John Lutz - Night kills

The light changed, and waiting parallel traffic roared and sprang forward. The charge was led by a gleaming white stretch limo. Pedestrians could cross now in the direction of the flowing traffic, but they had to wait for right-turning vehicles to give them a break. This being New York, right-turning vehicles didn't.

Gloria was standing directly behind Maria Sanchez when the signal changed. She could smell her shampoo and perspiration, feel the heat emanating from her lean body.

Exhaust fumes suddenly overpowered all other smells. A bus. That would be perfect!

Gloria had both fists bunched, ready to plant them between Maria's shoulder blades and give a short but powerful shove. But the man next to Maria for some reason glanced over at Gloria. Gloria kept a poker face and let the bus rumble around the corner.

The man was looking forward again, concentrating on the traffic.

Gloria waited, mentally ticking off the seconds, aware of everything around her, knowing she had to synthesize time, movement, and her target's inattention so that it all added up to sudden death.

Her meat.

Here came a cab.

Weaver picked up her pace and moved toward the intersection, knowing there'd soon be a break in the flow of right-turning traffic and the pedestrians straining to go would step down off the curb and claim their territory between the white lines.

She heard the screech of rubber on blacktop. There was a flurry of movement ahead as people waiting at the curb surged across, moving around something. Most of them kept walking, glancing behind them and down, as if at an object they'd dropped that wasn't valuable enough to stop for and retrieve. Several were looking deliberately away from something.

Uh-oh!

Weaver could see the yellow roof of a stopped cab with its service light glowing.

She stood on tiptoe and saw Madeline well ahead of her, among the throng of people striding across the street. Damn! Weaver would have to hustle to catch up.

As she stepped off the curb to make her way around the cab, she saw what everyone was staring at. A dark-haired woman wearing a red scarf lay in front of the cab. There was a pool of blood beneath her head.

Weaver couldn't stop. She had to hurry to keep pace with Madeline. She made her way through the stalled traffic as drivers rubbernecked at the downed woman. As she walked, she fumbled in her pocket for her cell phone so she could call and get the woman some help, but a siren whooped nearby and she saw a radio car on the other side of the street. It was making its way toward the scene of the accident. She slid the phone back into her pocket.

Whatever had been compelling Madeline to walk must have worn off. Weaver followed her down the concrete steps to the subway stop at Columbus Circle.

They rode in a stifling, crowded car back to within a few blocks of Madeline's apartment. Madeline, looking despondent and exhausted, sat between a scowling black youth wearing dreadlocks and a black leather jacket despite the heat, and a bearded man studying a tabloid newspaper printed in some language Weaver didn't recognize. Weaver stood gripping a steel pole for support, looking everywhere but at Madeline.

With Madeline safe inside the building, Weaver took up her observation position in the doorway of a closed tailor shop diagonally across the street.

She leaned her back against the heavy plate-glass door, crossed her arms, and let herself relax. The new Madeline was in her apartment, tired, and unlikely to go out again soon. Weaver figured everything was under control. At least for a while, the excitement was over.

The lettering above her head on the inside of the door read RIPS AND TEARS OUR SPECIALTY.

Tom Coulter climbed up into the F-150 and followed the two meth guys, Joe Ray and Juan, from Rodney's Roadhouse. They drove a couple of miles back into the swamp, over rutted, muddy roads sometimes so narrow that leaves brushed the windshield. Coulter thought it was creepy and saw no reason why anyone would choose to live like this. The heat and humidity made you sick, and the damned weird-looking bugs were bigger than the roaches in New York.

The Dodge pickup slowed and made a right onto a narrow dirt road that turned out to be a driveway. Coulter stopped before following it and looked the place over.

No big surprise where a couple of swamp turkeys like Joe Ray and Juan lived. It was a flat-roofed, clapboard house that looked as if it had never been painted. Vines grew up the front wall and much of the side wall that Coulter could see. A sagging gutter ran across the front of the house, its drainpipe disappearing into a wooden barrel. About a hundred feet off to the side was an outbuilding more rickety than the house. Coulter figured that was where they had their meth lab.

He waited until they'd gone inside the house, then rolled the F-150 up the drive, pulled it close behind their rusty Dodge, and gunned the engine and tapped the horn a few times. He wanted to get them out of the shack so they could see the difference in the two trucks. They were dealing big-time here, not junk vehicles and money under the mattress.

The two of them came ambling out the front, Joe Ray first, and let the screen door slam behind them. They stood on the porch, looking surprised and wary. Coulter was getting a kick out of it. Neither man displayed a weapon. Pair of yokels against a genuine desperado. His confidence soared. This should be easy.

Coulter got out of the truck and walked over there, then he casually reached behind him and drew the Glock out from where it was tucked in his belt at the small of his back. Whoa-ho! The two meth guys came hyperalert. Their eyes darted this way and that, making Coulter think of trapped animals. There was no direction they could move without Coulter bringing them both down. He wouldn't have drawn the Glock otherwise. He smiled inwardly. Organization was the key to success.

Then the two of them, seeing the hopelessness of their situation, seemed to calm down.

"What the hell you want?" Joe Ray asked, showing a little bravado.

"He wants to get hisself killed," Juan said.

"My, my," Coulter said and moved the gun barrel over to point at Juan. Juan looked scared, but held his ground. What else could the dumb schmuck do?

"It ain't love makes the world go round," Coulter said. "It's business. We're all businessmen. I want to talk a deal."

"What kinda business you in?" Joe Ray asked.

"Right now, far as you're concerned, the truck business." Coulter almost giggled. "And I guess you could say the travel business."

The meth guys said nothing.

"We're gonna trade trucks," Coulter said. "Your bucket of rust for my almost-new Ford F-150."

Joe Ray looked off to the side and spat. "Now why am I thinkin' that ain't your truck?"

"'Cause it ain't. That's my problem. But you got a problem, too."

"Which is?"

"Me. And I got the solution for both of us."

"You're one smart asshole," Juan said.

Coulter grinned. "Maybe I should shoot you in the knee."

Juan went pale.

Joe Ray said, "Let's all ease up here." He looked with wary, level eyes at Coulter. Maybe a spark of helpless anger in those eyes. "Let's quit jerkin' each other off. Say plain what you come here to say."

"I'll take your truck with its legal license plate. You keep the Ford, paint it up, get yourselves a salvage VIN and a legal license, and you're way ahead of the game. You boys smart enough to follow that?"

"We follow," Joe Ray said. "We ain't sure we like where it might lead."

"Cops lookin' for that truck?" Juan asked. He was staring with longing at the sleek black Ford with its oversized tires. Even dusty as it was, the bruiser of a vehicle was obviously a quantum leap trade-up.

Coulter gave them his best desperado grin. "Let's say the rightful owner would like to have it back. I guarantee you he's in another state and won't be a problem for you. Me, I need transportation. I drive outta here in the junk Dodge, and I won't be a problem for you, either."