Purkiss stripped off his coat, the one he’d borrowed from Nakamura, and balled it around his fist. Gripping the open fan window above him for stability, he pressed the covered fist against the glass of the larger window, increasing the pressure steadily until he felt and heard a tiny crack. He eased off, then pressed again. The glass splintered and gave way, fragments shattering on the porcelain below. Purkiss held his breath. Distantly, from the other side of the building, he could hear angry voices shouting, Berg’s predominant.
Keeping his hand covered with the coat he broke away as many pieces of the glass as he dared, tossing the shards away behind him into the weeds. When he’d created a gap big enough to fit through he put the coat back on again and crawled through, sending further splinters skittering into the restroom. He dropped to the floor and paused at the door, drawing the Glock.
A short passage led from the restroom to the shop beyond. Purkiss stopped at the springloaded door at the end of the passage and looked through the glass panel at eye level.
Across three or four aisles, Pope stood at the window, looking out. Almost hidden in front of him was a woman’s slight figure. Pope’s right hand held a gun steady against the side of her head.
With his fingertips Purkiss pushed against the door. The springs were well oiled and there was no sound as the door opened. He passed through quickly, controlling the closing movement.
Pope presented his back to Purkiss. A single shot would have to suffice to take him down; one from closer range would be better. Pope was turned slightly to his right, holding the girl directly in front of him, so an approach from the left would be less likely to risk hitting her. Purkiss ducked and edged along the aisle towards the front of the shop.
Ramirez screamed.
The noise was like a gunshot, and for a fraction of a second Purkiss was immobilised as if he’d been hit. He heard her voice — behind us, there’s a man behind us — and at the same instant saw the CCTV monitor above the counter, his frozen figure gazing back.
Careless.
Pope was fast, spinning and opening fire as Purkiss emerged at the end of the aisle and brought his own gun up. Purkiss was forced to drop again as the bullets smashed into the shelves around and above him, ripping through packets and tins, sending a billow of flour and sugar overhead. Purkiss rose again and took an instant to aim before firing, aiming not at Pope — he’d swung the girl round, not quite in front of him, and the risk of hitting her was too great — but at the window behind him while making sure his aim was high enough to avoid the petrol pumps beyond. Purkiss ducked once more as the window exploded outwards, the shock and noise meant to disorientate Pope even fractionally.
Purkiss came round the end of the aisle at a crouching run, aware of shouting drawing closer through the shattered window, and saw Pope with his gun raised, looking back through the window hole. A body lay near his feet, a civilian. Pope’s free hand was on the woman’s shoulder. She cowered, clutching something in front of her — an instrument case — and staring at Purkiss.
‘Ms Ramirez,’ he yelled. ‘Come over here.’
Pope looked across at him and simultaneously pulled the woman closer to him and brought the gun to bear. Purkiss ducked behind the shelves again, felt the shot sing over his head. How many was that, so far? Five or six? Pope’s gun looked like a Hockler; that could mean up to fifteen rounds. Ten left, plus whatever he had spare.
Gunfire crashed and sprayed the wall at the back of the shop, blasting away plaster. Purkiss risked a raise of his head and saw the back of Pope’s head again: he was facing through the shattered window, firing back. Two shots; a third.
Ramirez’s white, frightened face stared back at Purkiss again.
Purkiss beckoned her. Her eyes widened.
‘He’ll kill you,’ Purkiss called. ‘Get over here. I’ll get you away.’
‘Don’t listen to him, Nina.’ Pope half-turned, still focused on whomever was out there. Another salvo of shots came and plaster dust erupted from the ceiling.
‘Get over here now. You’ll get killed at any moment.’
She broke free then, only her head visible and moving over the top of the aisle. Purkiss moved to the front to meet her at the end.
‘Nina.’ Pope’s voice had risen to a roar.
She was six feet from Purkiss now, but she stopped and glanced back. He reached forward and grabbed her wrist roughly, yanking her past him and behind him. She was still clasping that case. He moved to the end of the aisle she’d emerged from and peered round.
Pope’s shot whined past his cheek and drove him back.
A high-pitched, repetitive rising tone started up, cutting across the aftershock of the gunfire. The rear door alarm.
Purkiss moved back around the fronts of the aisles to where Nina was hovering. He put his hand on her head and pushed her down, feeling her flinch, just as the door into the back passage opened and a man emerged. He’d come in through the fire door.
Thirty-Six
Interstate 95, between Washington D.C and New York
The man held a gun in a two-handed grip.
‘Give me the girl.’
‘Drop the gun,’ said Purkiss, the Glock levelled.
‘Send the girl over here.’
Purkiss shot him in the chest, a double tap, sending him back hard against the wall. He gripped Ramirez by the collar and hauled her up. He’d been intending to send her out through the fire door on her own while he dealt with Pope. Now that wasn’t an option.
Keeping himself slightly ahead of her he shouldered open the door into the passage. Halfway down was the restroom he’d come through, and at the end was the open fire door. Behind them he could hear the gunfire continuing.
Purkiss ran to the door and looked out. Nobody there. He pulled the woman stumbling after him and made her follow him hugging the wall to the corner and around the side. They encountered nobody.
Further shots came from the front of the building, and it took Purkiss a moment to realise that he’d let himself be misled, that the shooting at the moment didn’t involve Pope, because Pope had followed them through the fire door. His shape loomed at the corner they’d just passed and he had his gun raised, but wasn’t shooting because Ramirez was between him and Purkiss. Purkiss fired past her and Pope flinched back.
Purkiss dragged Ramirez to the corner ahead and round to the front of the building. The forecourt was littered with spent shell casings. A body lay near the front door of the shop. Purkiss and Ramirez moved further out and he saw movement through the shop’s wrecked front window. Berg and Kendrick, stalking between the aisles, Berg recoiling as a shot came by her.
Purkiss backed away from the building, shielding Ramirez, his gun aimed at the corner where he expected Pope to emerge. He heard a voice behind him near the pumps — Purkiss — and glanced round.
Nakamura sat beside one of the pumps, his lips drawn back in a grimace. His hands clutched his lower leg, soaked black in the shadows.
‘Bastards shot me.’
‘You dying?’
‘Fuck that.’
Keeping his gaze on the corner of the building, Purkiss said, ‘Ms Ramirez. Nina. Stay with this man. He’s an FBI agent. He’ll protect you.’
He risked a glance at her to make sure she understood. Then he began moving back towards the side of the building. Through the window, the cat and mouse appeared to be continuing.
Pope wasn’t round the side. Purkiss advanced to the back, darted a look round. He wasn’t there, either.
Purkiss thought it likely that Pope had run out of ammunition, which was why he hadn’t come after them immediately when they’d made it round the front. He also assumed Pope was going back for the gun belonging to the man Purkiss had shot inside the shop.