"They breached the left rear window!" Ramos’s voice was strained, hoarse with adrenaline. "I’m out of ammo on the primary mag! Reloading! One shooter is reaching through the partition—"
A deafening gunshot blasted through the phone, followed by a man’s agonized howl.
"Driver's down!" Ramos shouted. "The second shooter is hooking a tow cable from the lead Charger to our rear axle! They’re going to drag the transport into the industrial park under the bridge!"
"I'm on the lower level entrance right now," I told her, watching the speedometer climb past seventy as Miller navigated the narrow approach lanes to the Queensboro Bridge. "Three minutes out. Hold the cab, Sarah. Do not let them breach that passenger compartment."
"They’ll have to kill me first, Inspector," she replied, and the line went dead with a burst of electronic squeal.
The lower deck of the Queensboro Bridge was a dim, rain-swept tunnel of exposed steel girders, yellow sodium lights reflecting off greasy black puddles. Midday traffic was moderate, but the scream of our electronic siren and the blinding strobe of our alternating white and blue LEDs parted the line of delivery vans and yellow cabs like a snowplow.
Miller drove with the cold, surgical precision of a tactical wheelman. He threaded the Suburban between a stalled box truck and the steel truss with six inches to spare, the heavy vehicle vibrating violently over the expansion joints.
"Queens side off-ramp coming up on the left," Miller said, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. "The 21st Street loop is a blind hairpin down to the warehouse district. If they drag that rig below the viaduct, we lose satellite tracking under the concrete overpasses."
"Cut the siren," I ordered.
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Miller reached up and flipped the master audio toggle. The wail died instantly, leaving only the deep, rhythmic roar of the engine and the thunder of tires over steel decking.
"Load MK18s," I said, pulling my carbine from between the seats and resting the barrel against the door sill. "Positive target identification only. Maya is in that vehicle. If you aren't a hundred percent certain of your background, you do not take the shot."
"Understood," Miller replied, his thumb flicking the safety selector on his weapon to fire.
We banked hard off the lower roadway, plunging down the concrete spiral of the 21st Street ramp.
The scene below was carnage.
Ramos’s unmarked gray Chevrolet Tahoe sat jammed diagonally across the two-lane off-ramp, its front bumper crumpled deep into the yellow water-filled impact attenuator barrels. Half a dozen plastic barrels had ruptured, spewing hundreds of gallons of water and sand across the roadway.
Pinning the Tahoe against the high concrete barrier was a midnight-black Dodge Charger, its radiator steaming, fluids leaking into the gutter.
Fifty feet down the ramp, a second black Charger was reversing rapidly, heavy steel cable unwinding from a drum mounted in its trunk.