Dead Simple (36 page)

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Authors: Jon Land

BOOK: Dead Simple
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Sal Belamo did his best to negotiate what had become an obstacle course. But the maneuvering forced him to ease back on the accelerator, making them an even easier target for the chopper as it surged forward again.
“Keep to the left!” Blaine said, needing space so he and Johnny could offer return fire from the rig’s right side. Liz, on the left, handled the reloading chores.
“Easy for you to say …”
Blaine leaned out the window, close enough to touch the cars alongside him, and pumped shell after shell at the chopper from the shotgun.
“Indian!” he signaled when his ammo was gone.
Wareagle followed with an equally futile barrage of submachine-gun
fire, drawing sparks from contact against the chopper’s frame and nothing more. The pilot knew combat, that much was obvious. He had chosen the perfect attack angle, meant to minimize the target his craft offered in return.
Johnny lurched back inside just before the next round of fire splintered the cab. One of the bullets drew a gasp from Liz, as the chopper overflew them with another burst, which stitched a jagged design across the rig’s hood.
“Liz!” Blaine screamed, and slid across the seat to her.
The right side of Liz’s back was leaking blood through her jacket. Impossible to tell the severity of the wound now, never mind dress it in these conditions. After easing her gently back against the seat and clipping the shoulder harness in place to keep her restrained, Blaine turned to Johnny Wareagle.
“Cover me.”
With that he angled himself out the shattered back window, stretching toward the tanker. Johnny Wareagle’s covering fire consisted of a submachine gun in either hand clacking away at the chopper, which suffered a minor hit and veered away, belching black smoke.
The hit gave Blaine the time he needed to grab the spool of black hose affixed to the head of the tanker near the cab. He yanked it loose and drew it back inside the cab with him.
 
“
T
remble, get us up even with them! Othell, you get ready to take the wheel!” Tyrell ordered.
“Huh?”
“You heard me. When we’re close enough, Tremble’s going to jump across and climb onto the tanker. That’s when you grab the wheel.”
Lem Trumble waited for the road to widen again before he shot past the two remaining pursuers just ahead of them. The truck bucked as he floored it, flying past their two vehicles and tearing apart the passenger side of the truck in the process. Tremble got the truck so close to the tanker the two were almost touching. Before he allowed Othell Vance to take the wheel, he wanted to be sure of reaching the ladder that extended down at the rear of the tanker’s right side.
The transition on the accelerator pedal was made easily, though not the steering wheel. Until Othell gained control, the truck rode the tanker steel to steel, shedding its driver’s side now. Finally Tremble managed to grasp the ladder with both hands and jerk himself through the window, pushing off with his feet and holding fast as the truck slowed.
“Don’t fall back, Othell,” Tyrell ordered, starting to pull himself out the passenger window for the hood. “Keep us up against it.”
“What are you doing?”
“Going for a walk.”
 
 
S
till belching smoke and flitting through the air, the chopper banked around and angled for another attack.
Inside the cab, Blaine grabbed the twelve-gauge, chambered a shell, and stuffed the end of the hose down the length of the barrel until it rested square against the firing chamber, wedged in tight.
The chopper attacked low and almost sideways, seeming to defy gravity. Bullets blazed toward the cab relentlessly, as Blaine squeezed himself back out the right-hand window, dragging the unspooling hose with him. The chopper’s nose was angled down, machine-gun fire clacking in a constant burst, when Blaine aimed the shotgun upward and fired.
The hose jetted out the barrel, powered by the force of the shotgun shell, rising into the air dead on line with the helicopter’s churning rotor blade. The hose caught near the base and was reeled in by the rotor’s churn. The chopper started to spin out of control, while the rotor coughed and spit, still sucking hose.
The chopper turned onto its side and soared straight over the tanker, one of its landing pods actually scraping the cab’s roof as it dropped. Still twirling madly, it crashed onto the highway, right in the tanker’s path.
“Hold on!” Sal Belamo warned, flinching, in the instant before he barreled into the smoking chopper. What was left of the rig’s windshield disintegrated, spraying the cab with thick glass shards that made Sal, Blaine, and Johnny turn away to protect their faces. McCracken threw his body over Liz to shield her from the flying fragments, as well as from the black hosing that had whiplashed back when the chopper crashed into the pavement.
Impact with the tanker, meanwhile, hurled the helicopter’s carcass up and over the rig, where it slammed into the last of Tyrell’s pursuing vehicles near West 158th Street. The resulting explosion was so dizzyingly bright that the crowd squeezed into Gus Sabella’s trailer winced before exchanging high fives and passing around cans of beer Gus had been saving for his stakeout of the site that night.
 
T
remble had just pulled Jack Tyrell from the truck’s hood onto the tanker when the flaming chopper carcass soared over them.
“Just us now, Tremble,” Tyrell said, after the crash that had claimed Othell Vance too. “Just us to finish this right.”
 
“
T
rouble, boss,” Sal Belamo said in the cab. The truck had begun vibrating and shimmying madly, and Blaine could tell Sal could barely control it. “I think we lost a tie rod. We don’t do something, I won’t be able to turn this baby onto the bridge.”
The dashboard clock read 2:53.
“Let me see what I can do,” Blaine said.
T
he wind was playing havoc with the efforts of Muldoon’s crew to get the temporary bridge span secured and raised. Only three of the six cables extending down from the largest of the three freight helicopters had been threaded through the hooks. The other three dangled stubbornly, resisting all efforts of the workers to fasten them into place. Muldoon watched as a pair of men finally grasped one and looped it home. Another worker, meanwhile, leaned over the edge of the deck plate, while a partner held fast to his belt. He snared the fifth cable, the effort nearly pulling both of them over the edge before he recovered his balance and shoved its hooked end into the bolt.
Even with all the cables in place, there was the very real possibility that this single chopper would lack the load capacity to hoist the entire assemblage back upward. After all, it had taken
three
helicopters to ferry just the I-beams here, before the weight of the deck plate had been added to the equation. But there was no way two choppers could manage the task together, which left Muldoon with this one chance he had no choice but to rely on.
Come on,
he thought, eyes on the lone remaining cable.
Just one more to go …
Muldoon turned his gaze briefly toward the Henry Hudson Parkway and could now see the tanker charging for the bridge. He swung back to the trio of men trying frantically to secure the final cable long enough to work its massive curved hook through the waiting eyebolt. Then, to the
shock of Public Safety Commissioner Robert Corrothers, Muldoon stepped out atop the deck plate, which glowed bright beneath the sun.
“Everyone get out of here now!”
The volunteer crew looked at him.
“I said
now
!
”
No one on the bridge or off it could remember Muldoon’s ever raising his voice before. The mere sound was enough to send the remaining workers scurrying away toward New Jersey, while he sidestepped gingerly and reached up and out to snare the final cable.
 
J
ohnny Wareagle grasped Blaine’s legs at the ankles as McCracken slid across the hood and lowered himself in line with the rig’s right front tire.
Sal Belamo, meanwhile, struggled with all his strength to keep the steering wheel pinned to the left, the only way to keep the tanker steady. He had no choice but to downshift and slow the rig, afraid of reaching the GWB’s entrance at 178th Street before he could manage the sharp curl up the on-ramp.
Blaine could feel the heat of the engine through the badly damaged grille; the hood itself was still charred and smoking from the crushing impact with the chopper. He probed ahead with his hands, hearing the grinding sound that emanated from the right wheel well. Another foot down and he could actually see the dislocated tie rod scraping against the pavement, the noise reminding him distressingly of fingernails on a blackboard.
Aware the slightest jolt in any direction would result in his being sucked under by the wheel, Blaine stretched his hand down to grab hold of the tie rod.
 
T
he slowing of the tanker helped Tremble ease forward, clinging to the catwalk for support while creeping along the tanker’s passenger side. Before him, he could see two of the familiar figures that had been inside the cab extended over the hood now, one of them having dropped totally out of sight.
He looked back, waved Jack Tyrell on, then pulled a grenade from his belt.
 
J
ohnny Wareagle had just readjusted his own position to keep a better grasp on McCracken, when he glimpsed the massive shape of Tyrell’s henchman moving toward the cab. Knowing Blaine couldn’t hear if he shouted out, Johnny tugged hard on his ankles, hoping to alert him to danger before the Indian released his grasp and slid away. Tremble had just reached the cab and was looking backward for Tyrell, when Johnny twisted his body around and thrust himself over the roof.
Tremble saw only a blur as he reached a hand up to draw the pin from the grenade. Impact drove the grenade from his grasp and sent it skittering across the tanker’s surface.
 
 
B
laine knew something was wrong as soon as he felt Johnny tug on his ankles. He grabbed firm hold of the rig’s reinforced grille, ready when Johnny released his grasp. McCracken’s legs instantly slipped forward, sliding across the hood. He managed to keep them directly above his body, which was facedown above the road surface speeding by barely a yard from his eyes.
Awkwardly, Blaine began shimmying to the right, toward the snapped tie rod. The exit for the on-ramp to the bridge’s upper deck was less than two hundred yards away on the left now; no way Sal Belamo could possibly swing onto it unless the tie rod was jammed back into place. But the grille was steaming hot, and Blaine’s flesh began to sting. Hot air from the engine blasted his face, and the flying sparks stung his eyes. On top of everything else, dangling upside down from the truck with the road rushing by beneath him made him dizzy, almost nauseous, and he came up short when he groped for the tie rod.
You gonna quit, you son of a bitch? You gonna let all my hard work go to waste?
Blaine was certain he heard Buck Torrey’s voice badgering him again. He figured if he glanced up at the hood, old Buck would be leaning over it, shaking an angry fist.
What the hell did I bother for?
Not to worry, Blaine wanted to tell him, as he inched a bit farther sideways and this time managed to lock a hand onto the broken tie rod.
But he needed a better angle to get it back into place and let his left leg slide all the way off the hood. It banged against the grille, nearly tearing his precarious grasp free and spilling him beneath the truck. He gritted his teeth and managed to maintain his one-armed hold, and finally he succeeded in pushing the tie rod back into its slot.
 
S
al Belamo suddenly felt the rig’s steering wheel stop fighting him. He still didn’t have total control, but he had enough to twist the tanker sharply to the left onto the swirling ramp. Holding the wheel steady as the ramp gradually straightened, he breathed a sigh of relief at the feel of the bridge’s smooth whistling surface beneath him.
Then he caught his first clear glimpse of the freight helicopter that hovered uneasily above the upper deck, with heavy steel cables sprouting from beneath it.
“What the hell is that?” he was asking himself out loud, when a hand reached in through the window and grabbed hold of the wheel.
 
J
ohnny Wareagle had seen Jack Tyrell dash past him along the far catwalk, but kept his focus on the grenade. He dove through the air, landing atop the tanker and sliding across it. The grenade had plopped over onto the
catwalk, where it rolled slightly back and forth. Johnny reached it and saw the handle was miraculously still in place, enabling him to snare the grenade in his grasp and keep the handle pinned.
He heard the thuds of heavy footsteps rushing toward him across the tanker. Tyrell’s giant henchmen slammed kick after kick into him, before stooping to shove him over the edge.
Johnny felt his legs tip over the side and grabbed the catwalk at the last moment with his single hand, the other continuing to clutch the grenade. When the giant leaned farther over to finish the job, Johnny hurled both his legs upward and caught him with a glancing blow that staggered him backwards. Enough time stolen for Johnny to hurdle back onto the deck, as the rig began to waver madly from side to side.
 
H
aving done what he set out to accomplish, Blaine thrust himself back atop the hood and was almost instantly thrown off, left to cling to anything he could find. Holding on desperately to the lip of the hood, he saw Jack Tyrell lying across the cab’s roof, a hand snaked inside through the window, trying to wrest control of the wheel from Sal Belamo. Blaine watched Tyrell yank a pistol from his belt with his free hand and aim it toward the window.
Blaine dove across the hood, lunging for the roof. He grabbed hold of Tyrell’s arm and jerked it away as he pulled the trigger. The bullet sliced sideways, just missing McCracken’s leg. Tyrell groped for Blaine, and the two of them slid down onto the hood with Tyrell on top, the gun still in his hand.
 
T
he cable had fought him, the wind had fought him, even the steel plate had fought him, but Warren Muldoon stubbornly managed to grab firm hold of the hook and then wedge it through the eyebolt. He turned to see the tanker coming fast and began signaling upward for the chopper to hoist his creation up and away.
Muldoon lurched forward as the steel patch tore free of its bonds. He lunged to the pavement and landed clumsily, turning his ankle. He staggered back to his feet and stumbled off toward New Jersey, eyes cheating back to find the tanker surging into the final stretch.
As Muldoon watched, the helicopter lifted the steel plate free of the span, opening the chasm once more.
 
T
remble’s scarred and pitted face had turned angry red. The huge Indian stood between him and the cab. He was about to fail Jackie, let him down, lose the trust of the one man who had ever made him feel good about himself. He continued savagely attacking, but the Indian deftly avoided his blows and lunges, parrying Tremble’s attacks and forcing him onto the defensive.
Finally, out of sheer frustration, Tremble launched himself into a headlong
charge. He rammed his shoulder into the Indian’s midsection and forced him back hard against the cab, impact enough to snap the spine of a normal man.
But Johnny Wareagle was hardly a normal man. He felt the powerful and scarred hands, which looked like mangled slabs of beef, close on his throat and remembered the grenade still clutched in his right hand.
The giant’s hot, rancid mouth was open wide enough for Johnny to jam the grenade between his teeth and yank the handle free. He then joined both his hands under the giant’s shoulders.
Tremble had started to gag, hands flailing to yank the grenade out, when Johnny hurled him off the side of the tanker. His head and face exploded as he hit the line of wrecks on the bridge, the entire pile shifting in the blast.
 
B
laine’s head had ended up inside the cab while the rest of him shifted from side to side upon the hood. Tyrell had locked one hand on his throat, while the other angled a pistol for Blaine’s face. Blaine thrust a single hand out and snared Tyrell’s wrist before he could fire.
Jackie Terror was grinning madly, slowly righting his aim upon the man who had fucked up his plans for the last time.
But Sal Belamo felt for the brake pedal and jammed it down. Tyrell was thrown backwards onto the hood, grasp lost on his pistol, which came to a clanking halt just beyond his reach.
Blaine smashed him in the back of the head with one hand, while the other snared the black hose that was slithering like a snake through the cab. When Tyrell lunged to reach for his pistol, Blaine twirled the hose around his chest and torso, wrapping it tight. Instead of trying to free himself, Tyrell desperately kept going for his gun and coming up just short.
“Fifty yards, boss!” Sal warned, opening the driver’s door as Blaine steadied himself on the hood.
Inside the cab, Johnny Wareagle eased Liz through the windshield, into Blaine’s waiting grasp.
“It’s coming up!” Sal screamed.
“Jump!” Blaine ordered.
He could see the familiar jagged chasm in the bridge clearly ahead, as Johnny lunged from a shattered window and Sal Belamo pushed himself out the driver’s door. On the hood, Tyrell finally snared his pistol and turned to fire. But Blaine had already tumbled off the tanker’s side, with Liz squeezed against him. The tanker sped forward on its own, Jack Tyrell still struggling to right his gun back at McCracken, the hose wrapped around him like a tentacle.
Blaine hit the pavement hard, cushioning the impact for Liz.
Tyrell pulled free of the tangle of hosing, rising atop the hood with gun in hand and turning, just as the tanker crested over the chasm. His eyes bulged, his hands stretched outward as if to grasp for the wind.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
Blaine heard Tyrell’s banshee-like scream as the tanker toppled through the air. He was close enough to watch it drop through the gap in the lower deck, with Jackie Terror riding it like a surfboard until the last moment before it splashed into the Hudson River.
The explosion came seconds later, in a massive air burst that sent a bubble of flames shrouded by water up out of the Hudson. The incredible percussion dragged a stack of vehicles from both spans into the churning waters below.
Blaine was hugging Liz tight against him when he felt the shock wave hit him, sucking all the oxygen it could from the air. He jammed both his hands through a ruined van’s door handle, pinning Liz between the van and his body. Piles of cars were shifting everywhere, vehicles spinning free and darting wildly in all directions. Blaine could feel the van straining, but it held, wreckage jamming tightly against it.

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