The Furies (4 page)

He was going to suggest this idea to Ariel but before he could stand up and scurry to her position, the door to the nearest stairwell flew open. Three men with their own assault rifles rushed outside and sprayed bullets across the rooftop.

Hal spun around as soon as he heard the noise, but he was completely exposed to the barrage. One bullet hit him in the thigh, another in the stomach, another in the chest. Before he collapsed, he managed to point his rifle at one of the attackers and blast off the top of his skull. And in that same instant Ariel rose from her hiding place behind the vent and fired her Glock at another gunman, stopping him with a shot that ripped through his neck.

The third guy, though, was fast and aggressive, a thug with a shaved head and a spiderweb tattoo on his face. He ran toward Ariel, firing his rifle like mad, and one of the bullets clipped her right shoulder before she could duck. She dropped her Glock and fell on her side, sprawling a couple of yards behind the vent. The thug raced toward her, coming in for the kill, but now John was in motion too, leaving his own hiding place and charging across the rooftop at high speed. Although John didn't have a gun, he had the advantage of surprise. The thug didn't see him coming from the other side of the roof, and he couldn't hear anything either because he was still blasting away with his rifle. When the bastard reached the vent he fired another burst at Ariel, hitting her bare legs and making her scream. But as he pointed the gun at her torso, ready to finish her off, John tackled him from behind. He knocked the thug down and shoved his face into the tar and grit of the rooftop.

The assault rifle was trapped underneath the guy's torso, and John didn't give him a chance to use it. He knelt on the thug's back and pounded his head, over and over, pummeling him into unconsciousness. John hadn't beaten anyone like this in almost ten years, but it all came back to him in a second. This was his specialty when he ran with the Disciples, giving beatdowns to anyone who stole from the gang's drug crews. It never bothered him back then, but now he felt sick as he hammered the thug's skull. His stomach roiled and his knuckles ached.

Once he was sure the bastard was out cold, he rushed over to Ariel. Her shoulder wasn't so bad—the bullet had just grazed her there—but her legs were bleeding from deep wounds in her calves and thighs. He needed to get her to an emergency room,
fast.
Bending over, he slid one arm under her back and the other under her blood-spattered knees. Ariel let out a gasp as he lifted her, and she writhed in his arms as he carried her across the roof. The old frayed notebook slipped out of the waistband of her skirt, but despite the pain she grabbed the thing and clutched it against her chest.

Although the door to the row house's stairwell stood wide open, John ran past it. More thugs might still be in the building. It would be safer to try one of the other row houses on the block. He lugged Ariel to the roof of the neighboring building, but the emergency-exit door there was locked, and so was the door on the roof of the next row house. On the roof of the third building, though, the door was ajar. John dashed inside and went down the steps, trying not to joggle Ariel too much.

This row house was an ordinary apartment building rather than a hotel. Once John reached the ground floor he peered through a small glass square near the top of the building's front door. The sidewalk in front of the Evergreen Inn was empty now. The loitering teenagers must've run off when they heard the gunfire. John's Kia was parked just twenty yards away, sitting in a circle of darkness under a broken streetlight.

He looked up and down Evergreen Avenue, searching for signs of movement. Although he didn't see anyone, he was still plenty worried. One of the soldiers from the other gang could be hiding in a doorway or behind one of the parked cars. And if the asshole had a gun, he could pop them in a second. But John had no choice. He had to make a run for it. He prepared himself by taking his car keys out of his pocket and tightening his grip on Ariel, whose eyes were closed now. Then he threw his shoulder against the door and hurtled outside.

He bent low, keeping his head down as he raced toward his car. Twenty yards, just twenty yards. He was halfway there in a couple of seconds. He pressed the
UNLOCK
button on his car keys and the Kia's hazard lights flashed yellow in the darkness.

He was diving for the back door on the driver's side when he heard the first gunshots. The bullets ripped through the air just above his head, but he didn't stop, didn't hesitate for a moment. He opened the door and threw Ariel into the backseat. She might've yelped, she might've screamed, but he couldn't hear her because he'd already slammed the door shut and jumped into the driver's seat. As he started the engine another barrage smashed into the back of the car, the bullets thunking into the trunk and the rear fender, but an instant later he was barreling down Evergreen Avenue, his foot stomping the accelerator, zero to sixty in seven seconds. He made a sharp shrieking left turn on Halsey Street, then blew through three red lights and made a right on Howard Avenue.

John drove like a madman, making left and right turns every couple of blocks. He didn't slow down until they were miles away from Bushwick and he was certain that no one was following. They were in an industrial part of Brooklyn now, surrounded by warehouses. John was hopelessly lost, but up ahead he saw a square blue sign with an H on it and an arrow pointing left. They were close to a hospital.

He looked in the rearview mirror. Ariel lay on her side, half on and half off the backseat. She was motionless and her face was very pale. John couldn't tell if she was breathing. “Ariel!” he shouted. “
Ariel!
”

He glanced at her legs but couldn't bear to look at them. The Kia's backseat was slick with her blood. John considered trying to bandage the bullet wounds, but he knew nothing about first aid. Better to get her to the hospital as quickly as possible. He turned left at the sign and hit the gas.

“Just hang on,” he shouted at the backseat. “I'm taking you to the emergency room. We'll be there in two minutes.”

John wasn't really expecting a response, but Ariel opened her eyes and spoke in a loud, commanding voice: “Stop the car.”

His chest tightened. She was alive! “No, look, we're going to the—”

“I said
stop the car!
” Ariel sat upright. Grimacing in pain, she lifted her right arm and pointed at him. “Stop
right now
or I'll throw myself out the door!”

Bewildered, John hit the brake. He looked over his shoulder as the car lurched to a halt. “Ariel, this is crazy. We have to—”

“You saw … what they tried to do.” Gasping, she struggled to get the words out. “They're determined … to kill me. If we go to the hospital … they'll find us there. They'll finish me off.”

“Then let's call the cops. We'll tell them what happened and they'll come to the emergency room. No one's gonna hurt you if there's cops in the room.”

She grimaced again, squeezing her eyes shut. John was amazed she could stay conscious, much less talk to him. She still clutched her old brown notebook against her chest. “No … that won't work. I can't explain right now … but you have to believe me.”

John shook his head. “Well, what do you want me to do? I can't let you bleed to death.”

“Then get back here … and help me stop the bleeding.”

“I'm not a doctor! I don't know how to help you!”

Ariel's eyelids fluttered, and for a moment it looked like she was going to pass out again. But she bit her lower lip and managed to hang on. “Don't worry. I'll tell you what to do.”

THREE

Two hours later John drove across the Betsy Ross Bridge. The Delaware River was coal black under the 2:00
A.M.
sky. The skyscrapers of downtown Philly stood on the horizon, about six miles to the southwest, still glittering even at this hour of the night. But John didn't plan to go that far. Kensington was two miles closer, a patchwork of dark streets between downtown and the river.

He looked in the rearview mirror for what must've been the hundredth time. Ariel was still asleep. If he listened carefully he could hear her breathing. She'd drifted off soon after they left Brooklyn, after John bandaged her legs using strips of fabric torn from her blouse. But it was a fitful sleep, because she was in terrible pain. She moaned and whimpered and occasionally spoke a few delirious words. She cried out, “Mother, help me!” a couple of times, and once she mumbled a sentence that sounded like poetry. It was pretty strange stuff. But everything about Ariel was strange.

The most likely explanation, John thought, was that she was connected to the mafia. She was the daughter of some powerful mob boss, maybe. Or maybe she was the boss's young wife, but she was fooling around on the side. Maybe she'd decided to go out and have some fun tonight, so she took her bodyguards to the bar in Greenwich Village and started looking for a playmate. But her husband figured out what was going on and sent his soldiers to the hotel in Bushwick to punish her and the bodyguards. That would explain the viciousness of the attack. And also why Ariel refused to go to the police or the hospital.

But it didn't explain her behavior during the assault, her coolness under fire. Could your average mob wife handle a Glock as well as Ariel could? Or give instructions on how to bandage a bullet wound? And what about the notebook she still clutched against her chest while she slept? What was that all about?

John let out a long, tired breath. It didn't make sense. If he were acting rationally, he'd deliver Ariel to the nearest emergency room, whether she liked it or not. But John wasn't rational. All his life he'd made choices with his heart, not his head. Although he'd just met Ariel, he was powerfully attracted to her. Part of it was sexual attraction, sure, but the sexiest thing about her was that she'd made him feel good about himself. She seemed to see something admirable in him, something rare and fine. And her regard for him, her belief in his goodness, had an enormous effect. Even though Ariel had nearly gotten him killed, he was ready to do anything for her. He wanted to justify her faith in him.

After crossing the bridge and driving three miles south along the Delaware River, John got off the highway at the Girard Avenue exit. It was a wide street lined with fast-food joints and car-repair shops, but as he drove closer to Kensington the commercial establishments grew scarce. By the time he turned right on Front Street, which ran under the tracks of the elevated train line, the only activity he saw was drug dealing. It was late, even for the dealers, but the cars were still coming in from the suburbs and stopping at the street corners.

The customers were mostly teenagers, white kids with money, hoping to score some coke or pot and then get the hell out of Philadelphia. The corner crews were also teenagers, but mostly black or Latino or some mix of the two. Swiftly and efficiently, they kept the line of cars moving along. One kid took the money, another ran to the stash house, another delivered the drugs and another kept a lookout for the cops. Every ten minutes or so, an older kid—in his late teens or early twenties—would come around the corner and observe the whole operation, making sure that no one in the crew was slipping any cash into his pockets. That had been John's job when he ran with the Disciples. The thug, the enforcer.

He got into the business the same way all the other kids did. At the age of nine he started hanging out at the corners and getting to know the people who worked there. Then he did a few odd jobs for them, getting paid twenty dollars a night to work as a lookout or a decoy. All his friends were doing the same thing, so he didn't take it too seriously. It was just an easy way to make some money. His real ambition in life was to become a pitcher for the Phillies. He had a pretty good throwing arm.

His mom knew what he did at night, but she couldn't stop him. Although her intentions were good, her life had been full of disappointment. She'd had bad luck with men, starting with John's father, who'd walked out on her as soon as she got pregnant. She'd had bad luck at work, too, drifting from one shitty waitressing job to another. And when John was thirteen she got hit by the shittiest piece of luck yet, a fist-sized tumor in her abdomen. The doctors cut it out and put her on chemotherapy, but she died a year later and John got sent to a foster home. He didn't stay there long, though. Within a few months he was working full time for the Disciples.

His corner was Front Street and Somerset. He started dealing there at the age of fourteen and didn't leave until he was twenty-three. For the drug business, that was a spectacularly long run. Most kids got killed or sent to prison long before they reached the five-year mark. But John was good at the job. He had a knack for sensing things ahead of time: when the cops were going to crack down on Kensington, when the soldiers from the Latin Kings were coming to visit his corner. Or maybe he was just lucky. He seemed to have just as much good luck as his mother had bad.

His best piece of luck was meeting Father Murphy. The priest ran a baseball league for the neighborhood kids, and sometimes John would watch the games in the vacant lot behind St. Anne's Church. Murphy knew John was in the Disciples, but the old man would talk baseball with him anyway. The guy was tremendously knowledgeable about the game—and the Phillies in particular—and over time they started talking about other things as well. By this point, John was one of the Disciples' captains, in charge of running several corners, and that was a dangerous position. He was in a winner-take-all situation, competing with the three other captains in Kensington. One of them, a ruthless prick named Salazar, wanted to take over John's corners and was already threatening to kill him. Father Murphy knew all this, and one day he offered John some valuable advice. “Get out of town, son,” he said. “Go join the army.”