You might think that with more than a hundred cops blanketing the area we’d have no problem grabbing one man. But it wasn’t that easy. Most of our guys had been stationed in front of the barricades, and they had to work their way back through the crowd.
Under normal circumstances, a bunch of New Yorkers might begrudgingly get out of the way if a cop yelled “Coming through, coming through!” But tonight, the circumstances were far from normal. As soon as the Molotov cocktail hit, people stampeded for safety. To make matters worse, they didn’t all agree on which direction was safe. It was every man for himself, and they pushed, shoved, and elbowed frantically, not caring if the person they bowled over was a pregnant woman or a cop chasing a lunatic.
Several of our uniforms broke through the crowd and made their way toward 51st Street.
“He doesn’t have a prayer,” Brainard said.
Then our screen went purple.
“Shit—he tossed a smoke bomb,” Brainard said.
The smoke screen wouldn’t win any special effects awards, but it worked.
Brainard pulled back to a wide shot.
“There he is,” I said.
Tie-Dye was heading for the maze of food carts that had taken over the south side of 51st Street.
“Sir, we’ve got a bird’s-eye view, but our guys at street level can’t see two feet in front of them.”
“But they can look up,” I said, keying the mic.
“Suspect is in the row of food carts on Five One,” I said. “He’s between a yellow-and-blue Sabrett hot dog umbrella and a red-and-white that says ‘Falafel.’”
The smoke was settling quickly, and I could see several of our uniforms aggressively pushing their way through the mob toward the target umbrellas.
The cop in the lead was ten feet away when it happened.
A motorcycle came roaring out from between the two carts and headed east on 51st Street.
“Damn,” Brainard said. “This guy is good.”
“Not as good as we are. We got him now. Command to all units,” I said into the mic. “I need a total lockdown on all vehicular traffic, Forty-second to Fifty-seventh Streets. Ninth Avenue to Third. Suspect is on a bright green Kawasaki Ninja rice rocket.”
The man on the motorcycle made a rubber-burning right turn and headed the wrong way on Sixth Avenue. The Ninja was at full throttle and was making a beeline for the flaming limo.
“Look at that crazy bastard,” Brainard said. “Where the hell is he going?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “The entire grid is locked up tight. It’s impossible for him to get away.”
And then, right before my very eyes, the son of a bitch did the impossible.
Chapter 27
STANDING THERE ON the scaffold with the Molotov in his hand, Gabriel the director gave a last-minute pep talk to Gabriel the star.
“This is the money shot. You only get one take, but you can do it. You’ve done it a thousand times.”
Gabriel the actor rolled his eyes. A thousand? He’d gotten it right only six times. Six out of thirty-two. Tossing a flaming bottle onto a moving car isn’t as easy as people think. Lexi had rehearsed him, but without the fire. And instead of a car, they had used a shopping cart they took from the parking lot at Pathmark.
He thought he could use some more practice, but she said, “No, you never want to over-rehearse.”
They had made the napalm at home. It was ridiculously easy. Just mix gasoline with Styrofoam and put it in a glass bottle.
Lexi, of course, had to complicate it.
“Add some vodka,” she said.
“What’ll that do?”
“Probably nothing. It’s just a little cinematic symbolism. Brad Schuck—vodka—get it?”
What the hell. He added a shot of Stoli.
And now it was showtime. The Hummer came rolling up Sixth Avenue.
“And action,” the director called out.
As soon as the bottle left his hand, he knew that the thirty-third time was the charm. Perfect throw, perfect arc, perfect landing.
The explosion was louder, brighter, and more spectacular than he expected. He only wished he had time to stay and enjoy Brad Schuck’s final performance, but he’d see it all on video tonight.
Scrambling down the scaffold, The Chameleon morphed from bland blue to brightly colored tie-dye, and bolted for the Kawasaki.
The smoke bomb was Lexi’s idea. They had argued about the color. He thought red smoke would stick it to the NYPD Red cops. But she reminded him that there’s also NYPD blue.
“Red plus blue equals purple,” she said. “Perfect way to stick it to them both.”
Never argue Lexi logic. It didn’t matter. He was just glad she came up with the idea, because as it turned out the smoke saved his ass.