1 - Sam #2
The instant Sam’s soles hit the asphalt he was running south, cutting in between cars.
Footsteps pounded behind him, and as Sam passed a taxi inching forward he took a chance and wrenched open the driver’s side passenger door.
“What are you doing?” the pissed-off passenger inside yelled, but Sam was already running past them, leaving the door open as an obstacle. The passenger yanked the door shut but the driver opened his door to get out and scream at Sam in Spanish.
BOOF! Sam heard the impact.
Russian screams. Spanish curses. Horns blared.
Bond would have smirked, but Sam was too freaked out, with too much adrenaline pumping through his veins. That was a trick that was only going to work once.
He could try the subway, but Sam knew if his timing wasn’t perfect he’d get trapped on the platform. He needed another way out.
On the sidewalk a guy in a suit was getting off an electric scooter, fishing a phone out of his pocket. That could work—Sam wrenched the scooter from him and with a running start sped down the sidewalk.
“Hey!” Suit Guy waved his phone. “I’m just going to turn it off!”
“Call 9-1-1,” Sam shouted over his shoulder. “Tell them to hurry!”
Red-Locs smashed into Suit Guy, grabbing his phone and slamming it to the sidewalk as the Russian ran at Sam. The guy wouldn’t be calling 9-1-1 now, but he also wouldn’t be able to turn off the scooter’s juice.
Sam jerked the scooter left, past the Eighty-Sixth Street subway entrance, and focused ahead.
He swerved around a slow-moving nanny pushing toddlers in a double stroller.
Damn, the sidewalk was crowded. Eastbound traffic was jammed on the street side of the foot-high berm of dirty snow, so Sam stayed on the sidewalk, weaving and gunning the throttle as much as he dared.
“Watch it! Out of my way! Coming through!” Sam kept calling out, and barely missed crashing into two adults drinking their coffees and some lady popping out of her door, eyes on her cell and giant gold headphones on her ears.
Sam glanced back—the Russian was sprinting after him, looking pissed. Wet and pissed.
Sam pressed the throttle all the way down, trying to build on his half-block lead.
At the corner of First Avenue Sam shot into the parking lane, heading north with traffic. Cars were moving here, but Sam knew he couldn’t outrun their van on a scooter.
A truck beeped as it backed into a loading dock in front of him, so Sam pulled into the next lane over, bouncing to get more speed.
A taxi honked at Sam to watch out. As it pulled up to pass Sam rapped on the driver’s window.
She rolled it down to yell, but before she could, Sam shouted, “Wanna make a hundred bucks?”
Not what the driver expected to hear.
“Pop the trunk!” Sam told her.
“I don’t take scooters.”
“Two hundred!” The light ahead of them turned red.
She slowed and unlatched the trunk, which swung up.
Sam braked fast and hopped off. He tossed the scooter in back, wedging the pole so the trunk couldn’t close… That way the Russian and Red-Locs wouldn’t be able to see if Sam was in the backseat or not.
Sam pulled two hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet. “Look, someone’s after me. Drive like hell up to Central Park North, then once you’re sure you’ve lost them, ditch the scooter.”
“You’re not getting in?” The cabbie was confused.
Sam shook his head no.
“Ah, I’m your diversion?” There was a glint in her eye.
“Only if you’re fast,” Sam told her.
She flexed her fingers on the steering wheel. “Danica fast.” Which was just weird, because that was Sam’s mom’s name. But clearly she meant Danica Patrick, the race car driver.
The beeping delivery truck was crossing the sidewalk now, completely blocking Sam’s view of the corner where the bad guys would be running out any second. But if Sam couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see him either. The taxi and Sam were almost next to Diane’s newsstand.
The lights five cars up changed to green.
“NASCAR time!” Sam handed over the cash.
The cabbie took it with a thumbs-up and Sam sprinted for Diane’s.
Before Diane could even say hi, Sam dove headfirst over the wooden sill and into the open window.
He heard the taxi peel away, tires screeching.
There was a chorus of angry horns as Sam tumbled to the floor by Diane’s feet, knocking over her electric space heater.
It shuddered off. Diane looked at Sam with wide What are you doing?
eyes and Sam put a finger to his lips, praying she’d keep quiet.
“He’s in that cab!” Red-Locs shouted. “He’s getting away!”
Diane tossed her plaid lap blanket over Sam as she stood up, her girth blocking most of the view into the tiny booth.
Through the weave of thin fabric, Sam watched her rearrange some candy bars he’d dislodged and then open up a Daily News and pretend to read, through he knew she was just blocking more of Sam from view.
“Nyet! We will get him,” the Russian said. “Van is here. He took us in circle.”
Sam could hear them through the thin walls. Red-Locs cursed Sam as they ran past.
The Russian scoffed. “The Knitter is slippery.”
The Knitter? What the hell? The Russian was talking about Sam, and he had a code name?
BAM! A two-second pause. BAM! again. Shouted curses, in English this time. A shrill car alarm started going off, alternating honks and loud whistles.
BAM!
Sam kept his voice low as he asked Diane, “What’s happening?”
She peered over the edge of her paper as if barely curious. “Traffic’s blocked on Eighty-Seventh, so they’re trying to get this white van up, it looks like… on the sidewalk.” She didn’t sound all that surprised.
BAM!
“And the noise?” Sam asked.
“Someone blocked them in.”
Another BAM! , louder than the rest, followed by a CRACK!
“ That was the new tree outside the dry cleaners.” Diane sounded surprised now. “Your logger friends are halfway out.”
Sam tried to think it through. Hopefully the taxi was long gone, and they couldn’t catch Danica.
But these guys had a code name for him. That meant they were in the van in the first place to watch him .
It also meant they knew where Sam lived.
If Sam let them go, he’d lose the small advantage he had, that right now he knew where they were—but they didn’t know where he was.
Tires screeched and Sam could hear people yelp out of the way. An engine revved.
“They’re coming backwards on the sidewalk. Hopefully they don’t hit us,” Diane said.
Sam needed to figure out what was going on. He needed to stop them, somehow… The screws!
Frantic, Sam pulled off his backpack and dug his hand into the outside pocket. He hissed as a metal point jabbed his finger. They were sharp, that was for sure. More carefully, he gathered the drywall screws into a big handful.
“Watch out,” he told Diane, rising up just enough to peek out the window.
The van was fifteen yards away, coming fast down the sidewalk in reverse. Veering a bit on the icy patches. They would pass right by Diane’s newsstand.
Sam leaned his arm out and like a left-handed pitcher tossed the bent screws in their path, a blanket of metal points. With any luck they’d run over one or two of them and get a flat tire. Then Sam could follow them, see where they went to lick their wounded egos. Figure this out.
“Get down!” Diane pushed Sam back from the window and leaned out to watch as the van got closer.
“Tell me if they drive over them!” Sam urged, wishing he could see through Fishing Real and Green Smoothie Life .
Vroom! Sam heard the van tear past them like a monster truck and swerve to shift into drive. Horns screamed.
Sam stared at Diane. Well?
“They drove right over those jack thingies.” She craned her neck to look. “But they’re still barreling up First.”
“Shit!” Sam stood again to look out the window. The van was weaving through cars, already approaching the light at Eighty-Ninth. The light was green, but their taillights suddenly shone bright red.
With a surge of pride, Sam slapped his hand on the wooden sill. He got them. It was Bond-level cool. “They’re stopping!”
Diane gave Sam a sidelong look. “What have you gotten yourself into?”
“Hell if I know.” Sam bent to set the space heater back upright.
Blocking what he was doing with his body, he got the last hundred out of his wallet and tucked it under the foot of the heater.
Diane wouldn’t find it until later, and this way, she couldn’t say no.
Not that a hundred dollars really covered saving his ass, but Sam figured it was something he could do to show he was grateful.
He slipped out the doorway back to the sidewalk.
Diane grabbed the broom from its spot on the door and followed him out. “Where are you off to now?”
“To find out what’s going on.” He started to cross Eighty Seventh but paused and looked back at her. “Thanks.”
She was already sweeping up the leftover bent screws. “You be careful.”
Sam waved, staying tight by the businesses on the left side. He watched Red-Locs get out of the van in the center lane, walk back and kick the left rear tire in frustration.
Sam couldn’t help but smirk. Now they couldn’t catch the taxi, and Sam could follow them on foot.
He didn’t see the Russian, but Red-Locs headed back inside the van. Sam darted across Eighty-Eighth, hanging in the shadows.
Suddenly the back doors of the van banged open and Red-Locs shot out on one of those two-wheel stand-up electric Segways that tourists use in Central Park. Red-Locs spun 180 and shot north, leaving the van right there in the middle of the road.
Shit!
That was faster than Sam could run, especially if Red-Locs was going far.
There were no scooters or bikes around. Sam needed a cab.