The siren drowned all hope of conversation as they sped along the bridge, Gil weaving in and out of traffic with practiced skill. Malcolm glanced to his phone.
"Dani and JT are across the bridge, they're gonna form a barricade."
Gil only nodded and pushed the car faster.
The car they were chasing – a deep blue Chevy – ducked around a van, its mud-spattered body reflected in the silver of a fuel tanker up ahead. Malcolm gripped the edge of the seat, willing himself to stay still. If Kennedy got away from them the chances of finding him again were almost nil. He'd proven himself adept at avoiding detection, at moving under the radar. Hell, it was pure luck and JT's hunch that'd started them on this chase.
Which, Malcolm had to admit, was pretty awesome.
The car's grey ceiling was intermittently lit by the flashing blue of Gil's undercover light, the siren wailing rhythmically around them. Gil swerved, avoiding a bouncing hub cap as the Chevy grated against a Honda in its hurry to get past the tanker. The latter's driver, however, had clearly copped the undercover car and had veered into the middle of the lane, blocking the Chevy's escape. The Chevy darted to the far side, desperation clear in the partial skid marks as the LeMens edged closer, almost bumper to bumper. The other commuters had had the good sense to slow out of the way.
The tanker, realising the Chevy was on its outer side, turned sharply toward the barrier, clearly intending to force the blue car to halt against it and the wrought iron of the bridge's railing. It was a noble idea, Malcolm thought, and would've worked, if it hadn't been Kennedy driving the Chevy. If it had been a narcissist with clinical borderline personality disorder, someone whose existence didn't hinge on winning, on outsmarting, on getting away with six murders and counting, the day might've ended very differently.
But the NYPD was onto Kennedy. Malcolm knew there was no version of this day that didn't end with Kennedy dead – whether by his own bullet or an officer's, the chances of bringing him in alive were depressingly small. As soon as the tanker swerved into the barrier, Malcolm knew what would happen. He braced himself against the dashboard and ceiling, yelling for Gil to stop, to slow down, to get into the inner lane – but it happened too fast.
Kennedy accelerated, his outer wheel mounting the curb in the sudden burst of speed, propelling the deep blue Chevy up and into the tanker's cab. Malcolm caught a glimpse of the driver's horror right before the Chevy buried itself in his window.
If the Chevy had only hit the cab, there might only have been two deaths that day. But, as Gil slammed on the brake, the Chevy whipped into the tanker itself, metal screeching on metal as the reinforced container buckled under the strain of impact. Gas spurted from the gashes like blood from an artery, dousing the Chevy and the road as momentum carried tanker and car into the guardrail. An ear-splitting grinding crunch rent the air apart as the two vehicles barrelled through the steel lattice, weakening it, ripping great beams from their anchor points to hang like broken fingers over the twenty-foot drop to the Hudson below.
The LeMens skidded on the road, wheels fighting for purchase on the gas-slicked surface, the sudden braking now working against them as momentum shoved them forward. Gil swore, Malcolm tensed, and neither saw the spark of metal on metal that ignited the blast. The ruined Chevy was obliterated by a punch of flame, the heat searing, rolling over them with raw, blistering power. What remained of the guardrail was torn apart, and tanker and Chevy tipped and fell, bringing the heart of the inferno with them.
But the blast caught the lip of the LeMens, picking it up as though it weighed no more than a dead leaf, and hurled it unceremoniously to the side. Malcolm and Gil were thrown sideways, their seatbelts tightening with crushing force and Malcolm's world blinked out of existence as his head collided with the window. The ceiling buckled around them as they crashed through the broken barricade. Malcolm cried out, one hand reaching for Gil, the other glued to the dashboard as the car tilted, suddenly weightless. His stomach lurched as the smoke and fire were swept away to reveal an endless grey glinting silver. He gasped in a breath as the water leapt up to meet them. He heard Gil call out, telling him to hold on, and the car flipped, its nose now below them, a split second before they slammed into the deceptively gentle waves.
Malcolm was shoved forwards, the car buckling around his legs, head hitting the windscreen. Sound was extinguished with the screech of bending metal, replaced by a high ringing that deadened the rush of water as it clawed its way up Malcolm's legs. The rear of the car flopped downward, shocking them again but the engine was already waterlogged, already heavy enough to drag them inexorably down.
For a moment, all Malcolm could do was breathe. Everything was a dank blue-grey, save bursts of violent colour. It took a moment for him to remember the undercover light, flashing around the interior like a tiny cobalt lighthouse.
A hand grabbed his shoulder and he forced himself to look over at Gil. His forehead was bleeding, frantic eyes framed by red lines. His mouth was moving but the sounds reached Malcolm only as rounded, bloated things. Shock, he suspected. Made sense. He glanced down at himself, to the oddly muted pain in his shin. He put a hand to his temple and drew bloody fingers away.
Gil shook him and he turned back. The water was already at their thighs, hungrily lapping higher.
"Bright!" The words finally resolved themselves. "Can you move?"
Having no idea whether he could, Malcolm nodded, wincing as his brain seemed to flinch from the movement.
"Deep breath," Gil ordered, his hand moving to Malcolm's chest as though that could stop the water inching over his stomach. "And wait for the pressure to equalise. Then out. Got it?"
About half of that made sense to him, but Malcolm nodded, not wanting Gil to worry. The pain was intensifying, his head pounding, wrist pulsing, chest burning. Worst of all was his leg. It was too dark to see but he was pretty sure half the water between his knees was red. He reached a hand down and felt a jagged shard of metal embedded in his flesh. The front of the car had buckled around him, stabbing through his shin and pinning him in place.
The water was at mid-chest now and rising faster. Dazed, unsure why everything was moving so slowly, Malcolm fumbled for his belt buckle. He punched the release with his thumb but the tongue was stuck fast. He tugged on the strap, the water now teasing his chin, and on the fourth go he wrenched it free. He stood up in his seat, crying out as hot pain flashed through his leg, and pressed his face into the buckled ceiling.
"Gil –!" he gasped, looking sideways. The water was playing with the flashing light, throwing shadows and dancing with refractions so nothing was still.
"Deep breath, kid!"
Malcolm just had time to drag in a lungful of air before the water ate the last of the space with a slapping plop. He blinked hard against the sting of the river. Gil was shoving his shoulder into the door, trying to force it open. Malcolm copied him, grimacing against the many complaints his body shouted at him with every movement. The glass of the window was shattered, the nexus of the spiderweb clotted with blood. The doorframe had warped, bending itself into a death trap. His ribs seared with the impact. Malcolm looked back to Gil as a hand clawed at his shirt and he saw the other door open to the murky expanse. Gil grabbed a fistful of his jacket and pulled.
Malcolm couldn't stop the scream as his leg was wrenched sideways. Something inside him cracked, jerking to the side and heat surged through the limb. Precious air bubbled past his face, briefly obscuring Gil. Malcolm wrapped his fingers around Gil's wrist. He stared at him through the water, willing him to honour his silent plea. He tried to pull Gil's hand away but he only scrabbled harder, burying both hands in Malcolm's shirt and losing a few bubbles of his own.
The light flashed, blue, black. Blue, black. Gil's gaze was wide and more fearful than Malcolm had ever seen. He smiled, tightening his grip on Gil's wrists, and gave a small nod.
It's okay. Go.
Gil shook his head wildly, pulling himself closer, trying to get a look at Malcolm's leg, but he pushed him back, toward the door, to air, to life.
No sense in both of them dying.
Gil fought back, both of them losing air.
Malcolm raised a hand and laid it on his mentor's cheek. His lungs were burning, compressing inside him, but he kept smiling, even as his last breath bubbled past his lips. He tried to say with his eyes all the things he didn't have the air to voice, poured all his logic and persuasiveness into his gaze.
He saw the moment Gil understood. Pain filled the dark gaze and it stung, deep in Malcolm's heart. Ached.
He didn't want to die. But he knew there was no way Gil would leave him. Not if there was a chance to save him. He'd die with him rather than save himself. And Malcolm could never let that happen. Not if he could stop it.
It was poetic, really. The first life he ever saved would also be his last.
With a final smile, Malcolm mouthed the words he had never said enough, and took a deep breath.