Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #1: Books 1-4 (A Dead Cold Box Set) by Blake Banner (top 5 ebook reader .txt) 📗

“Tammy! No!”

Dos Santos turned, grabbed Duffy, and hurled him at Tammy. Duffy stumbled, reached for Tammy’s shoulders, and gripped her, searching her face, “Tammy, sweetheart, listen to me. Leave it—this is not for you. Let him keep it. We can fix this. I have connections…”

She was doing a kind of dance, trying to get around him, trying to get past him at dos Santos, who was wrenching open the door of his Vanquish. Suddenly she was screaming, “Get out of my way!” She lunged, he grappled with her, and the knife flashed, once, twice, three times, and Duffy was sinking to his knees.

I was halfway across the road and turned back, racing for my Jag, bellowing, “Move in! Move in! Get a paramedic here now! Call an ambulance! Man down! Man down!”

I heard the Vanquish’s tires scream, and as I clambered into the Jag, I saw Tammy jumping over the door of her open-top Mercedes. I heard the sirens wailing behind me and took off after dos Santos. He screeched into Neill Avenue as I accelerated after him. A vintage Jag, however cool, is no match for a modern Aston Martin supercar. As long as we stayed in the city, I had a chance of staying with him, but once he hit the freeway, I didn’t have a hope in hell. I radioed in.

“In pursuit of a silver Aston Martin Vanquish headed east on Neill Avenue toward Benjamin Nolan. Request a chopper.”

By the time I had finished, he was already jumping the lights at the junction and thundering north on Nolan. I followed to the tune of honking horns and squealing brakes. I knew what was coming next.

“He’s headed for the junction with the Bronx Pelham Parkway.” That would lead him to the New England Thruway. If he did that, I would lose him. “Have you got me that damned chopper?”

“Working on it, Detective.”

Ahead, I saw him hit the Parkway and take the corner at sixty miles an hour. The car cornered flat and stuck to the road like it was nailed to it. The massive V12 on a Vanquish will hurl it from zero to sixty in just over three seconds. I took the corner and floored the pedal, but the Aston Martin was moving away from me like I was stationary. In a few seconds, he was going to hit spaghetti junction. If he took the I-95, he would vanish in seconds.

“Dispatch! Where is that damned chopper?”

I hit a hundred and ten miles per hour as I crossed the bridge. Ahead, he must have been doing a hundred and fifty, because he was pulling away from me at forty miles per hour at least. But he didn’t take the I-95 turn off. He rocketed under the New England Thruway and kept going, east and north. And suddenly, I knew where he was going.

I’d been checking my rearview, and now I saw Tamara’s Mercedes closing in on me.

“Dispatch, request immediate backup, headed north on Pelham Bridge Road. Suspect headed for the islands at New Rochelle.”

“Copy that.”

Tamara passed me doing a hundred and thirty. I was creeping up to one twenty, but I didn’t think the old Jag could give me much more.

We had to slow as we hit Shore Road and the sleepy suburbs that surround it. Soon, I was cruising through the town with Tammy a few yards ahead of me. I was scanning left and right. I knew he was here. I could feel him.

Then I saw the Vanquish. He’d dumped it in the Marina Parking lot. Ahead of me, Tamara had seen it too and was dithering. I dropped into second, gunned the engine, and thundered past her on her right. Then I spun the wheel and turned down Town Dock Road onto the docks, with Tamara screaming on my heels.

He was there, on the jetty, clambering into a small speedboat. I screeched to a halt by the steps that led down to the quay and jumped out. I heard the Mercedes skid to a stop behind me. Then Tamara’s voice:

“Freeze!”

I turned just in time to get pistol-whipped across my head. My head was having a bad couple of days. I sank to my knees. Through a haze of pain, I saw Tamara running down toward dos Santos’s launch. I heard shouts and feet running and turned to see a group of men coming toward me. I pulled myself to my feet and held up my badge. “NYPD. I need a launch! Now!”

A big guy with an Italian face frowned at me. “I got one. You okay, pal?”

I pointed at dos Santos. “Follow that speedboat…”

“Seriously?”

“Yes!”

“Okay! I’m Tony.”

Down on the jetty, things were not going as dos Santos had planned. He was pulling out of the harbor and moving off at speed, but Tammy was standing behind him, holding a gun to his head.

We clambered into Tony’s speedboat and took off after them. They turned into the Glen Island strait and accelerated toward Huckleberry Island. They were maybe a hundred yards ahead of us, slapping across the water and raising great plumes of spray as they went, holding their position. We were not gaining on them. I turned to Tony.

“What the hell is on that island?”

He looked bemused. The wind whipped his words away as he spoke. “Nothing. It’s deserted.”

Now they were banking, looping into a long curve around the northern tip of the small landmass. Whatever they were after was clearly on the other side.

“There is a natural bay around there,” he shouted. “Maybe they have a yacht.”

“Can’t you go any faster?”

“She’s at top speed!”

As we came around the headland after them, I saw what dos Santos had come for. It wasn’t a yacht. There was a broad bay with a sandy beach, as Tony had said, and sitting in the