Among Thieves (44 page)

Stepanovich finally heard Beck's footsteps. He turned to look behind him.

A full-scale gun battle raged on Reed Street between the Bosnians and the cops.

Beck leaped at the fence, lunging for Stepanovich's leg still on his side.

Stepanovich lifted his right foot away from Beck and kicked downward, stomping into Beck's left shoulder. He dropped to the ground. Stepanovich made it over the fence.

Stepanovich hit the sidewalk on Beard Street. Beck leapt onto the fence, scrambled up and jackknifed over, ignoring the razor wire, depending on his leather coat to protect him. He made it to the other side, ready to drop down when Stepanovich ripped a vicious punch into Beck's kidney. The searing pain made him lose his grip on the fence. He fell to his knees, smashing them into the hard pavement.

Stepanovich immediately tried to kick Beck in the face, but Beck grabbed Stepanovich's right leg with both arms. He stood and lifted the leg out from under the Bosnian. Stepanovich went down hard on the sidewalk, but ripped his leg free and tried to kick Beck, who backed away still grimacing from the pain in his right kidney. Beck rolled his left shoulder, swinging his arm, trying to dispel the effect of Stepanovich's kick.

Stepanovich spun around on the ground and kicked Beck's right leg out from under him. Beck went down sideways, but he was up quickly. Stepanovich made it to his feet, too.

Beck gave a quick glance over to Reed Street. The street was filled with flashing blue and red lights. The gunfire continued, but it was starting to wane. It seemed like more fire engines were pulling onto Conover. So far, Beard Street was clear. All the cops had converged on the gunfight, but Beck knew the entire area would be sealed off soon.

Stepanovich backpedaled away from the fence so that the police on Reed Street wouldn't see him. Beck followed, knowing only one of them was going to leave this street alive.

Stepanovich bared his teeth at Beck, and spit at him. Rolling his head. Flexing his long, powerful arms, ready to do battle.

Beck bent his knees trying to dispel the pain from landing on the sidewalk. He rotated his left arm. It was still numb. Stepanovich's kick must have hit the brachial nerve bundle. Feeling was coming back, but maybe too late.

Suddenly, Stepanovich jumped toward Beck, reaching for his head with both hands to pull him in close.

Beck ducked under Stepanovich's arms and twisted two right hooks into his ribs. The Bosnian mostly blocked them with his elbow, and grabbed the back of Beck's head, pushing down hard as he lifted a knee into Beck's face.

Beck barely managed to block Stepanovich's knee with crossed forearms, but the force of it drove Beck's arms up into his face. Stepanovich tried to knee Beck in the face again. Beck countered by grabbing Stepanovich's thigh and tried to twist the taller man down onto the ground.

Stepanovich pushed Beck away and pulled his leg free. Beck lunged forward and punched Stepanovich hard in the side of his neck. He kept coming forward, banged his forehead into Stepanovich's broken nose, and hooked punch after punch into Stepanovich's face before Stepanovich landed a desperate blow into the side of Beck's head, knocking Beck four feet back.

For a moment, everything went black. Beck instinctively ducked and covered up with his forearms. Another punch landed on the other side of his head. Beck twisted a blind left hook into where he figured Stepanovich's ribs might be. The punch landed solidly. He heard Stepanovich grunt in pain. Instantly, Beck hit again, with all the force he could muster. And again. He felt a sharp pain as the impact against Stepanovich's ribs crunched his knuckles and bent his wrist. He accepted the pain, knowing he had done major damage.

Stepanovich twisted an elbow at Beck's head that would have knocked him out if it landed, but Beck just managed to duck under most of the strike, feeling Stepanovich's elbow skip off the side of his head.

Beck straightened up and backpedaled. He felt the sickening nausea from Stepanovich's roundhouse punch, but he shook his head, breathed deep, managing to dispel the dizziness.

Beck knew he had cracked Stepanovich's ribs. He knew that he'd further damaged Stepanovich's already broken nose. He circled away from Stepanovich, taking more deep breaths, blinking, sucking in the cold night air, getting his focus back, estimating how badly Stepanovich was hurting.

A nose further smashed. Broken ribs. Press him now, Beck thought. Make sure he can't breathe. Smash him. Finish him off. Get inside where the man's longer reach and advantage in size and strength wouldn't help.

Beck tried to move in for the kill, but he felt like he was moving through molasses. His legs weren't working. His focus was still hazy.

And then Stepanovich pulled the knife.

The sight of it sent a cold, sickening chill flaring in Beck's chest and stomach.

Beck backed away quickly. Shit. The thing Beck hated most. He would rather face a bullet. He'd seen too many men stabbed and slashed in prison. Memories of horrific wounds, limbs made useless because of sliced tendons flashed through his mind.

Stepanovich took a quick swipe at Beck's face, trying to take out his eyes. Beck leaned away from the blade and stepped back farther.

Over on Reed Street, the gunfire had ceased. Beck heard muffled commands sounding through a police loudspeaker telling whoever was in the lot to come out with their hands on their heads. He hoped there wasn't anybody alive to obey the order.

Stepanovich gathered himself, his blade ready, closing in.

Beck continued circling away from Stepanovich, moving out into the empty street as he pulled his own knife out of the sheath on his ankle.

Stepanovich paused to check out Beck's blade. He smiled. It didn't seem to matter to him. He knew he had a much longer reach, and in a knife fight, that was all it took.

Beck knew it, too. For a moment he thought about just pulling out his Browning and shooting Stepanovich, but that would certainly bring the cops flooding into Beard Street. Demarco was parked at the end of the block. Shooting now would trap him, too. There was only one way he could do this. And it meant overcoming the overwhelming, instinctive urge to get away from that blade.

Stepanovich slowly weaved as he carefully edged closer. Beck circled to his left, away from Stepanovich's right hand. Stepanovich looked like he had done this many times.

Beck held his knife low, at the level of his thigh. He crouched over, his left arm out in front to block Stepanovich's knife if he could. He pictured blocking and immediately punching roundhouse stabs into Stepanovich's ribs, kidney, and liver.

But Stepanovich didn't move closer. He stood upright, slashing back and forth, without much speed, testing Beck's reaction. Beck stood his ground. Stepanovich feinted a stab, then a slash. Relaxed. Almost lazy.

Beck knew it would be coming now. The kill move. He stayed low. Blocking arm ready. And then as if powered by an electric jolt, Stepanovich leaped at Beck with shocking speed, his right hand coming down at him with a long, looping overhand stab.

It was a move intent on burying the full length of his knife into the crook between Beck's neck and shoulder.

Beck saw the knife coming down at him. But instead of reflexively turning away from the blow, or stepping back, he did the opposite. He moved straight into the oncoming blade's downward path, completely surprising Stepanovich, who tried to change the angle of his downward stab. But Beck had gotten too close. The blade came down, just past Beck's left shoulder, slicing through Beck's coat, cutting into his upper back.

Stepanovich let his momentum carry him forward, turning away, but Beck spun right with him, turning clockwise, almost as if he were attached to Stepanovich, flipping his knife into an ice pick grip, and stabbing the point of his blade into the left side of Stepanovich's neck, quickly, precisely, and without hesitation.

The knife punched through the carotid artery. Beck spun away from Stepanovich's counterthrust like a matador avoiding the horns of a bull.

They ended up five feet from each other. Both still standing. Both bleeding. But only one dying. Stepanovich stood stunned, grabbing at his neck, trying to staunch the massive spurts of arterial blood his racing heart pumped out onto the dark Red Hook street. There was very little pain. Just the paralyzing terror of knowing he was going to die.

Beck backed away from the spurting blood.

Stepanovich wobbled. He swiped his blade at Beck in a desperate, hateful attempt to hurt one last time. Beck stood fast, staring into Stepanovich's eyes, watching until they glazed over and his enemy slowly folded to his knees, and then fell over onto his side, eyes open, his life draining away.

Beck ignored his own warm blood seeping into his coat. He knew the slice in his back was long, but not deep. There were no arteries or veins back there that could have been severed. He hoped Stepanovich's knife hadn't cut through too much muscle. He rolled his shoulder. It was all right. It hurt, but he could move his arm without too much trouble.

He stepped around Stepanovich's body, watching the last slow pulses of blood turning the remnants of snow and ice on the street into black slush.

Beck began shivering. He crouched down to fight a wave of nausea that hit him. Get to the car, he told himself. Have to get out of the neighborhood. Can't be caught on the street with this corpse. But he knew he wasn't done yet.

All right, he told himself, you have to do this. He looked at the corpse of Stepanovich. Concentrated. He had a chance to make the death look like an accident.

Stepanovich had fallen fairly close to the fence.

Beck walked hunched over, and grabbed Stepanovich's right foot. He pivoted the body around so the feet faced the fence and dragged the body just a foot or so closer, estimating where Stepanovich would have landed if he had fallen back off the fence, and how far he might have staggered back. The blood everywhere could make sense, because it would have taken some time to collapse and bleed out.

He positioned the body. Looked at the fence one more time. Close enough.

Beck quickly made his way to the far end of the fence.

The cops now had spotlights glaring into the lot at the Reed Street end, illuminating everything for about twenty yards out into the field, but leaving the Beard Street end well in the dark.

At that end of the lot, it looked like one of Stepanovich's men had surrendered. Beck could see him laid across the hood of a police car. Hopefully, that would keep their attention off what he was about to do.

Beck climbed up at the far corner where the razor wire ended. He managed to pull a bit of wire free, and used the serrated edge on the top of his knife blade to bend and rip off a piece with a razor edge attached to it.

He dropped off the fence. The impact sent pain through his bruised knees and body. The cold was making his hands numb. He was already stiffening up from the blows Stepanovich had landed. He crouched low and quickly made his way to the body. He didn't have much time.

He went down on one knee and bent over to examine the wound in Stepanovich's neck. His knife hadn't gone in too deep. He took the razor wire, tried to picture the angle. There were rips on the right side of Stepanovich's coat from the razor wire. Beck's knife had punctured the left side of his neck. Beck imagined the tall man at the top of the fence, trying to push the razor wire away, stepping over the top of the fence, which would turn his left side toward the wire that had cut the right side of his coat. Beck pictured him falling sideways and backward, catching the left side of his neck on the razor wire.

Beck placed the sharp edge of the barb in the wound and carefully pulled the edge through the flesh.

He then laid two fingers in Stepanovich's blood, again painfully climbed the fence just high enough to dab blood on the razor wire to make it look like it had cut the dead Bosnian.

Done.

A searchlight from the police cars over on Reed flashed across his end of the lot.

Beck dropped down from the fence and crawled out of sight. Crawling was about all he could do.

Black smoke rose over the buildings on Conover. Flashing lights illuminated the area. Two more cop cars raced past up on Van Brunt.

Beck told himself, Got to get the fuck out of here, now.

He pocketed the piece of razor wire he'd used to cut Stepanovich, stood up, but the quick move made him suddenly dizzy. He had to go back down on one knee. He felt exhausted, enveloped by pain now, stiff and weak.

He cursed, forced himself to stand again, determined to make it down the block to where the Mercury was parked. And then he saw the black car, backing up toward him, all the lights off, coming for him like a dark ghost vehicle in the night.

 

69

Beck slid into the open passenger door of the Mercury.

“I was about to climb into that lot and pull out your body,” Demarco said.

“No. I wouldn't want you to risk hurting yourself.”

Demarco sped away, steering the Mercury straight through the intersection of Beard and Van Brunt. He avoided turning on Van Brunt. He kept the car headlights off, racing along the dark street until he was well past the intersection.

Beck sat back in the passenger seat, closing his eyes, pressing his shoulder against the seat back to help stop the bleeding from his knife wound. The warmth in the car making him sleepy.

Demarco wore a light down jacket. Black. Black wool pants and black suede shoes with rubber soles. He had a black Kangol fur cap turned backward on his nearly bald head so the brim wouldn't bump into the windshield as he peered out, finding his way along the dark streets with his lights off.

He asked, “Whose blood is that on you?”

“His, except for in back.” Beck turned so Demarco could see the slice through his coat.

“Bad?”

“I don't think so, but I don't want to look just now.”

“I take it you won?”