Linda Fairstein by Cold Hit (txt)

Author:Cold Hit (txt) [Hit, Cold]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

My foot jammed the gas pedal to the floor and I swerved to the left, speeding down lane Red 4 as the chase car followed closely on my tail.

I saw an opening mid row where two spaces had been created side by side as well as back-to-back, and I

barely braked as I nosed the Jeep into a curve and an immediate second left turn.

The dark car in pursuit took the long way around, and I could see that it was skipping two rows to try to cut me off at the top of the ramp.

I was pressing on the horn with my left hand as I steered with my right, hoping that someone would be annoyed by the blaring honk. A Jaguar with two couples in it pulled out in front of whoever was trying to cut me off, and I lurched ahead, hoping to see a security guard at the foot of the incline, where the giant red arrow merged with the equally wide yellow and blue stripes.

Instinctively, my foot hit the brake as a caution, and I immediately recognized that even a second’s delay could be a costly mistake. But I had hesitated as I always did when leaving that garage, choosing between the exits on the north and south sides of the building, depending on which one was open at a given hour.

Just as I decided to make the right turn and go out onto Sixty-fourth Street, where there was a bus stop and, always, a post theater crowd, the dark chase car came roaring down the steep rise of the garage behind me. Its driver passed me on the left side and cut me off. His engine still running, a male figure with a stocking cap over his head opened the door and got out, running toward me with the gleam of something metallic in his hand.

The empty sport utility vehicle was between me and the mechanical arm of the barrier that would have been my escape. As he slammed his left hand on the hood of the Jeep, I juiced the gas again and jumped the curb of the divider that separates the entrance from the exit gate. My Jeep kept going, smashing against the retractable arm of the entry blockade and cruising up the hill to the wide flat pavement of Sixty-fourth Street.

My repeated pounding on the horn cleared the crossing of pedestrians who were out for a summer stroll on Broadway. I paused to make sure the traffic light was with me, then goosed the car across the busy intersection, never stopping for a moment as I raced through the Central Park transverse and reached the East Side.

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