Al Din was halfway across the fifth floor when he heard gunfire from six. A lot of gunfire. It was time to pause, assess his situation. He parked at the end of the row. He could hear at least three different weapons, one of them automatic. Then the shooting stopped.

“There is shooting on a floor above me in the garage,” he said into his phone. “Do you have anything on camera?”

“Uh, I got a black SUV crunched in to what looks like a green Beemer, got some windows shot out. OK, I got a guy walking up to it. It’s your guy, Hardin. And here’s Wilson.”

Al Din heard a tightly spaced group of shots. Five of them.

Tokyo spoke. “Um, I don’t know who was in the SUV, but I hope they weren’t friends of yours.”

“Competitors,” al Din answered.

Al Din thought for just a moment. Hardin and the woman had taken out the men in the SUV. It would be just the two of them, alone. They had no reason to suspect he was here. And al Din had been in his share of firefights. When you have won, when you have survived, your system crashes a little, the adrenaline bleeding off. You let your guard down. Right now Hardin and the woman would be sloppy.

He wouldn’t drive up the ramp. A car they would hear and there was still plenty of parking on the floor below them. They would know that. They would be sloppy, not stupid. But the door to the stairs was behind him and to his right. He could be on six in seconds, could enter quietly, with any luck could get at least one of them before they even knew he was there. That would leave one. They were both good, but al Din would take his chances one-on-one with anyone in the world.

He got out of the car and ran for the stairs.

To his right, he heard a car roar up the ramp, heard the tires squeal as it turned hard toward him, heard it screech to a halt, still running. He turned his head, still running toward the door. He saw a black sedan stopped almost even with the stair doors, but in the main traffic row, two rows in from the wall. Both front doors flew open, two men out, weapons coming up.

“Al Din! Police!” The taller man shouting. The man on the driver’s side.

Without slowing, al Din swung his weapon taking the first available shot, the smaller man on the passenger side, firing two shots, the first slightly, high, but adjusting, the second punching through the window of the open door, hitting the smaller man in the chest.

Lynch had just nosed the Crown Vic onto the ramp up to five when he heard shots from above.

“Sounds like we’re late to the party,” Bernstein said.

Lynch put the hammer down, rocketing up the ramp and onto five. Halfway across the floor, he saw a man sprint from the line of cars parked to his left headed right and toward them at an angle. It was al Din.

He slammed on the brakes, him and Bernstein both leaping from the car, bringing their guns up.

“Al Din! Police!” Lynch shouted.

Al Din heard the car behind him, did the geometry in his head, got ready, but kept moving. He was in the open, wanted to be closer to the door if it came to shooting. But when he heard the policeman call out his name, he knew he had to change the equation, put their heads down, buy some time.

He made sure the weapon was at chest level as he turned. He didn’t want to have to worry about elevation, just had to be ready to squeeze the trigger when he tracked across the target. A smaller man on the passenger side of the vehicle. Al Din fired twice, his bullets punching through the window of the car. Early on the first shot, but he knew the second was on target.

That should freeze them for a moment. He continued his spin, kept running for the door.

Al Din surprised Lynch. Didn’t even pause, just spun, firing twice. Lynch heard glass break, heard a grunt, saw Bernstein drop out of the corner of his eye.

Al Din was almost to the door of the stairwell. Lynch sighted there. Al Din would have to slow to get in the door.

Al Din knew he would have to pause at the door. But he had the range now, could picture the larger man behind the driver’s door of the car. Just before the door to the stairwell, al Din spun again, the weapon leveled, waiting for the barrel to cross its target. He fired, fired again, shocked that the man wasn’t moving, wasn’t down. The first shot should have been perfect, but it slammed into top of the car’s window frame just in front of the man’s chest. The second shot may have been wide. Still, it should have been enough, should have had the man ducking for cover, but the man stood perfectly still, gun steady.

The larger man fired. Al Din felt the round hit him near the right shoulder. Didn’t mean it was over – al Din had been shot before. He switched the pistol to his left hand, was raising it for another shot when the next round slammed into the center of his chest.

Al Din fell back against the door, slid to the floor, his brain still racing through his options but his body no longer cooperating. How wide was that window frame? One inch? Two? That was the difference. His shot had been perfect. The other man should be down; al Din should be through the door, gone.

Al Din saw the man come out from behind the car, his weapon still raised, still trained on him. Al Din looked down at the pistol in his left hand, concentrated, could still feel the fingers, tightened them on the grip, focused on his arm, started to raise the weapon.

Just before he got to the door, Lynch saw al Din spin, fire again. Nothing Lynch could do, just hold his ground, aim. First shot hit something metal. Lynch heard the sound. The second tore through the fabric of Lynch’s coat sleeve, just below the left shoulder. Either it didn’t hit him or he didn’t feel it yet. Lynch figured if the little fuck was gonna shoot at him with a .22, then he’d better hit him solid.

Lynch fired, the first round hitting al Din high in the right chest, near the shoulder, al Din not skipping a beat, just switching his weapon to the left hand, starting to bring it up. Lynch fired again, center chest. That drove al Din back into the door, al Din sliding down, leaving a smear of blood behind on the green metal.

Lynch came out from behind the car, gun up, closed on al Din. He saw al Din look down at his weapon, start to raise his left arm, trying to bring the gun up. Lynch emptied the rest of his clip into the bastard’s chest, everything hitting on the midline between his collarbone and belt buckle. Al Din’s hand opened, the pistol dropped, and he slumped to the side, his eyes fixed and open.

Lynch ran around the front of the car, slid to a stop next to Bernstein, who was on his back gasping. Lynch looked for a wound, saw nothing. Then Lynch saw the hole in the breast pocket of Bernstein’s blazer. He lifted the coat open, looking for an entry wound, nothing, a small tear in the shirt, a little blood from a shallow gash.

Something fell from the pocket of Bernstein’s blazer. His iPhone, the screen shattered, the silver back of the device dented, split open a little at the apex of the dent.

“I should have let the fucker live,” Lynch said. “He killed your damn phone. Fucking thing saved your life.”

Bernstein tried to laugh, grunted in pain, drew in a shallow breath. “There’s an app for that,” he said.

CHAPTER 90

On six, Hickman and Lafitpour emerged from the cars they had been hiding behind.

“What the fuck?” Hickman said.

Lafitpour said nothing, still holding his phone.

“You can hang up now,” Hardin said. “Transfer the funds.”

“We had nothing to do with this,” Lafitpour said.