The SUV followed, half a floor back.

As soon as they made the curve on the ramp, out of sight of the SUV, Hardin nudged her arm. “Floor it. When you hit six, get to the far end as fast as you can. I’m going to roll out behind the pillar there. Pull in to the right, wait until you see them make the turn at my end, then get out. You’ll have the car for cover. If they don’t see me, we’ll have them between us.”

Wilson nodded, her face hard and unmoving.

She shot out of the ramp on six and across the floor, slowed as she made the turn at the far end. Hardin opened the door and rolled out onto the cement. Wilson sped away.

Lafitpour and Hickman stood by the wall at the east end of the sixth floor, turning to look as they heard a car accelerating up the ramp. A black Honda shot out and across the floor two rows to the west of them. Lafitpour just caught a glimpse of Hardin as the car passed. The black compact slowed radically as it turned at the far end. Lafitpour had just enough of angle to see Hardin roll out of the passenger door and come up with a pistol in each hand.

He heard another engine straining and saw a black Explorer erupt from the ramp, four men inside, the man in the passenger seat holding a submachine gun at port arms.

“Where’s the fucking car?” Hernandez yelled as the Explorer charged onto six.

“There,” the driver answered. “To your left.” Hernandez saw it, parking head in near the elevator. Bad angle, too much shadow to see in the windows. The driver pushed the truck hard, braked, tires squealing as he made the turn at the far end, circling back toward the Honda. The driver’s door opened, the woman got out.

Hardin squatted down on the west side of the pillar making himself as small as he could, a minivan to his left, blocking the view from the direction of the ramp. He heard the truck accelerate across the floor. He didn’t look, just straightened to a crouch as the truck passed behind him, screeched around the curve. Hardin held both pistols out in front of him. He’d be more accurate one handed, but he was a good shot with either hand, or with both, and there were times when more lead mattered.

“Where the fuck is Hardin?” Hernandez said as the truck curved around the pillar at the far end of the floor and zeroed in on the Honda. Better angle from here. Wilson was standing on the other side of the car and he couldn’t see anyone in the passenger seat.

Wilson dropped down behind the Honda’s engine block, her S&W in a two-handed grip, her arms braced on the hood of the car. To his left, Hernandez sensed movement and turned just in time to see Hardin, to see the back driver’s-side window shatter, to see the Skull shooter’s head explode. Hernandez rolled forward, trying to squeeze down into the footwell, feeling a ripping burn across the back of his shoulders as a round tore a furrow through his flesh. The air was full of the sounds of gunfire, a steady staccato beat from behind and to his left, Hardin firing, and then a slightly higher pitched ripping as Miko cut loose with his MP5 out the front passenger-side window.

Hernandez started to straighten, went to swing his MP5 up at Hardin, but a flurry of rounds slammed into the window pillar of the driver’s side, into the back of the driver’s seat. The driver slumped forward and the truck slewed left. Hernandez lost his balance, tipping against the front passenger seat. The dead Skull fell across Hernandez’s lap, knocking the MP5 from his hands.

Hardin saw the truck make the curve. The driver couldn’t shoot, not while he was driving, so Hardin took the guy in the back passenger seat first. Kill shot, the guy’s head exploding. Big guy on the far side of the seat dropped down, might have been hit, might not have been. Might have been Hernandez.

Hardin turned, tracking the car, putting out as many rounds as he could at the driver. Must have hit him. The Explorer swerved radically left, then slowed, drifted.

Hardin looked toward the Honda, Wilson behind the engine block; arms locked, rock steady, squeezing off shots. He heard an automatic weapon rip from the SUV. The left drift gave the guy in the passenger seat a straight shot at Wilson. Hardin saw a line of holes stitch across the Honda’s front passenger side, creeping up, a furrow opening across the top of the hood, Wilson not even blinking at that, just firing. Then the firing from the truck stopped and it rolled into a green BMW across from the elevators, crunching to a halt.

Hardin holstered the pistol in his left hand, ejected the clip from the one in his right, slammed in a spare, pulled the slide. He advanced on the SUV, the single pistol in a two-handed grip and trained just over the sill of the rear passenger window. He still didn’t know about the guy in the right rear, but if he saw even a hint of movement, he was ready to open up. Wilson came out from behind the Honda, reloading her S&W, closing on the truck from the other side.

The guy in the front passenger seat tried to rise up. Wilson put two through his head, changed her angle just a touch, and gave the driver a double tap, too, just to be sure.

Hardin got to the driver’s side of the SUV, looked in the back window. Shooter on his side was done, down across the seat, half his head missing. Hernandez was bent over behind the passenger seat, trying to dig a weapon up off the floor.

“Don’t fucking move,” Hardin said.

Hernandez looked up, froze for a second. “Why not, so you can shoot me?” Then Hernandez made another frantic move for the pinned weapon.

“No,” Hardin said. “So she can.” Hardin stepped to his left, out of Wilson’s line.

From the passenger’s side, Wilson’s S&W barked five times, tearing off the top of Hernandez’s head and shredding his back between his shoulder blades.

Wilson straightened and looked across the top of the SUV at Hardin.

“Thanks for waiting,” she said.

“I figured you had dibs,” Hardin answered.

CHAPTER 89

“You gotta go faster, man.” Paco, one of the Skull shooters Hernandez had up from Mexico. He was riding shotgun in the other SUV, two more Skulls in the back, the black gangbanger driving.

“You want some cop lighting us up? Doing the best I can. And keep that fucking gun down, will you? Some do-gooder sees it and 911s us, we’re gonna have company we don’t need.” The Skull kept holding the submachine gun up across his chest. He lowered it to his lap, below window level.

The driver was pissed. Fucking snakebit damn Honda turning into that garage behind them; hadn’t seen that coming. He taken a quick right onto Wells figuring he’d have to circle the block, shot left around a FedEx truck that was blocking the right lane, and that meant he saw the Wells Street entrance too late to make the turn. Next cross street was Madison, but that was one-way east, went through that intersection, cut up Arcade, more of an alley, really, but it would get him back to Wacker. Except there was a truck blocking it, hazards blinking, some kind of delivery. Reversed back out to Franklin, over to Munroe, up to Wacker, more red lights, the whole thing taking forever.

“Buzz your guys,” the driver said to the Skull while they sat at the light at Wacker and Madison. “See does he still want us in the entrance or what?”

The Skull made the call, loud Spanish voice, sounded worked up; driver couldn’t understand any of that shit, but then gunshots. Lots of gunshots. Didn’t need any translation for those. The Skull yelling into the phone, nobody answering.

The driver punched it. Way they timed the lights on Wacker, if he hauled ass, they’d make the green at Washington, be in the garage damn quick.