Judge And Jury Part 18

Cavello turned to the black marshal, who never talked very much. "You like pizza, Bo? Black people eat pizza, don't they?"

"Yeah, I like pizza, Dom," the black guard growled.

"Sure, all cops like pizza." Cavello sighed. "Hey, you know what we should do? Screw this jail thing. How 'bout we ditch this baby at the lobby and take a spin out to the old neighborhood in Brooklyn for an hour or two? I'll show you what a real Italian meal is. C'mon, I'll have us all back by two. They won't even know we were gone."

He nudged Eddie as the elevator descended, watching the floor lights start to go down.

"That would be a p.i.s.ser, wouldn't it, Eddie-boy? The whole free world is out looking for us-and we're just sitting at Pritzie's having a veal and peppers and a beer. So whaddya say?"

The burly marshal grinned. "Sounds like a plan, Dom."

"That's what it sounds like to me, too," Cavello said, following the lights of the floor panel as the elevator descended. "A plan."

Chapter 66.

ANDIE WAS WAITING for me out in the hallway. She said that she'd seen enough. She didn't have to be there anymore. I rode down the elevator with her and a couple of prospective jurors to the lobby. There was a little awkwardness between us there. I told her how brave I thought she was to come. She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Thank you, Nick. It was a good idea."

On my way upstairs, I stuck my head inside the security room for a check on Cavello. He was headed down to the bas.e.m.e.nt now. I watched over the shoulder of one of the agents as Cavello moved in front of the elevator, chatting with his guards. Everything was under control. The security captain was in close contact with all points along the exit route. "The subject's in motion," he reported in.

Suddenly, the ground beneath us rocked. It was like an earthquake! Coffee cups, pens, clipboards clattered to the floor.

"Jesus, something's happened," one of the agents monitoring the screens shouted and pointed. "In the garage! There's been an explosion down there! Holy s.h.i.t!"

We crowded close to the monitor and watched what happened next in shock. Billowing gray smoke began to block the screen. Then everything went completely black.

A radio report crackled in from one of the units stationed underground. "There's been an explosion down here. The garage is on fire. There may be casualties. I can't make much out. Too much smoke, smoke everywhere."

The captain seized a microphone. "This is Meachem. We have a situation in the garage! Some kind of explosive device has been detonated. I want SWAT, backup, and medical units down there p.r.o.nto. And I want to know what the h.e.l.l's going on."

I didn't have to look at the screen. I knew knew what was going on. what was going on.

The screens kept flashing back and forth to different monitors in the garage, trying to locate a clear view of what was taking place. I grabbed Meachem by the shoulder. "Captain, this isn't about the garage. It's about Cavello! Get all agents on alert. He's on his way down there now!"

I rushed back to the other end of the console and checked the elevator scene.

Jesus, no!

My eyes bulged in horror. I couldn't believe what I was seeing-only I knew it was happening again.

I ran to the door.

Chapter 67.

CAVELLO WAS STILL in the elevator, kibitzing with the guards, joking for all he was worth. His eyes angled toward the control panel. The descending lights flashed: 7, 6, 5. 7, 6, 5.

Now!

In that instant he lunged toward the panel, pressing his thumb solidly onto the heat-sensitive square for the third floor.

"What the h.e.l.l?" The elevator jerked to an unexpected stop. The door started to open. The black marshal reached out to rein in Cavello, powerfully pressing him up against the wall. Then someone stepped inside.

The marshal's jaw fell open. "What the-"

The first shot caught him between the eyes and hurled him against the paneled wall. He sank to the floor, leaving a dark-red smear.

The next two shots caught Eddie-boy in the chest. Two plum-colored circles appeared on his white shirt. The guard released Cavello with a deep groan as he crumpled to the floor. He looked up at the shooter. "I've got kids."

"Sorry, Eddie-boy," Cavello said. Two more silenced thuds ripped into his chest, and the guard went still.

"Hurry," the Israeli snapped, pressing the b.u.t.ton for the lobby, then tossing Cavello a pouch. "We don't have any time."

Inside the pouch, Cavello found a dark woman's wig and a raincoat. The Israeli plopped the wig on Cavello's head and draped the coat loosely over his shoulders, doing his best to conceal the fugitive's cuffed hands. He knew they only had seconds, no more, while attention was diverted by the explosion in the garage.

Cavello pressed down the wig. "Is everyone in place?"

"We had better hope so," Nordeshenko said, positioning himself behind Cavello in order to conceal his gun. "You're ready? This is no sure thing."

"Whatever happens," Cavello said, "it beats life in prison."

"Perhaps," said the Israeli.

The elevator doors opened again at the lobby. A couple of people were waiting to board.

"It's broken. Take another," Nordeshenko growled, pushing Cavello past them. Then he and the disguised mobster rushed down the long corridor toward a side entrance onto Worth Street.

Behind them, people had seen the bodies in the elevator. They were screaming. Nordeshenko never looked back. "Hurry! Or we both die here. I'm allergic to prisons." Or we both die here. I'm allergic to prisons."

It was about forty yards down the corridor to the security station, but it seemed like more as they wove through bystanders, ignoring the shouts behind them. Nordeshenko spotted Reichardt and two of Cavello's men posing as press at the entrance. He turned up the collar of Cavello's raincoat and hurried toward them.

Fifteen yards more. That was all.

As they approached, a radio crackled. "Something's happened!" one of the guards shouted. "Close it down, now!"

Reichardt removed a dark metallic object from under his jacket. Then everything went completely nuts. Shots rang out, automatic gunfire in the courthouse lobby. Two guards went down before they had a chance to get to their guns. The last one, a blond woman, fumbled frantically with her holster as Reichardt slammed her against the marble wall with a burst of automatic fire. She hit the floor dead.

Nordeshenko and Cavello were running as they reached the security station.

They heard a shout. "FBI! Everybody get down!"

Nordeshenko took a look and saw a figure at the end of the corridor, arms extended in shooting position, trying to get a shot off through the crowd. s.h.i.t. s.h.i.t. He pressed Cavello in front of him. A round whizzed past his face, ripping into the chest of one of Cavello's hoods. Reichardt returned the fire. The noise of the gunfire was deafening. People were screaming and scrambling for their lives. He pressed Cavello in front of him. A round whizzed past his face, ripping into the chest of one of Cavello's hoods. Reichardt returned the fire. The noise of the gunfire was deafening. People were screaming and scrambling for their lives.

Nordeshenko shielded Cavello with his own body. It was the job. He pushed through the doors. Outside! Outside!

It was chaos all around them. Cops were running toward the entrance to the underground garage down the block. The detonated bomb had worked well. A cloud of dark smoke rose into the sky.

A young cop came up to them, not sure what was going on. "We're hurt," Nordeshenko said to him. "Look." As the cop leaned closer, Nordeshenko stuck the muzzle of the Heckler into his chest and pulled the trigger. With a groan, the policeman sank to the sidewalk.

A black Bronco screeched to the curb in front of them. The back door was flung open, and Nordeshenko, Cavello, and Reichardt dove inside.

Nezzi was at the wheel. Without coming to a complete stop, the Bronco sped away.

A commercial truck pulled out directly behind them, then suddenly stopped in the street, blocking any pursuit.

At the corner the light was green. They shot onto St. James and drove up two blocks, through Chatham Square, then made a right on Catherine, in Chinatown. They made another quick right on Henry, then Nezzi pulled the Bronco into a vacant lot.

Nordeshenko leaped out, still shielding Cavello's body, and ripped open the sliding door of a blue minivan. He pushed the gangster in. Then he jumped behind the wheel. Reichardt and Nezzi got into a tan Acura parked across the street. The Israeli saluted them.

For the first time, Nordeshenko felt a cautious sense of optimism. No one was following them. No one was shooting either.

The two vehicles pulled away.

A block away, three police cars sped by, lights flashing. They were going in the opposite direction. Nordeshenko let himself smile. One day they would hold a clinic on this escape.

"Are we free?" a voice from behind asked. Then Dominic Cavello lifted up his head.

"For the moment," Nordeshenko said. "Now all we have to worry about is getting off off this island." this island."

Chapter 68.

I RAN OUT to the street and stood there-staring helplessly as the black Bronco sped away. There was no way I could stop it. I watched it turn at the corner, melding into traffic, then disappear from sight.

Every muscle in my body seemed to shrink and collapse; I'd never felt more useless in my entire life. Two police cars started after them, having to navigate around some delivery truck blocking the street. But it was too late.

I ran back to the courthouse and flashed my ID at a startled cop, grabbing his radio. "This is Special Agent Nicholas Pellisante of the FBI. Dominic Cavello has escaped from the federal courthouse in Foley Square. He is traveling east on Worth in a black Bronco, unidentifiable plates, headed toward Chinatown. Suspects have fired shots. There are multiple casualties."

A dead patrolman lay crumpled on the pavement. He looked no older than twenty-five. Stunned pedestrians were rushing out of the courthouse. Most had their hands to their faces. Trying to cover up the shock?

I rushed back through the doors and into the courthouse. EMS techs were already administering to one of the fallen guards. Meachem was there, the captain. He was ashen-faced. Some useless police chatter began to trickle in. I felt the urge to slam the radio up against the wall and watch it shatter.

I didn't know where to go, except back inside the security office. Special Agent Michael Doud was in there. He was in charge of the FBI's on-site security team, and he was already playing back video from the b.l.o.o.d.y scene in the elevator.

"I saw the getaway car," I told him. "Black Bronco. I couldn't see the plates. There are two security marshals down out front."

Doud took a deep breath. "I've got the mayor's office on the line. And the chief of police. There's an emergency order to block all tunnels and bridges out of Manhattan. Everything's on the highest crisis alert. They shouldn't be able to get off the island."

"Don't bet on it," I said, and gritted my teeth.

I sat down and slammed my fist against a nearby table in frustration. All of a sudden I felt a tremendous draining of strength. What the h.e.l.l? I placed my hand against my ribs. The feeling was slick and warm.

Jesus, Nick.

I was bleeding like a stuck pig.

Chapter 69.

DOUD'S EYES MET MINE. We both looked down at my blood dripping onto the floor.

"Sonovab.i.t.c.h," I said. Then I opened my jacket. There was a wide circle of blood seeping through my shirt.

"Get EMS in here, now!" Doud shouted to one of the security men.

"Good idea." I nodded, sagging back against the wall.

A shout came over the radio. "I think we've got a fix on them." It was the open line to the mayor's crisis center. A black Bronco had been spotted turning off Tenth Avenue, feeding into the entrance for the Lincoln Tunnel, heading to New Jersey.

"We've got the entrance covered," the voice from the crisis center declared. "Port Authority's got SWAT in place there."

Through the phone lines, we were able to patch in a video feed from the crisis center. Above us, one of the monitors began showing a wide sweep from a camera overlooking the tunnel. The black Bronco was about tenth in line. "There it is!" All of a sudden the camera zoomed in tighter. The traffic was funneling into two lanes.

I held my side, but I wasn't going anywhere right now. I could make out the black Bronco. The same one? It sure looked like it.

"Suspect vehicle has Jersey plates. EVX-three-six-nine," a voice announced over the radio.

For a second I was caught up like everyone else, just hoping we had managed to land on the right vehicle. Then a thought flashed through my mind. I grabbed a microphone off the table.

"This is Special Agent Pellisante. These people likely have automatic weapons and explosives. explosives. The car could be b.o.o.by-trapped. Cavello might not even be in there anymore. The SWAT teams should do their best to isolate the vehicle." The car could be b.o.o.by-trapped. Cavello might not even be in there anymore. The SWAT teams should do their best to isolate the vehicle."

My wound was history now. I moved closer to the screen and watched the Port Authority team start circling in, surrounding the vehicle from a distance, letting others pa.s.s. It was a tricky a.s.sault. There were lots of innocent people around. Hundreds of them.

Black, helmeted figures began to creep into the wide-angled camera view. The Bronco was four rows from feeding into the tunnel entrance. I could see the police teams narrowing in, arms drawn. The Bronco's windows were tinted black. If someone in there was looking out, they had to see the a.s.sault force coming.

The Bronco inched up to the first row. A police car suddenly sped up, blocking the entrance to the tunnel.