Don't Blink (22 page)

“He’s raising his gun!” I called out.

I listened to the squeak of Brison’s shoes against the white marble floor of the lobby as he shifted his stance. I was waiting for the next sound — the elevator door opening.

It didn’t come!

Brison called again,
“What’s he doing?”

I squinted at the monitor. I couldn’t tell at first — the image was flickering all over. When it finally steadied I could see Zambratta’s hand against the panel of buttons inside the elevator.

“He must be holding the door closed,” I said. “He’s got his —
oh, shit!
”

“What? What’s the matter now?”

It happened so fast.

Zambratta shot the lens of the security camera, the muffled sound of the smashing glass and metal followed by the monitor in front of me — half of it, at least — going black as night.

I poked my head up above the counter to tell Brison I was no longer his eyes.

“STAY DOWN!” he yelled at me as he dashed for the couch on the opposite wall. He ducked low behind the armrest, his gun and eyes never leaving the door of the elevator.

I dropped below the counter, holding my breath. The showdown had turned into a stalemate. Something — or someone — had to give. So what did it come down to? Who was the better shot?

Then I heard it. Off in the distance, the sound of the cavalry. Police sirens. Beautiful sirens. Brison must have called for backup. Or maybe it was the doorman, who’d dialed 911 out on the street. Either way …

What are you going to do now, Zamboni?

Little did I know, he’d already done it.

WOULD ZAMBRATTA TRY to shoot his way out of here?

Would he take the elevator back up to another floor, maybe even grab a hostage from one of the apartments? That wouldn’t be very hard to do.

I wondered if he could hear the approaching sirens. Even if he couldn’t, he had to know that staying put in the elevator wasn’t an option. It was his move, but he had to do something.

Clearly, Brison was on the same page.

He shouted at the closed door of the elevator, “You can’t stay in there, Zambratta! Come out, hands high.”

It was wishful thinking, I guess, but I couldn’t blame Brison for trying.

“You gave us too much time,” Brison continued, his voice growing more confident. “We’ve got men on every floor now. There’s nowhere for you to go.”

“Will you walk into my parlor?” said the Spider to the Fly
.

I’d been so wrapped up in the moment that I almost didn’t see it. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of something on the monitor above me. It was the half screen that still had a picture — the revolving door at the entrance to the building.

The door was moving.

At first I thought it was Brison’s backup pushing their way in. The cavalry had arrived!

But, no — I could see only one person and he wasn’t in uniform. He was in a business suit.

Oh, shit! It’s someone who lives in the building, someone coming home. This is bad!

“Go back outside!” I was about to yell.

Then I changed my mind.

The man spinning through the revolving door didn’t live in the building, but I recognized him.

“Brison!” I shouted instead, jumping up from the counter.
“Behind you!”

It was too late, though.

It was Brison who had given Zambratta too much time. The killer had called in his own cavalry — his own backup.

How could I ever forget this man? It was the cold-blooded killer from Lombardo’s Steakhouse.

I watched in horror as he calmly pumped two bullets into Brison. Jesus, he was good with that gun of his.

To my left I could hear the elevator door finally opening. Zambratta strolled out.

“About time,” he muttered to his cohort.

The sirens in the background were getting closer, but they weren’t close enough as Zambratta walked right up to me.

“Police protection. Highly overrated, if you ask me,” he said, raising his gun to my face.

I SLOWLY OPENED my eyes, kind of glad that I still had eyes to open. My lashes flickered like a silent movie. Everything was blurry. Even the voices around me seemed blurry, if that made any sense.

Where was I? Well, at least I was somewhere.

My head was killing me, and as I slowly reached up and felt along my hairline, I found a lump the size of a tennis ball. I guess I’d been walloped by the butt of Zambratta’s gun.

“Look who’s up,” someone said. “It’s Sleepin’ Beauty.”

All at once everything came into focus. I saw exactly where I was. I saw whom I was with. And I wished that I hadn’t seen any of it.

I was riding in the back of a stretch limousine, somewhere outside the city, judging from the speed of the vehicle. To make things a little worse, the car reeked of cigar smoke and gaudy aftershave.

To my right was Zambratta, and across from both of us, legs crossed and arms folded in satisfaction, was his boss.
The
boss.

Joseph D’zorio.

“Do you know who I am, Nick?” asked D’zorio. I was noticing that his ruddy complexion went well with his combed-back silver hair. The guy literally had a glow about him.

I nodded. “Yes, I know who you are.”

“Of course you do,” he said before cracking a smile. “But I bet you wish you didn’t right now. In fact, that’s your problem, isn’t it? You know me all too well.”

My shirt had been ripped open and there was no longer a panic button for me to press. Believe it or not, I was more concerned about something else.

Ever so casually I slid my hand over the pocket of my pants, feeling for the outline of the flash drive Monica Phalen had given me.

“Looking for this?” asked D’zorio.

He opened his clenched fist and I saw the flash drive nestled in the palm of his hand.

“I’m guessing, Nick, that you haven’t had the chance to see what’s on here.”

“No,” I said, “I haven’t seen it.”

“Neither have I. I imagine if we were to watch it together, we’d see things that we both already know.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Of course, what I
don’t
know is who else has seen what’s on here,” said D’zorio, tapping the flash drive with a knuckle.

I realized that this explained why I was still alive. It’s hard to get information out of a dead man.

“The only person who knows what’s on that drive was murdered,” I said. “On your orders, I’m sure. He was a good man, by the way.”

D’zorio rocked his head back and forth as if mulling things over. “You might be right,” he said. “Then again, you might be wrong. Maybe Derrick Phalen made more copies. What do you think, Carmine?”

Slouched back in the leather of the seat next to me, Zambratta shrugged. “It’s tough to say. But you can never be too sure with these things, no?”

“Is that why?” I asked D’zorio.

“Is that why
what
?” he asked back.

There was no point in playing dumb anymore. Regardless of what was on that flash drive and who else might have seen it, I knew more than enough on my own. “Is that why you framed Eddie Pinero instead of killing him outright? Less chance of retaliation? Because you can never be too sure?”

“No, that’s not it,” D’zorio said with a wave of his hand.

“Then what?” I asked.

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

“Don’t be so sure. Try me.”

D’zorio let go with a laugh as the limo suddenly came to a stop, the tires skidding on top of what sounded like gravel. Wherever we had been heading, we were there.

“Sorry, Nick,” is all he said.

But it was the way he said it, with a sense of finality. Joseph D’zorio wasn’t saying that he wouldn’t tell me his secret.

He was saying good-bye.

THE DOOR NEXT to me swung open with such force that I thought it might have been ripped from its hinges. D’zorio’s driver, who looked like he could bench-press New Jersey, said nothing as he waited for me to step out. Behind him I caught a glimpse of an abandoned warehouse, half burned to the ground. It had that look to it, anyway. Desolate and isolated.
The kind of place where no one can hear you scream
.

“Do you need some help getting out?” asked Zambratta. “Maybe a kick in the ass?”

“You don’t have to do this,” I said.

He pulled out his gun, jamming it hard against my head, just like he had in the alley by the pizza place.

“Actually, I do,” he said. “Your time has come.”

I swung one foot out of the limo, and then I stopped because of the sound I heard. An unexpected but quite wonderful sound.

Sirens
.

D’zorio’s driver immediately slammed the door shut, nearly taking my leg off. Before I’d even landed in my seat he was back behind the wheel.

These sirens. They were real.

Real close, too. Not like the ones I had heard from the lobby of my building before Zambratta had knocked me senseless. It was as if this time the cavalry had snuck up from behind, turning the sirens on at the last possible moment.
Surprise!

“Christ!” yelled Zambratta. “How?”

As in,
how the hell could they have found us here?

Zambratta raised his fist to bang on the glass divider — “Let’s go!” — but D’zorio’s driver was already a step ahead. We peeled out so fast I couldn’t help but think back to that night on the run in Darfur.

Hold on tight, because this is going to be one hairy ride …

I HAD GOTTEN that much right, no doubt about it. The limo swerved wildly right and left in a series of turns, the three of us getting tossed around in the back like salads. I still had no idea where we were, and the heavily tinted windows and all the contortions didn’t help. What little I could see was a continuous blur.

How fast were we going? Ninety miles an hour? A hundred? On a side road?

Even faster as we hit a straightaway.

The crystal glasses in the bar next to D’zorio were rattling louder and louder, but my ears remained trained on the police sirens. Were they getting closer — or farther away?

There was a chorus of them, and all I could hope was that no matter how fast we were going, the guys underneath those sirens were going just a little bit faster.
C’mon, boys, let ’er rip! Don’t be shy!

They weren’t.

Pop! Pop-pop!

Ping! Ping!

“They’re trying to shoot out the tires,” said Zambratta. As fast as you could say
double fisted
, the gun from inside his jacket was joined by the one that had been tucked into a shin holster.

“Wait!” said D’zorio. “Don’t.”

Don’t?

Zambratta looked at his boss like he had three heads. “This asshole has seen me kill two guys,” he said, waving what looked to be a Glock 9mm in my face. “They’ve got to know he’s in here.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said D’zorio. “If we pull over, no charges will stick. I can protect you, Carmine.”

Now it was my turn to look at D’zorio like he had three heads.
No charges will stick? How do you figure that one?
There I was, sitting on the wrong end of two guns and in the wrong car of a police chase, and
that’s
what I was wondering about? How D’zorio could protect his favorite henchman? But I couldn’t help myself. It seemed like such a bizarre thing for the boss to say. Like everybody but him was stupid.

I looked over at Carmine Zambratta, who was clearly thinking the same thing. Not for long, though. He just wasn’t buying it.

Instead, he began opening the sunroof.

“I’m telling you,” implored D’zorio. “I can protect you.”

“No, you can’t,” said Zambratta. “But I can protect myself.”

He jumped up through the open sunroof, guns blazing. Between the bullets flying and the wind whipping through the limo, I could barely hear myself think.

But I could
see
what D’zorio was about to do.

I just couldn’t believe it.

IT WAS AS IF D’zorio had been counting the shots like Dirty Harry, waiting for the moment when Zambratta would need to reload. That’s when he lunged forward and punched the sunroof button, the sliding glass panel trapping Zambratta half in and half out of the speeding car.

“What the fuck!” Zambratta yelled, his legs twisting helplessly beneath him. The Zamboni, D’zorio’s prized enforcer, was out of bullets and fully exposed up there. The rest was target practice for the police.

For the next few seconds, Zambratta screamed horribly as several bullets, maybe half a dozen, ripped through his flesh and bones. Then,
thump!

His lifeless body fell over against the top of the limo as one of his hands, the Glock 9mm still gripped in the palm,
plopped down through the narrow space of the sunroof. I watched the blood trickle off his fingertips.

D’zorio shook his head. “The guy never goddamn listened,” he said.
Oh, I see. So you killed him?

The limo suddenly swerved hard to the right, sending me tumbling across the seat. Pushing myself back up, I squinted through the dark tint of the windows. Those were no longer trees we were passing. They were cars.

We were getting on a major highway, picking up even more speed.

I yelled to D’zorio over the sirens. “So we pull over now, right? That’s what you said!”

“Not quite yet,” he answered.

He reached for a small compartment by his right arm that was no bigger than a box of tissues. If only that’s what was in it.
Christ, why does everyone have a gun except me?

Grabbing the handkerchief tucked into the breast pocket of his suit, D’zorio draped the cloth over his open palm.

“What are you doing?” I said.

But I knew what he was doing. He was making sure there’d be no gunshot residue on his hand.
When he killed me
.

“It’s like I said before, Nick. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

With that, he aimed the gun at my chest. Meanwhile, the limo was weaving like crazy in and out of lanes, but D’zorio’s hand was surprisingly steady. He’d done this before.

“Wait … WAIT!” I yelled. “You heard Zambratta — the police know I’m in here.”