Mercedes caromed off the Jag and back into the intersection—
—and Devlin swung himself feetfirst into the front seat. The driver had slumped over to the right, blocking the steering wheel. Devlin went over him, his right foot landing on the accelerator, his left foot on the brake.
He hit them both simultaneously. The big car jerked and tailed off to the right, sliding aside as the damaged Mercedes spun past them.
From behind, the Honda rammed them again, but this time it wasn’t a clean ram, more a glancing blow, which caused the Honda to spin out to the left, rear first, whipping the front end of the car around and around as it sailed, rudderless, to the northeast, finally colliding with the hulk of the Jag.
Both cars exploded into flames.
The Mercedes continued south on Western, past the gas station pumps, running up on the sidewalk and then crashing headfirst into the retaining wall on the other side of the alley.
And then they were through the intersection and speeding east on Third, as if nothing had happened.
It would be only a few minutes, Devlin knew, before the sirens would start and the cops and the fire trucks got there. He needed to be far away. He turned at the next side street and dropped down to Sixth again. It was slow going through the side streets, but a zigzag course was the best idea under the circumstances, since the LAPD hardly ever ventured off the main arteries in this part of town. Whatever minor damage had been done to the Escalade would go unnoticed.
At a safe distance, he stopped the car.
“Help me, Jacinta,” he said, but there was no response from the backseat. Had something happened to her? Was she dead? No time to worry about that.
He reached into one of the man’s ears and pulled out an earbud. No wonder he couldn’t hear him.
Devlin took out the other earbud and held them both up to his ears. There was some kind of music playing, more chanting really. He brought the earbuds closer.
Music and chanting. The music he recognized. It was Schubert’s “Ave Maria,” sung in Spanish, and the chanting was the voices of a congregation reciting the “Hail Mary” in Spanish.
Not dispositive. He could have been religious and still one of the bad guys. And he wasn’t blind—he should have seen those tail cars, should have responded.
Devlin was strong, but the man was big and out cold. He rolled him over the front seats and practically into Jacinta’s lap. She showed no emotion, didn’t move. “Sister,” said Devlin, “you have to help me. At least get out of the way.”
She did neither. She looked up from her photographs and stared at him, her lips moving.
“Okay, have it your way.” He managed to fold down half of the backseat and roll the body into the Escalade’s capacious rear compartment. The rear windows were tinted, which was legal in California. With any luck, they’d be downtown shortly. And then he could sort out the problem of the driver.
He slipped back into the driver’s seat and swung east. They were in the twilight zone between Latino Broadway, Little Tokyo, and Chinatown. The old L.A. downtown, ten times farther from Beverly Hills than New York City.
At Main Street he turned left. At Second, he turned right and continued down the street, almost to Los Angeles Street and, beyond it, Little Tokyo, until he could duck in behind the old church.
Not just any church: the Cathedral of St. Vibiana. Second and Main streets. Crippled since the Northridge earthquake of 1994, condemned since 1996. Restored now—not as a church but a community arts center, called, simply, Vibiana. Saints need not apply around here anymore. Especially third-century virgin martyrs. Come to think of it, virgins need no longer apply, either.
Devlin got out of the car, catching the blast furnace right in the face, stepping over the flopped homeless in their cardboard boxes, their shopping carts parked neatly outside. Everybody had wheels in Los Angeles.
He turned. Jacinta was
—and Devlin swung himself feetfirst into the front seat. The driver had slumped over to the right, blocking the steering wheel. Devlin went over him, his right foot landing on the accelerator, his left foot on the brake.
He hit them both simultaneously. The big car jerked and tailed off to the right, sliding aside as the damaged Mercedes spun past them.
From behind, the Honda rammed them again, but this time it wasn’t a clean ram, more a glancing blow, which caused the Honda to spin out to the left, rear first, whipping the front end of the car around and around as it sailed, rudderless, to the northeast, finally colliding with the hulk of the Jag.
Both cars exploded into flames.
The Mercedes continued south on Western, past the gas station pumps, running up on the sidewalk and then crashing headfirst into the retaining wall on the other side of the alley.
And then they were through the intersection and speeding east on Third, as if nothing had happened.
It would be only a few minutes, Devlin knew, before the sirens would start and the cops and the fire trucks got there. He needed to be far away. He turned at the next side street and dropped down to Sixth again. It was slow going through the side streets, but a zigzag course was the best idea under the circumstances, since the LAPD hardly ever ventured off the main arteries in this part of town. Whatever minor damage had been done to the Escalade would go unnoticed.
At a safe distance, he stopped the car.
“Help me, Jacinta,” he said, but there was no response from the backseat. Had something happened to her? Was she dead? No time to worry about that.
He reached into one of the man’s ears and pulled out an earbud. No wonder he couldn’t hear him.
Devlin took out the other earbud and held them both up to his ears. There was some kind of music playing, more chanting really. He brought the earbuds closer.
Music and chanting. The music he recognized. It was Schubert’s “Ave Maria,” sung in Spanish, and the chanting was the voices of a congregation reciting the “Hail Mary” in Spanish.
Not dispositive. He could have been religious and still one of the bad guys. And he wasn’t blind—he should have seen those tail cars, should have responded.
Devlin was strong, but the man was big and out cold. He rolled him over the front seats and practically into Jacinta’s lap. She showed no emotion, didn’t move. “Sister,” said Devlin, “you have to help me. At least get out of the way.”
She did neither. She looked up from her photographs and stared at him, her lips moving.
“Okay, have it your way.” He managed to fold down half of the backseat and roll the body into the Escalade’s capacious rear compartment. The rear windows were tinted, which was legal in California. With any luck, they’d be downtown shortly. And then he could sort out the problem of the driver.
He slipped back into the driver’s seat and swung east. They were in the twilight zone between Latino Broadway, Little Tokyo, and Chinatown. The old L.A. downtown, ten times farther from Beverly Hills than New York City.
At Main Street he turned left. At Second, he turned right and continued down the street, almost to Los Angeles Street and, beyond it, Little Tokyo, until he could duck in behind the old church.
Not just any church: the Cathedral of St. Vibiana. Second and Main streets. Crippled since the Northridge earthquake of 1994, condemned since 1996. Restored now—not as a church but a community arts center, called, simply, Vibiana. Saints need not apply around here anymore. Especially third-century virgin martyrs. Come to think of it, virgins need no longer apply, either.
Devlin got out of the car, catching the blast furnace right in the face, stepping over the flopped homeless in their cardboard boxes, their shopping carts parked neatly outside. Everybody had wheels in Los Angeles.
He turned. Jacinta was
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