White Night

Chapter 4

Just get to the hospital, Michael.

He followed the signs for the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. It had to be the fastest way to The Brooklyn Hospital Center. At any other time of day, the BQE was a parking lot, but at this time of night you could crash over the potholes at forty miles an hour if you were lucky.

As the truck struggled up the on-ramp, help was only minutes away. The docs at Brooklyn had probably seen their fair share of gunshot wounds. They would stop the pain, remove the bullet, and stitch it up. It would be okay, it would be easy for them, it would be...the first place an NYPD detective would look for a man who'd been shot...

Shit! He pounded the steering wheel and felt his gut plummet. He couldn't go to hospital. No hospital and no police.

His shoulder pounded steadily, each beat amplifying the urgency of his situation. As the exit for The Brooklyn Hospital Center drew near, he had to find a plausible explanation for his injury.

He could say he was impaled at the construction site. Cops wouldn't be called for a work accident, but a chill shook him as he remembered the cop he'd fought with. The detective could already be there—waiting for him, knowing he had to get medical help.

Michael would be easy pickings, an impala approaching a waterhole in the desert while the jaguar sat and waited for him to arrive. His lie about a construction accident wouldn't hold up long: the first x-ray would reveal the truth and send cops to his bedside, where he would end up dying in custody.

So no hospital and no cops. FBI?

Stupid, who would the FBI believe? A construction worker with a criminal record or a fellow law enforcement buddy?

As he watched the exit for The Brooklyn Hospital Center rush past his side window, nausea crept further up his throat. Where the hell could he go?

A tractor-trailer's horn erupted as his truck drifted into its lane, loud enough to wake his dead grandmother. He panicked and swerved the truck back and then into the next lane, where an SUV blared its frustration.

Get off the highway and think.

After easing the heavy truck down the next off-ramp, he pulled over and cut the engine. Shock enveloped his body, accelerating his breathing. How long would he have before...?

Get a grip, get a plan.

Angelo was his best chance. Calling his boss after getting shot was messed up, but Angelo wasn't just a boss. He was a solid friend and guaranteed to help him.

Scrolling through his call log, he found the number in seconds.

"Angelo. It's Michael, I..."

"Mikey, you not believe it! Police just called me to come. They say someone killed at Brooklyn site on Noble Street."

The floor of his stomach lurched. Killed?

The cop died? He didn't know where he'd hit him in the darkness, but there was no way he could have killed him. There couldn't be, not from a single head-butt like that.

His stomach lurched again and foul-tasting acid filled his mouth.

"Mikey?" Angelo asked.

He couldn't respond. Angelo's words had throttled his own.

"Mikey! You still there?" Angelo shouted.

"Yeah...yeah." But he choked on his response.

"Why'd you call me?"

Shit.

"Mikey?"

He had to say something but nothing came out. It was all over now; he was a killer. His best chance at help was gone and cops were already crawling all over the construction site where he'd left a pond of DNA on the floor.

Hang up, Michael. You're done.

"Mi—" He hung up before Angelo could prompt him again.

What now?

Turn myself in or bleed out quietly in the truck?

He couldn't be arrested again. Invisible fingers lifted the hairs on the back of his neck at the memory.

"Get down on the ground! Show me your hands! Do it now!" the cops had shouted.

Lights flashing, guns drawn, orders screamed at him. Heavy knees jammed into his back as his face slammed into the street.

Breaking a man's nose eight years ago had got him a stay in the Tombs, probation, a fine, and a record. Now he'd killed a cop. He'd never see the light of day again. No one would believe self-defense, not by a guy with an assault record. As Michael rested his head back against the headrest, a long sigh drifted from his lungs. At least with the assault it was his fault. Tonight, he was just at work measuring windows when he was shot and attacked.

Had Victor Hansen finally come back for revenge? Hansen had no right to revenge over a broken nose.

It didn't matter now. His life was over and waiting here for it to end would at least be his call. He would bleed out quietly, a free man.