Predator Page 26

  “Right.”

  “We don’t even know if those are Santana’s men,” Becker complained. “It could be some strangers who picked up the cell phone.”

  Parker cast a cynical glance at his detective. “I don’t think strangers would be playing with turning it on and off.”

  Miranda peered down the alleyway. Men were clanging up a large metal ramp to the open back of the box truck. Its cargo area looked about twenty feet long. She couldn’t make out faces.

  “I can’t identify anyone. We’re too far away.” She wished for the binoculars they always carried back in Atlanta.

  “Then we need to get closer,” Parker said.

  “They’ll spot the Lexus if we do that, Mr. Parker.” In the backseat, Becker rubbed his arms. He hadn’t taken out his gun yet.

  “Then we’ll have to go on foot,” Parker said. “Close the doors quietly. There’s enough debris along this street to hide behind to make sure we’re not seen.”

  “Are you sure you want to go out there, Parker?” Miranda’s nerves were being influenced by Becker’s.

  “Very sure.”

  Parker really wanted to get this guy.

  He was right. They could take him. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Miranda eased herself out of the car and gently let the door latch close.

  Crouching down, she hurried over to a stack of plastic containers with Becker trotting close behind.

  Still too far away to get a good look.

  The air was cold. She could hear the lapping of the water against the pier. Across the expanse, another row of lights belonging to its neighbor twinkled in the night sky.

  Beyond the piers, the dark water stretched to the inner harbor, then farther out to the Atlantic. The vastness of it seemed as overwhelming as their task tonight.

  Taking down a billionaire crime boss was not something you did every day.

  Craning her neck, she could see Parker on the other side of the road taking cover behind the SUV’s hood. Holloway crouched behind him.

  About thirty feet away sat a forklift along the pier’s edge. Miranda heard Parker murmur something, then he and Holloway sprang out of their hiding place and sprinted to a spot behind the machinery.

  Good idea. They’d have to do a lateral leapfrog to get to their target.

  In the distance on her side, a pile of wooden pallets were stacked up against the brick wall of the building near the rear door to some fish handling operation.

  Across the lane she caught Parker’s eye. He’d spotted them, too.

  He gave her a nod.

  “C’mon, Becker,” she whispered, and bending down, she scooted over the road, dodging the snow along the edge of the asphalt.

  When she reached the pallets, she and Becker had to squat low behind them. The stack was only a few feet tall.

  “You know we’re heading straight into Santana’s trap, don’t you, Steele?” Becker hissed between gasps for air.

  “I know that.”

  “He got us here with the signal from that prepaid phone.”

  Becker was stating the obvious. “We followed the signal on purpose. It’s not like it was in Boston Common. This time we’re going to turn the tables on him.”

  “Are you sure about that? There are a lot of men up there.”

  She peered into the darkness and the pool of light around the truck. Looked like a work light had been hung from the ceiling in the truck’s cargo area, but they were still too far to make out faces.

  One more leap ought to do it.

  “Follow me,” she whispered to Becker.

  Stepping out from behind the palettes, she raced several yards down to a dark colored sedan that had been parked there overnight. From the corner of her eye, she saw Parker scooting along the pier with Holloway. They ended up behind a big blue metal trash bin. It must have had some scraps it in. Night gulls were circling around it, cawing.

  Hoping the birds would disguise any noises they’d made, Miranda squinted around the end of the sedan’s trunk.

  Now she had a better view of the scene.

  Light streamed from a tall brick-lined arch in the building. The entrance to one of the main fish processors here, no doubt. A fish warehouse.

  After a moment, a hefty man emerged from the entrance. He was pushing a hand truck loaded with two large plastic containers.

  The man was in jeans and a work jacket. He had a thin dark beard and wore a knit cap on his head.

  She could tell he was muscular, but she didn’t recognize him.

  He pushed his load up the box truck’s aluminum ramp where another man waited to unload the containers. For a moment she could see them in the truck’s ceiling light, then they disappeared toward the back.

  Miranda didn’t recognize the guy on the truck, either. When the hand truck was empty, the bearded guy rattled down the ramp and into the building for another load.

  Meanwhile a second dude emerged from under the arch with another container-laden hand truck. This guy was stockier, shorter, and he had a thicker beard.

  Miranda pulled out her phone and pressed the Talk button. “So far, I see two workman loading containers. I don’t recognize them. There’s a third inside the truck. I don’t know him, either.”

  Sloan came on the line. “From this angle, we’ve got a good view of the cab. Someone’s behind the wheel, but it’s too dark to tell who it is. The cab is big enough to hold six or seven people, though.”

  So a whole crew of big bulky dudes. That didn’t bode well.

  “Hold on. I see movement.”

  Another big man emerged from under the archway. He had no hat and no hand truck. He was carrying a container in his thick muscled arms.

  He stopped under the light to readjust his grip, and Miranda caught sight of the black swirling tattoo on his bald head.

  Sasha.

  There was a deep gash across his cheek where she’d sliced him with her glass shard from the mirror.

  Was this Santana’s punishment for letting them get away? Making him go hatless in the cold and carry the containers by hand?

  She almost felt sorry for the guy.

  A shout came from the archway and Sasha hurried to the ramp with his load.

  And then a man stepped through the entrance and into the light.

  With his double-breasted top coat over his business suit, he stood on the street tall and proud, his styled iron gray hair gleaming under the beam.

  Santana.

  Kinglike, he surveyed the scene. His majesty seemed displeased.

  Slowly he turned his head and scanned the waterway, then the street where they were hiding.

  Miranda glanced across the way to where Parker and Holloway crouched behind the trash bin. Parker had his weapon drawn.

  She locked gazes with him and slowly shook her head.

  She knew he’d love to get a shot at the guy, but they were still too far away.

  At the brownstone Sloan had given her another Glock to replace the one Santana had taken from her. It was tucked under the waistband of her jeans at the small of her back. This one had a longer range.

  Still with handguns, the closer the better. Holloway was ex-military and an excellent shot. Wesson, over on the other side with Sloan, was the best of all of them and practiced at the range all the time.

  Parker, of course, was a better shot than anyone.

  But Becker didn’t practice. She was worried about him, and even more concerned about Parker. She thought about that hole he’d punched in the wall at the hotel. She’d never seen him like that before. The idea that this loathsome criminal could be his half-brother was messing with his mind.

  As Miranda reached behind her back and drew out her Glock, Santana ended his survey and trotted up the ramp.

  She pushed the Talk button on her phone again and whispered into the speaker. “Santana’s here. He just disappeared into the back of the truck. Tamarkin’s here, too.”

  “We’ll ta
ke both of them in, then.” Sloan sounded awful cocky.

  With four others for back up? Maybe Santana hadn’t armed them. Maybe he didn’t trust them enough to let them have guns. Even if he hadn’t, together they’d put up a heck of a fight.

  Suddenly she heard Sloan’s loud radio voice ring out from down the darkened street beyond the truck’s front end. “Donovan Santana, this is the FBI. You’re under federal arrest for kidnapping and suspicion of illegal drug trafficking.”

  The driver got out of the truck and stood behind the open door of the cab. “There is no one here by that name,” he called.

  His accent was Ukrainian. He wore a dark leather jacket. He shifted his weight, and the light caught the back of his head.

  Orange Phoenix tattoo. It was Gregor.

  The whole gang was here tonight.

  “What are you doing over there?” Sloan called out.

  “Nothing illegal.”

  “What’s in those containers you’re loading?”

  “Fish. This is a fish market.”

  “Do you mind if we have a look?”

  There was a long moment of silence as Gregor pressed a button on the door to roll down the window.

  Then he crouched behind the door and fired a shot at Sloan from a handgun Miranda hadn’t seen he had.

  She heard the crunch of metal. He’d hit the car.

  From behind the hood of the Chrysler, Sloan fired back and hit the truck’s door.

  Gregor climbed back into the cab and got off another round.

  The men in the warehouse began to scramble. The hand trucks were empty. Sasha grabbed both of them, lumbered up the ramp to the back of the cargo box, and disappeared into darkness.

  The tall dude with the light beard clambered to the passenger side of the cab and climbed into the backseat. The thick bearded one raced to the front door on the same side, flung it open, and fired toward the Chrysler. It hit the rear window, shattering the glass with a loud bang.

  From the roof of the Chrysler came another spray of bullets. Had to be from O’Cleary. One by one they bounced off the truck’s windshield. Bulletproof. This was no ordinary work truck.

  A second later, another blast came from the Chrysler’s rear. Thick Beard tried to duck down, but he wasn’t fast enough. The bullet ripped into him, and he flew backward onto the pavement.

  Wesson’s work. Had she killed him?

  No. Groaning, he rolled over, holding his head. The back passenger door opened and the other guy jumped out and pulled him inside.

  Silence again.

  Standoff.

  But Santana stood at the back of the truck peering into the darkness. He knew the Parker Agency team was out there. That was his plan, wasn’t it?

  Suddenly he drew a weapon from his coat. The Colt 45 he’d pointed at her when she was in the trunk of his Infiniti.

  He aimed it over the pier, then slowly drew it back in a circle as if it were a homing device searching for its target.

  He lighted on the parked sedan where Miranda and Becker were hiding and fired.

  The rear window exploded on the other side.

  Miranda jumped, while Becker slapped a hand over his mouth to keep from crying out.

  Now she was really mad.

  Santana couldn’t have known exactly where she was. He was guessing, trying to draw fire.

  She glanced across the way. Holloway had his back pressed against the trash bin, his weapon at his ear. Parker had his Glock out and pointed at the bastard.

  No, Parker. If you fire at him, he’ll know where we are. Where you are.

  Unless Parker could kill him with one shot.

  But Santana had the same Parker blood coursing through his veins. Could he do the same?

  Suddenly a squawking gull swooped down for a morsel of food on the ground. Santana raised his gun and fired, killing the bird.

  Its body splashed into the water, and then there was dead silence again.

  As if satisfied, Santana turned his back, walked up the ramp, and stood there a moment.

  What was he doing?

  Movement.

  She turned her head and saw Parker running toward the cargo area, gun aimed at the spot where Santana had been standing. But he had vanished.

  No.

  There was no response from the back of the truck. Was Santana’s back still turned? Was Parker going to do it? Was he going to kill this bastard as he’d vowed to her he would?

  She stood erect and came around the trunk of the sedan just as Parker hit the ramp. He raced up it and disappeared just as Santana did.

  Again there was silence.

  And then came a roaring blast and a bright burst of light like the flash of a lightning bolt.

  Under the beam of the utility light she saw blood spray into the air. Parker tottered backward. His body twisted around from the force.

  He’d been hit.

  She raced toward the truck. She couldn’t stop herself. She knew better, but her feet wouldn’t listen to her brain’s commands.

  She screamed into the night air. “No! Parker. Parker.”

  From the back of the truck came another flash of light. This time she saw the barrel of the gun. She heard the ear splitting blast, felt the sting of the bullet dig into her flesh, hitting her hard.

  She stumbled, struggled to keep going. But her legs crumbled beneath her and she fell to her knees.

  She was down.

  Parker lay on the floor of the truck now. Santana stood over him, grinning.

  Her gaze met Parker’s in a long silent stare that seemed to span eternity.

  He seemed to be saying something to her. What?

  I failed and I’m sorry? Go on without me? No. All she could see in his face was incredible pain.

  And then he closed his eyes and his head dropped to the floor.

  By some automated mechanism, the truck’s back door began to roll down. The ramp rose and retracted. The truck began to pull away.

  No! Come back.

  Darkness gathered at the edges of her vision. She fought it back as hard as she could, but it was a losing battle.

  The back of the truck closed. She heard its engine roar to life.

  And as her face hit the pavement, all she could do was murmur one word.

  “Parker.”

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Janelle Wesson let out a cry of sheer terror as Donovan Santana’s truck plowed into the Chrysler.

  She stared in disbelief as the truck bulldozed the car that was supposed to block it, shoving across the pavement to the edge of the pier with a horrifying screech. The smell of scraping metal and rubber seeped into the cold night air as the Chrysler tumbled into the water with a loud splash.

  Then the length of the box truck rumbled past her, making her shiver down to her toes.

  Somehow O’Cleary had managed to get behind the truck. He fired at the tires, but his bullets did no good.

  “Simon!” Janelle cried. She didn’t see him anywhere.

  She ran to the side of the pier and stared into the murky water where the taillights of the Chrysler were sinking. Where was he?

  “I’m here.” Simon rose from a heap of barrels and crates.

  He was smart to take cover. If Gregor had seen him, he would have shoved him into the water, too.

  She saw terror on his face, but he wasn’t looking at her. He started to run to where the truck was exiting.

  She spun around and saw O’Cleary rushing in the same direction.

  She started to run, too.

  And then they all stopped.

  In the parking lot near the entrance where they’d come in, Hernandez’s Elantra was following Santana’s box truck—too close.

  Suddenly the truck’s driver hit the brakes. The Elantra slammed into the back of the truck with a loud crash.

  Then the truck backed up, jamming the car against the far end of the building, crushing its hood.

  Smoke came from the engine. The smell of oil filled the air.
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  The Elantra was immobilized.

  The truck’s engine roared and it raced away with no one to follow it.

  Hernandez and Rasmussen climbed out of the wreckage and hurried over to them.

  “What happened?” Hernandez pointed where they’d come from.

  He wasn’t talking about them. He meant at the back of the truck a few minutes ago.

  “I don’t know. There was gunfire at the rear. I couldn’t see.” Wesson turned around and spotted figures on the ground. One lying in a clump.

  She began to run back toward them with Sloan and O’Cleary at her side.

  As she neared, she saw it was Steele on the ground. Holloway lay on the pavement a few feet away, clutching his wrist.

  “Oh, my God.” She ran over to Steele as fast as she could and found Becker kneeling beside her, weeping.

  He’d taken his jacket off and was using it to stop the blood from a wound in her shoulder.

  Holloway sat up, took off his hoodie and wrapped it around his hand. Then he struggled to his feet, retrieved his gun, and joined the huddle around Steele. “I tried to fire at Santana. Somebody else shot me and knocked the weapon out of my hand. I think it was the Ukrainian.”

  “Tamarkin?” Simon asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Janelle couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “What happened to Mr. Parker?”

  Becker began to sob. “He’s dead, Janey. Santana killed him.”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Parker ran into the back of the truck and Santana shot him. Steele went after him. She couldn’t fire because Mr. Parker was in the way, standing in the opening to the back of the truck. There was a shot, and he collapsed. And then Tamarkin shot Steele. She was out in the open. Then they pulled up the ramp, closed the door of the truck and drove away.”

  Hernandez waved in the direction he and Rasmussen had come from. “They destroyed both our vehicles over there. Our plan to block them in didn’t work.”

  “You’ve got to be mistaken about Mr. Parker, Becker,” Simon told him.

  Wesson pressed a shaky hand to her brow. “That can’t be right. It can’t be.”

  Becker didn’t bother to answer. He was too busy crying. Her own tears were starting to come.

  “I just called 911,” Janelle heard Hernandez say. “They’ll be here soon.”