Inside the truck, Juan finally lowered his window. He climbed halfway out and aimed a Glock 22 at the van. He fired a wild volley of shots—until the pickup driver shouted, “Look out!”
Too late, Juan turned to see the front fender of the cement mixer a heartbeat before it clipped him just beneath his collar. His clothes caught on the fender and he was plucked out of the truck. Both legs were smashed as he was ripped backward.
Swerving left, Pitt barely escaped a collision of his own. As the van screeched across the cement mixer’s path, just missing its front bumper, a spray of bullet holes opened along the side panel and up the passenger door. Only the last bullet did any damage, splintering the crate and nicking Giordino’s hand. Nerve reflex caused him to release his grip, and the crate plunged to the pavement.
Panicked, the cement mixer’s driver slammed on the brakes. Briefly clutching the fender, Juan slid off and under the left front wheel. The opposite tire found the dropped crate, and the mixer bounced over both. The massive vehicle skidded to a halt, but only after flattening the remains of Juan and the crate under its dual rear wheels.
Stunned by the sight in his rearview mirror, the pickup’s driver lost rein of his own vehicle. He drifted right and barreled into a Chevy Cobalt parked at the curb. The four-door pickup rode up onto the little car’s trunk before grinding to a halt. A bang filled the air as the pickup’s front tire cut into the car’s shredded body and burst.
Across the street, the utility van went from careening past the cement mixer to nearly rear-ending an SUV. The side street was clogged with traffic, and Pitt locked the brakes to slide to a halt. Crowds of people filled the sidewalks and street, blocking the traffic ahead. Pitt noticed flashing lights reflecting off the storefront windows; the police car was approaching the scene.
“I think,” Pitt said, “this would be a good time to kiss our utility van good-bye.”
Giordino shook his head. “And I was just getting rather attached to h
er.” He found a roll of electrical tape and began wrapping his bleeding hand.
“You okay?” Pitt asked, just realizing his friend had been injured.
“I may have to give up two-fisted drinking for a spell, but I’ll live.”
They jumped out of the van and blended into the crowd that began to surround the cement mixer. Ignoring Juan’s flattened body, they moved to examine the smashed box.
There was little to see. A mangled assortment of wires, circuit boards, and metal casings were spread under the truck like a disemboweled robot. Whatever the box had contained, it was well beyond any attempt to resurrect.
They slid away from the mixer as two police officers approached with their sidearms drawn. Pitt and Giordino worked their way toward the pickup truck, using the mass of onlookers to avoid detection. The crowds were thicker on the sidewalk, so they joined the throng moving alongside the mangled sedan and truck. With a sense of dread, Pitt stepped forward and peered inside the pickup.
Both right doors were flung open, but Ann and the other occupants were nowhere to be seen.
19
PABLO HAD WATCHED THE DESTRUCTION OF THE crate with disbelief. The death of his fellow gunman registered as little more than a nuisance, but losing the box made his face turn crimson. He vented his rage on Ann.
“What do you know of the device?” He jabbed his pistol against her.
Ann gritted her teeth and said nothing.
“Pablo . . . the police are approaching.” The driver’s face was pale, and his fingers shook atop the steering wheel.
Pablo glared at Ann. “You will talk later. Do as I say or I will kill you here. Now, get out of the car.”
Ann followed him out the passenger-side door as the driver grabbed a light jacket and draped it over her bound hands. She glanced back toward the utility van but failed to see Pitt or Giordino. She had been as shocked as Pablo to see them appear alongside the truck, and she wondered how they had been able to track her.
As they stepped onto the sidewalk, a young man in a black silk shirt accosted the driver.
“That’s my car,” he said, pointing to the smashed Chevy. “Look what you did.”
Pablo stepped over to him and discretely mashed his pistol into the man’s stomach. “Be quiet or die,” he said in a low voice.
The man stumbled backward, nodding profusely. His eyes wide, he turned and fled down the street.
Pablo stepped back and grabbed Ann by the arm, then glanced over his shoulder. He saw the police officers exit their car, and then he studied the crowd. He quickly spotted two Americans in work clothes looking under the cement mixer’s right rear wheels. He had recognized them when their van had pulled alongside as the men who piloted the Drake’s submersible.
He turned and nudged Ann forward. “Move.”
“What about Juan?” The driver gazed toward the cement mixer with a look of shock.
Pablo said nothing, ignoring the body of his dead partner as he guided Ann into the center of the busy sidewalk.