Hit List

59

Stone pulled on his helmet, kicked the engine to life, then turned up the volume on his radio. The hammering of rain on his helmet let up for a bit, and he had better reception here.

“Turning downtown, Second Avenue,” a young man’s voice said. “Black BMW, rider wearing black.”

“Did you get a shot at him?” another voice asked.

“No ID on the guy, but he fits the description. I’m not going to shoot some citizen.”

Good boy, Stone thought, being a civilian himself.

“There’s another civilian out here on a bike, a Norton, whatever that is. He’s a friend of somebody. Don’t shoot him, either.”

Stone felt better immediately. He shifted gears and got moving. From 125th Street, he swung south on Fifth Avenue, thinking to get ahead of Sig, unspotted. Farther downtown he made a left and headed for Second Avenue. As he turned right again he saw that there was more traffic than before; he was seeing delivery trucks now, some moving and some parked. He slowed down enough in his turn to hear the familiar howl of the BMW, sounding a few blocks away, then he accelerated, ignoring traffic signals when they turned red, but watching carefully for crosstown traffic.

Blocks ahead he saw flashing lights, then the rain came again obliterating his view. He instinctively slowed, and in so doing, passed behind a truck crossing Second in the sixties. He had not seen the vehicle until he was behind it. He took some deep breaths to calm himself, then got his speed up as the wave of rain passed. The flashing lights farther downtown were no longer there. Then, dead ahead, he saw a motorcycle down in the middle of the street, an inert form lying yards south of it. He slammed on his breaks, stopped, and got off. The man was lying on his back, and Stone felt for a pulse at his neck. Nothing. He unzipped the man’s jacket and listened at his chest. Still nothing.

Stone pressed the talk button on his radio. “Mayday, mayday, mayday,” he said.

“Who’s that?”

“Barrington. Cop down on Second Avenue at Sixty-first Street, no pulse at chest or neck, request ambulance.”

“On the way. Cause of death?”

“No visible wounds; maybe an accident. I’ll stay with him until...” He heard a siren from uptown and looked to see the flashing lights approaching. He waved his arms, then pointed out the fallen cop. Without further conversation, he leapt on his Norton and headed south again, watching side streets. He heard the howl of the BMW again and was trying to get a fix on it when a black machine roared up to him from behind. He didn’t have time to react, and the rider swung his fist at Stone’s upper body. Only it wasn’t just a fist. Stone saw the blade too late, then felt the searing pain and warm liquid running down his arm.

He swung wide of the BMW, then swung back, and braked slightly, aiming his front wheel at the other bike’s rear wheel.

Stone braked hard as the BMW went down and slid on the wet street. By the time it was stopped, so was Stone. He dropped his bike where it stood, took off his right glove and stuffed it into his sleeve, hoping to stanch the flow of blood.

The other rider was up on one elbow now, and Stone had his little Tussey .45 in his right hand. He walked over to the rider and kicked him hard in the head, hard enough that his helmet came off. “Good evening, Sig,” Stone said and aimed another kick at him.

Sig dodged, and Stone spun around and hit the pavement, and the .45 left him. Sig was on his feet now, and had a switchblade in his hand. “Good evening, Barrington. You’ve got less than a minute before you bleed to death, but I think I’ll cut your throat for good measure.” He took a step or two toward him.

Stone was groping for the little pistol, but it wasn’t there, and he couldn’t take his eyes off Sig, who was still coming. He aimed a kick at the man’s crotch and connected, then he scrambled to his knees and looked for the .45.

“Shit!” Sig yelled. Apparently, he didn’t enjoy pain.

Stone saw the gun and dove for it. Sig was struggling toward him by now.

Stone knee-walked toward Sig; the gun lay between them. He got a hand on it as Sig drew back to swing his knife again. Stone had no memory of pulling the trigger, but he remembered the noise. He remembered one other thing, saying, “Mayday, two men down...” Then he fainted.

Stone half woke in the rear of an ambulance and saw a thick wad of bandages on his left arm and an IV in that vein. He fainted again.

Stone slowly came to in a dimly lit place, where there were monitor screens and beeping noises.

“He’s back,” a woman’s voice said. “Mr. Barrington, can you speak?”

“I don’t think so,” Stone said.

“That was speech,” Dino’s voice said. “Take it as a yes.”

“Okay,” Stone muttered.

Dino positioned himself in Stone’s line of sight. “I’ve got two pieces of good news,” he said.

“Give me the good news first,” Stone said.

“You now, officially, have Italian blood.”

“Huh?”

“I know that, because it’s my blood. They ran short, so I gave them a pint.”

“An order of garlic bread, please,” Stone said.

“You want the other good news now?”

“Okay.”

“Sig is missing nearly half of his head. That little .45 of yours removed it.”

“Yeah, but is he dead?” Stone asked.

“No, he’s down the hall, giving a tap-dancing performance,” Dino replied.

“Then go shoot him again,” Stone said, then he felt like a nap.