Page 46

CHAPTER 44

I DRAW MY gun, but—again—I don’t have a shot. Carpenter holds Marta in a chokehold, positioning his body behind hers. She tries to fight, but she’s clearly debilitated—either high on heroin or weakened by waiting for her next fix.

With his free arm, Carpenter swings his pistol over her shoulder and points it in my direction. I grab the woman I’ve been propping up and shove her back inside the building. Carpenter’s pistol thunders, and bullets crash into the drywall next to me, throwing white dust into the air. I hurl the woman down inside the closest open doorway and dive on top of her. She’s screaming—now fully awake from her addiction-focused haze—and thrashing around in a panic.

Carpenter stops shooting, and I hear a scuffle outside.

“Stay here!” I tell the woman and rise to my feet.

She scurries on all fours into the corner of the room and curls into a tight ball, like a schoolkid in a tornado drill.

Just as I step out of the room, Ozzy Osbourne—the red-bearded guy with the revolver—is rushing down the hall, and we practically collide. Only a few feet away, he swings his big gun at me. With my left arm, I reach out and grab his wrist, pushing his arm against the wall. He squeezes the trigger. Flames leap from the barrel, and a loud boom fills the narrow corridor. I try to jam my SIG Sauer against his chest, but he grabs my gun arm in the same position and shoves my arm up into the air. I angle my wrist, but I still don’t have a shot.

We push and pull against each other. He’s not a big guy, but he has a wiry strength, and it’s all I can do to hold on to his squirming wrist. It’s just a matter of seconds before he’ll be able to twist his long-barreled gun into a decent shooting position. I use my weight to pin him against the wall with my shoulder. With my head lowered, I notice again that he’s wearing flip-flops. I lift my foot and drive the sole of my cowboy boot down against his bare toes.

He grunts in pain, and this gives me the moment I need to yank my gun hand free from his grip. I aim my gun, intending to tell him to freeze, but my shifting position has caused me to lose my grip on his arm. He swings his gun on me.

We fire at the same time.

His bullet sails through the folds of my open dress shirt, coming within inches of slicing through my rib cage.

My bullet punches him in the cheekbone, and he slides down to the floor, leaving a trail of brains on the wall behind him.

A vehicle engine roars outside, and I rush toward the exit. As I step into daylight, I notice two things simultaneously. The first is that the van is speeding away, no doubt with Llewellyn Carpenter and Marta Rivera inside. The second is that the Suns fan stands behind the cover of the pickup truck, aiming the pump shotgun at the doorway.

I dive back inside as he lets loose a series of thunderous blasts. I pin myself against the floor, and chunks of wood and drywall rain down on me.

He stops firing, and I rise to a crouching position, my gun ready. I try to figure the odds of running out and getting a good shot before he lets loose with another blast.

Not good.

“You stay right where you are!” I hear the man yell. “I’m going to get into this truck and drive away. Don’t try to stop me, and you might live another day.”

I don’t hear him climbing into the truck. Nor do I hear the engine coming to life. Instead, I hear footsteps—careful, cautious—approaching the doorway.

He’s coming after me.

I raise my gun, ready for him to step into my path.

Then I hear the click of a gun being cocked. Not a shotgun.

A handgun.

“Stop right there,” I hear a familiar voice say.

Ava.

“Put the shotgun down—gently,” she says. Then a moment later: “It’s okay to come out, Rory.”

I step forward, ready to fire, but the Suns fan is standing with his hands up. Ava’s sidearm is leveled on the back of his head. The shotgun is lying on the ground.

“Thanks, Ava,” I say. “I’m glad as hell to see you.”

“Put your hands against the wall,” she says to the guy, and when he does it, she holsters her gun and handcuffs him. “I called for backup,” she tells me. “There’s an APB out for the van. Was it Carpenter?”

“Yes,” I say, realizing just how dry my mouth is. I swallow. “And he took Marta. Again.”