White Night

Chapter 36

The heat from the engine flared against Connors' skin. A second later, she was flung backward, flying again but not violently—no sickening thud, no crushing pain this time.

Ross had yanked her back by the neck of her jacket as the snarling vehicle flew past them. Was it backup? No; temporarily blinded by the beams, she could just make out the shape of an old truck. It slammed into their enemy's dumpster with a deafening crash, hurling it back down the street. Secondary thuds of bodies hitting the ground were followed by the screams of a man in agony. Putrefying garbage filled the street as plastic and cardboard rained down around them and the truck jolted to a stop.

"Get in!" shouted Michael's voice from the truck cab.

Ross swung the door open and she motioned at him to get in. Screw chivalry, he was closer. She climbed in behind him, her gun still aimed at the groaning shapes on the ground.

"Go, go, go!" she shouted, pulling the heavy door shut with a bang.

The truck lurched backward, almost sliding her and Ross to the floor from the PVC bench seat, and the engine whirred like a screaming cat. The shapes on the ground started to rise from the asphalt like zombies, fumbling for weapons. The gunmen had a straight shot to the truck, but the exit from the street had to be close now.

The truck stopped, revving wildly. Why were they stopping?

Michael was trying to turn and shift into drive to turn back onto Atlantic Avenue, but he couldn't move the gear shifter with his hands still cuffed and a bullet in his shoulder. He'd gone too far and they were in neutral. He shifted again and landed in low. The truck's engine screamed as it crawled forward. Wrong gear, but at least they were moving.

Shots rang out again, some hitting metal, but the truck cab was already behind another building and out of range. With the truck still revving, Ross grabbed the shifter and moved it into drive. Michael nodded in acknowledgement. He raced down Atlantic Avenue, putting distance between them and the shooters, but no one ran out of the side street behind them.

"You came back," Connors said, her lungs burning as she fought for breath.

"It was easier once I realized you weren't trying to kill me," he said without a smile and glanced at Ross.

"Where are you going?" Ross asked, reading her mind.

"I have no idea," said Michael. "Just away."

"Who was this other detective you thought we were working with?" Connors asked. They needed to know now if that was real or more bullshit from a suspect.

"I don't know." His eyes darted to Ross again.

"You're still bleeding," Ross said softly. "Would you let me drive?"

Michael looked at her, his terrified eyes searching her face. She smiled and nodded. Michael pulled over, shifting clumsily into park.

Slithering carefully down from the driver's side of the truck, Michael turned to Ross. "The brakes aren't great, so plan ahead."

Ross nodded and slid across into the driver's seat.

She slipped down out of the cab, staying close to Michael as he wrenched open the back door of the truck and climbed in. Pulling on a pair of crime scene plastic gloves, she clambered in after him.

Michael stared back at her anxiously. "W...what are you doing?"

"Helping you." Connors slid next to him without waiting for an invitation.

"I got it," Michael said.

"I know." She ignored him and pulled his shirt open to reveal his scarlet chest.

"Is the bullet still in there?"

"Yeah," he said.

She wasn't surprised. He'd be dead if there was an exit wound as well.

"Has it been bleeding like this all the time?" she asked.

"No, just started up again when your partner stuck his hand on it." Michael glared at the back of Ross' head.

She pulled what was left of the padding back over the hole in his flesh. His skin was angry red and burning hot even through her glove.

"We have to put some real pressure on it, you ready?"

Connors knew he wouldn't be ready, not for this, but she pressed down hard on his blood-soaked shoulder. Michael yelled and collapsed. She leaned into him, forcing him back upright again.

Ross kept driving, glancing back in the rearview mirror with concern. "We need to get him to a hospital."

Michael looked at him nervously, then at her. What was he afraid of? Ross had just saved both their lives by pushing them behind the dumpster when the shooting started.

"Turn left on Vanderbilt," she directed Ross.

Ross nodded.

"We'll be there s—" she started, but the truck veered left, suddenly throwing her on top of Michael.

"Ross! What the hell?" she shouted.

"He's right. The brakes...aren't good..." Ross mumbled.

She smiled apologetically and pushed herself back off Michael, but he was still fixated on Ross. Something was wrong. Michael trusted her partner even less than she did.

They arrived at New York Presbyterian within minutes, Ross stopping short this time and rolling forward slowly. Michael was quiet and sweating; his adrenaline was tanking and his skin getting colder. His eyelids fluttered closed and Ross ran in to ER to get help.

"Michael, stay with me."

No reaction, his eyes rolling back under his half-closed lids.

"Michael! Stay awake!"

She shook him with her free hand and flicked at his face. Still nothing.