, she looked back toward 110. Three Dominicans stood outside the door. One of them held a gun to the back of the turbaned clerk’s head. The clerk slid a key card into the reader, and when the door unlocked, they tried to push him inside, met the resistance of the chair. One of them hit the door with his shoulder, knocked it open. She heard the chair fall. They shoved the clerk inside, crowded in behind him. The third man stayed in the hall.

“Hey,” she said, and raised the Glock.

He turned toward her, gun coming up, and she fired, hit him in the shoulder. It spun him around and dropped him. She ran to the fire door, slammed her hip into the panic bar, found herself in a dim concrete stairwell. To the left, stairs ran up. Straight ahead, another fire door, this one leading outside, with a sign that read EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY! ALARM WILL SOUND!

Shots from down the hall. A round hit the door frame behind her. She kicked the bar with the sole of her foot, jolted it open. An alarm began to bleat loudly. Outside was the rear parking lot. The way they’d expect her to go.

She took the stairs two at a time. At the third landing was a shorter flight that led to the roof. The alarm kept on, echoed through the stairwell.

Another door, another panic bar. Then she was out on a blacktop roof. She could see the lights of the highway, the overpass. Far to the west, the glow of Manhattan.

In the front lot three dark SUVs were idling near the entrance, headlights on. One of them was the Navigator. She could see the missing window, the collision damage. Another car pulled into the lot behind them. The Acura.

People were stumbling out of the lobby doors into the lot now, some half dressed, unsure what to do, where to go. There were sirens in the distance.

From the side of the roof a fire escape ran down, its last level a hinged ladder. Flashing lights came down the highway and across the overpass, a fire engine and a police cruiser. They pulled into the lot.

She put away the Glock, swung out onto the fire escape, went down quickly. On the bottom rungs, her weight carried the hinged section down. She dropped the last couple feet to the pavement, landed wrong. Her ankle twisted under her, and she fell hard. A surge of pain ran up her leg.

Now the night was filled with sirens, people shouting, and the steady blare of the fire alarm. She got to her feet, braced herself against the wall, tested the ankle. It hurt but would bear her weight. She limped to the front corner of the building. Two fire trucks in the lot now, another cruiser. Red and blue lights bathed the vehicles, the people milling around.

The Acura and two of the SUVs were blocked in by the trucks. The third one, a dark Chevy Tahoe, was about fifteen feet from her, parked away from the others, engine running. The passenger door was ajar, the seat there empty. She could see the man at the wheel.

Pain flashing in her foot, she limped across the distance. When she reached the Tahoe, she pulled the door wider, pointed the Glock inside. The driver turned, saw the gun. Before he could react, she swung up and into the seat, pulled the door shut behind her. “Drive.”

It was one of the men from the stash house who’d fired at them as they ran in the alley. He was younger than the others, with long hair slicked back. When he didn’t respond, she aimed the gun at his groin. “Your call.”

The interior of the Tahoe was washed in emergency lights, red, blue, and red again.

“You gonna pull that trigger?” he said. “All these cops around? I don’t think so.”

“I’m betting in all this confusion no one notices. You want to find out?”

An automatic was wedged between the driver’s seat and the console, a 9mm Steyr. She pulled it out, put it in her left coat pocket.

“You the one we been chasing, eh?” he said. “Didn’t think it would be a woman.”

“Go.”

He looked at her, then reversed, swung the Tahoe around clear of the emergency vehicles, pointed it out of the lot. Through the motel doors she could see that the lobby was full of firefighters and cops. There were horns blowing as people were trying to leave, their cars blocked in.

The Tahoe bumped onto the highway, turned right. Another cruiser, lights and siren going, passed them from the opposite direction, turned into the lot.

“Where?” he said. Staying cool.

“Just drive.”

She tried to calm herself, figure out her next move. They were headed east, deeper into Brooklyn, the streets empty, the sirens fading behind them. Ahead on the right was the empty lot of a darkened pancake house.

She pointed. “Pull over in there.”

He slowed, glided into the lot.

“Kill the lights,” she said. “And get out.”

He turned off the headlights, looked at her. “You the one got the money?”

She didn’t answer.

“If you didn’t, you know where it is, right?”

“Why?”

“Maybe I make you a deal.”

“Like what?”

“You take me to it. You give me half. Then I take you wherever you want to go.”

“What about your bosses?”

“Fuck ’em.”

She looked at him, weighing it. “Why should I trust you?”

“You got the guns. What do I have?”

“A lot of balls, rip off your own people that way.”

“Money’s money.”

“Half is too much for just a ride.”

“A ride and a lie. You held a gun on me, was nothing I could do. I let you out somewhere up the road, don’t know where you went. Part of it’s true, right?”

“You think they’ll believe that?”

“They’ll have to, won’t they?”

“Or I could just shoot you and take your ride. Not give you anything.”

“You could do that. But I don’t think you will.”

In the console compartment, a cell phone began to buzz.

“They’re looking for me already,” he said. “Soon they’re gonna know what happened.”

He was right. It would only be a matter of time before someone found them.

“Put it in park,” she said.

He did, turned to her. “What do you say?”

“Get out.”

“You’re making a mistake.”

“Out.”

He opened the door, stepped down. With the Glock still on him, she climbed over the console and into the driver’s seat.

“They’ll never stop looking for you,” he said. “And when they find you... You’ll be begging them to kill you. But first you’ll give up the money. And then you’ll have nothing, puta. Not even your life.”

She thought about Adler and Martinez and Lopez. The cabdriver. Everything she’d been through tonight.

“It’ll be bad for you,” he said. “And it’ll go on for a long time.”

“I believe you,” she said, and shot him.

She left the Tahoe on a dark street in Bay Ridge, two blocks from the Verrazano, keys still in the ignition. She walked down to the bayfront, squeezed through a hole in a chain-link fence, reached the cracked seawall. She tossed the two guns out into the water. The sky to the east had lightened to a pale blue.

She walked until she found a subway station, took the R train into Manhattan. Three hours later she was home.

“Slow down up here,” she said. “But don’t stop.”

She powered the Town Car’s rear window halfway down. The tire shop was ahead on the right. More people around now, more traffic, but a lot of the storefronts were still dark, riot gates in place, businesses that were gone for good.

Luis, the driver, looked at her in the rearview. “This isn’t a good area. Even in the daytime. I know. I used to live here.”

“Go around the block again.”

She looked at the shop’s recessed entrance as they passed. No one inside she could see, the door still closed.

She’d waited two days to come back, taken the train up from home. At Penn Station in Manhattan, she’d called a car service from a burner cell, used a fake name.

They circled the block, came back around.

“Pull up here,” she said.

He steered the Town Car to the curb. She looked at the shop door, the darkness beyond it, wondered what waited for her there.

Three possibilities. The money was still here, hadn’t been found. Or the Dominicans had searched the building and roof, taken it. Or they were there in the tire shop now, or somewhere close by, watching, waiting for someone to come back.

The Town Car stuck out here. It would look wrong to have it standing outside the shop too long.

“Wait five minutes,” she said. “Then come back to get me.” She opened her door.

“Maybe you should tell me what this is all about.”

“Five minutes,” she said. “That’s all it will take. One way or the other.”

She shut the door behind her. Her gloved right hand went to the .32 Beretta Tomcat in the pocket of her leather car coat. She limped into the doorway of the tire shop. Behind her the Town Car pulled back into traffic.

She tried the knob. It was still unlocked. Inside, she eased the door shut behind her, drew the Tomcat.

The office was as she’d left it. In the bay, a shaft of light came through the roof hatch, lit dust motes. She went to the ladder, listened. No voices, no footsteps.

Up the ladder to the roof. It was empty. To the west, an airliner traced a white line across the sky.

She made her way to the air-conditioning unit, pulled back the flashing, and there was the gear bag. She knelt, unzipped it. The money was inside, along with Martinez’s gun and the empty magazine. Her mask. Everything there.

She zipped the bag back up, slung it over her shoulder, stuck the Tomcat in her belt, climbed down the ladder.

Back in the office, she stood just inside the door, watched the street, the cars going by, feeling exposed. She glanced at her watch. Five minutes since Luis had dropped her off.

A dark SUV with smoked windows pulled up outside. She backed farther into the office shadows, took out the Tomcat. The SUV stayed there. She waited for someone to get out, come inside. She raised the gun.

Horns blew. The SUV drove on. Two minutes later the Town Car slid to the curb.

Deep breath. She put the gun away, opened the door. The front passenger window came down. Luis leaned over. “Sorry. Traffic. Everything okay?”

She went out quickly, ignoring the pain in her ankle. There was no sign of the SUV. She opened the rear door of the Town Car, tossed in the gear bag, climbed in after it, and pulled the door shut.

She met his eyes in the rearview.

“Just something that belonged to me,” she said. “Something I had to leave behind.”

“And now?”

“Let’s go back to Penn.”

He waited for a break in traffic, then made a U-turn across both lanes, headed back the way they’d come. She looked out the rear window. No SUV, no one following them.

They passed the all-night restaurant, crowded now, a line at the counter. She’d ask Rathka, her lawyer, to find out the cabdriver’s name, if he had family. If so, she’d figure out a way to get part of the money to them. It was all she could do, but it wasn’t enough. No amount would ever be enough.

“Luis, do me a favor?”

“Sure. What?”

She took four hundreds from her pocket, leaned over the seat, and held them out. “Tell your dispatcher when you got the call to pick me up, there was no one there.”

He looked at the bills.

“You never brought me out here. You never saw me at all,” she said. “Can you deal with that?”

“That’s a lot of money.”

“Can you?”

He hesitated. “I think so.”

“Then that’s good for both of us. Take it.”

He did.

She sat back, looked out the window at the streets passing by, kept one hand on the gear bag.

“Glad you didn’t hang around too long back there,” he said. “That’s a rough neighborhood.”

“I know,” she said.