Chapter 36
The Lincoln had just passed through the front gate and was stopped waiting for the traffic on Route 1 to clear. Jorge glanced up and saw Sal looking at him in the rearview, his eyes big, puzzled, maybe even a little scared.
"I'm going to take care of you, Sal. A lot better than the old man did. You got my word on that. You're covered."
The big man's face relaxed. He was smart enough to know this little shakeup was as natural as the seasons. Just something that had to happen, like the sun coming up. "Sure, Jor . . . ah, Boss. Whatever you say."
That four letter word–Boss–sounded real nice. Made him feel like a damn peacock.
He'd just started to enjoy it when Sal shouted, "Fuck." The big man was checking something out behind them in the rearview mirror.
"What's the matter?" Jorge's muscles tensed.
"An unmarked comin' up right behind us."
"You sure?"
"I am now. He just put the flasher on."
Motherfucker! Jorge turned. Sure enough, a brown Ford was coming up on them, dashboard light flashing.
A setup. It had to be. They were watching that damn storage unit all the time.
Twenty years mandatory, no parole, flashed through his mind. Twenty lousy, stinking years behind bars. Minimum for the amount of coke they had in the trunk. That's if they didn't nail him for the carcass back on the beach.
No taking over the operation, no running the show, no becoming rich and powerful, no being the boss, and worst of all–no Helen. In twenty years he’d be an old man. Too old to start over again. Unless he wanted to go back to a street corner pushing grams and eight balls. He'd rather be dead. He had no other choice–it was all or nothing.
"Punch it, Sal."
Sal looked back over his right shoulder. "Why don't we just play it cool? Take our chances. Maybe it's nothing."
Jorge whipped out his .22, same one he did Dominic with. "Because it's a setup, you dumb bastard. I pick up all that coke and they just happen to be there? No way. It was either that shotgun punk or someone else. Either way, we're not sticking around to find out. Now get us out of here before I use this on you." Jorge kept the gun pointed right at the back of the driver's seat.
Sal's eyes widened. He turned around and stomped on the gas. The big car spun out onto Route 1, swerving around one car and just missing a collision with another. Jorge glanced behind them as the unmarked, light flashing, careened onto the highway right behind them.
"Move it, Sal, move it."
Sal was moving the Lincoln, good and fast, weaving drunkenly in and out of traffic, over in the passing lane, then back again. But the cocksucker behind was staying right with them. The cop behind the wheel was just as crazy as Sal. Suddenly, Jorge saw all his dreams, the dreams that had taken him this close to the top, going right down the tubes. Shit.
Jorge lowered the driver's side rear window, got up on his knees on the seat, stuck his gun out the window, and let a couple fly. The unmarked began swerving like crazy from the passing to the middle lane. Jorge couldn't tell if he'd hit anything, but from the way that car was swerving, he hadn't done any real damage. Couldn't really with this peashooter. Too bad he didn’t have a larger caliber gun. He hung half his body out the window, holding the piece in one hand and the rear assist handle with the other, and when that unmarked pulled back into the passing lane behind them, he squeezed another one off. Jorge smiled as he saw spiderwebs spread across the unmarked's front window. The Ford swerved all over the damn highway, not a controlled swerve like when they'd been dodging bullets. Totally out of control like the driver was in trouble now.
Jorge smiled and pulled himself back in the car. "I nailed him. Let's go. We're home free."
Sal kept glancing up into the rearview. "I don't know about that, Jorge."
Jorge turned in his seat and saw the unmarked, its windshield cracked from the shot he’d just fired, right up on their bumper. He could even see the faces of the two crazy bastards inside.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ!" Sal yelled.
Jorge spun around. Traffic on the road ahead was stopped dead in its tracks.
"In the shopping center," Jorge shouted. "Quick."
Sal spun the wheel to the right, cutting off cars as he shot across the road and whipped into a large shopping center parking lot. Jorge saw the unmarked fly by them on the highway, brake lights flashing.
Jorge grinned like a maniac. They just might pull this off. "He can't get over. Punch it, Sal."
Sal hit the gas and the Lincoln shot forward. "Shit!"
Jorge grabbed for the seat just as the Lincoln slammed into the side of a car emerging from between the rows of parked cars. The impact hurled Jorge against the front seat. He struggled back into a sitting position and gripped the back of Sal's seat with his free hand. "Back up, back up. Get us out of here now."
Sal moved like a man in heavy water. He shook his head, shifted into reverse, and stepped on the gas. All too late. The unmarked, shot-up windshield and all, was blocking their way.
"Shit." Jorge pounded his gun hand on the top of the back seat. "Shit, shit, shit."
He glared out the back window at the two cops: a young black cop riding shotgun and an older white cop behind the wheel. The young cop was yelling at his partner. Jorge suddenly realized they could see the gun in his hand as he pounded the back of the seat.
"We give up. We give up. Please, don't shoot." Sal had both hands up, open wide and empty.
Like hell we give up. Fucking coward. As long as Jorge was alive, there was a chance he could fight his way out. If he couldn't fight his way out, his dreams would be over. And without those dreams, he'd just as soon be over too.
Both cops piled out of the car. The black cop steadied his gun on the top of the unmarked's passenger door. A second later a bullet punched through the Lincoln's back window, stinging Jorge's face with invisible pieces of glass.
Jorge braced himself against the front seat and kicked out the rear window. Then he knelt on the backseat and fired at the black cop.
For the second time he found himself wishing he had a larger caliber gun–like his .44 magnum. Then he could really do some damage.
Jorge caught a movement out of the corner of his eye–the white cop running up quickly on the driver's side. Just as Jorge was about to take out the approaching cop, the black cop popped off another shot. Jorge spun around and returned fire.
"Please don't shoot. I'm gonna throw my gun out. I give up. I give up," Sal screamed, but not loud enough to be heard outside the car. He reached inside his coat, pulled out his gun.
Jorge fired again, and turned to his right long enough to see the white cop point his pistol and Sal's big head snap to the side from the force of the slug plowing into his skull.
Jorge fired again. "Motherfuckers," he screamed. Pain seared his left shoulder. "I'm the Boss. I'm the fuckin'' Boss."
He popped off a shot at the black cop and swung back around to fire a shot at the white cop, only the white cop's gun fired first, sending a bullet deep into Jorge's brain.