Page 89 of Moonlighter

Head downtown. I’m calling Max.

Roger.

“Go south to headquarters,” I tell Duff. “That comes from Carl.”

“Okay,” Duff says. “Light’s turning red. Damn it.”

The car in front of us decelerates, leaving Duff no choice but to stop. I tuck Alex against my body and slide down a few inches, taking her with me. There’s probably no reason to panic. But there’s no reason to be an easy target, either.

“He stopping?” I ask.

“Not sure,” he says, voice calm as he watches the mirrors.

“Give me your piece. I want both your hands on the wheel.”

He only hesitates for a second. Then he unholsters a Glock and passes it back to me.

Alex’s eyes widen as I check the gun and then stash it in the seat pocket, the handle where I can reach it. “Hey now, we’re just being paranoid.”

But the red light seems to last all year. I hear the motorcycle rev. And then the sound begins to edge closer, as if the bike is idling forward past the other stopped cars. In two seconds he’ll be right here beside the car…

Duff jerks the car out into the empty oncoming lane, shoots past the car in front of us and brings us across West End Avenue before the bike manages to overtake us.

“Jesus Christ and mother Mary,” Alex gasps as the acceleration pushes us back against the seat.

But I’m strangely exhilarated. Duff wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t have a clear path. And the kid happens to handle this car with the finesse of a racetrack veteran.

Nice hire, Max.

The car leaps forward the short distance to Riverside, where Duff runs a yellow light to beat feet onto the West Side Highway onramp.

Then we’re flying. “Is he still with us?” I ask.

“I don’t see him. Yet.”

The radio squawks. “Duff—your backup is Scout in a black Mercedes. Two minutes until she’s on your six.”

“Copy.” At this hour, the West Side Highway is clear. He keeps us at high speed until he sees Scout on our tail. Unfortunately, the highway slows down as we approach the midtown traffic lights.

“You hanging in there?” I ask Alex, who’s pasted to my chest.

“Sure. But I’ve had easier days.”

I chuckle as Duff brings the car through a traffic light, scanning for trouble. “ETA five minutes.”

“We’re good back here,” I say, lifting Alex’s hand and bringing it to my lips.

Duff rolls along at a speed that’s calibrated to hit each light when it’s green. Scout’s voice crackles through the radio. “I have a motorcycle at seven o’clock. Black helmet. Black jacket. Triumph. That your guy?”

“Sounds like him,” Duff says.

“Okay. Falling back.”

Now this I have to see. I straighten up and turn around just as Scout executes a plodding lane change. She drives the Mercedes like a pokey elephant. So the motorcycle has to slow down momentarily. Then, anticipating his next move, Scout does a snappy lane change back in the other direction, boxing the guy again.

To free himself, he pulls up beside her. But now he’s stuck behind a minivan. So he reverses his plan, falling back and moving in behind her.

She brakes. Then jumps forward. And then anticipates his next lane change.