Hard News (Rune 3)

"No."

"I can get it for you right now."

Nestor was walking more slowly now. He seemed to be considering what she was saying. Finally he shook his head. "Not enough."

"Maybe I can get a little more." She thought desperately about where she might get some cash.

"How about fifty?" Nestor said.

"I don't have fifty"

"Forty-five."

Tears in her eyes. "I don't have that. I can get ... maybe twenty. I don't know. From friends maybe ..."

"Forty-three thousand," Nestor said.

"I ..." She shook her head.

"Tell you what," he said. "You give me thirty-nine thousand five hundred and I'll let you live. I'll let you walk away."

More tears. "But I can't get that much."

"Thirty-eight two."

When she glanced at his face, a sick smile on it, she knew that he was just being cruel. He was playing with her, reciting the odd numbers. And whether she had fifty thousand or a hundred he wasn't going to let her go. This was business and the bargain he'd made was with Lee Maisel. Jack Nestor's job was to kill her.

They were on the sidewalk now, deserted except for a homeless guy in the middle of the block. The street was shimmering with a light rain that wasn't so much falling as hanging in the air.

Nestor said, "This way," and tugged her forward. Ahead of them, on Broadway, a few cabs and cars bounded up-and downtown. Maybe she could tear away and sprint the half block to the corner. She'd just charge right into traffic and hope she didn't get hit. Maybe she'd be lucky the same way Randy Boggs was unlucky at Lance Hopper's apartment building and a cop car would be cruising past.

But Nestor's grip was fierce and, besides, he still had his gun in his other hand, hidden inside his jacket.

He stopped at a car. He slipped his pistol in his pocket and reached into his other pocket to get the keys.

"Hey," the drunk called, staggering in their direction. His head drooped forward in his stupor. His clothes were drenched from rain and he looked like a straggly mutt. "Change? For something to eat. You got some change?"

"Shit. Fucking people in this town," Nestor muttered, pulling the keys out of his pocket. He leaned down and said to Rune, "I can feel you, honey. You're thinking the guy comes up and he's going to distract me and then you'll run for it. You think I'm stupid?" He shoved her in the car. "You think I'm not expecting that?"

Nearby now, the homeless man called, "Change, please?"

Jack Nestor, his eyes still on Rune, said to him, "Fuck you, mister."

The drunk suddenly stood up and became completely sober. "Fuck you too, Jack," Randy Boggs said and leapt forward, slamming his fist into Nestor's face.

"RANDY!" RUNE CRIED.

"Run!" Boggs shouted as he grabbed Nestor around the waist and tried to pull him to the sidewalk.

Rune scooted out of the car fast. She hesitated, watching them scuffle. It wasn't a fight--they were wrestling. Boggs was gripping the killer's shoulders, pinning his arms so he couldn't reach his gun. Nestor, blood streaming from his nose, tried to knee Boggs in the groin but couldn't get his leg up without falling over.

"Run, damn it!" Boggs shouted again.

She did. To the nearest corner, to a phone kiosk. Hitting 911 as she watched the men, on the ground now, a dark squirming mass, half in, half out of the street. She told the calm voice of the police dispatcher about the fight, about the gun. By the time she hung up, she heard sirens. Distant, but moving in close. She thought she should go back, distract Nestor, hit him with something. But she didn't move. For some reason an image of Courtney came into her mind and she thought, No, even if Claire's back, I can have some role in the girl's life and it wouldn't be fair to her to risk myself. This was their battle now.

Then Rune saw Nestor break free and scramble away. He had the gun in his hand. Randy leapt back into the street, scrambling beneath a car for cover. Nestor fired two fast shots at him then turned to run just as three blue-and-white police cars squealed around the corner. The officers poured out, shouting like madmen for Nestor to stop, to drop the gun. He fired at their cars twice and turned to run but he slipped and went down on one knee.

"Drop the weapon," a metallic voice came over the loudspeaker.