“I don’t have anything to talk about, ’cause I ain’t done nothin’ wrong. I’ve been clean ever since I left the joint. Ask my parole officer.”
“We did, and he had positive things to say about you. But, still, we need to ask you a few questions.”
“Questions about what?”
“It would be a lot better if we could talk inside. Why-”
“I’m not talking to you, I don’t have to talk to you, and that’s that. So, amscra.”
“Come on, Rocky. Don’t make this difficult. Sooner or later you’re gonna have to talk to us. Let’s do it now and get things cleared up. Then we’ll be out of here.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“Colt Rogers, for starters.”
“Colt Rogers? That sniveling weasel? I ain’t got nothin’ to say about him, except that I’m glad he’s dead.”
“We need to talk about that, Rocky.”
“Wait a minute. Homicide? You’re tryin’ to pin his murder on me, aren’t you? No way. I’m happy he’s dead, but I didn’t kill him.”
“Then here’s your chance to clear it up, once and for all.”
“Yeah, right, like you guys are gonna believe me.”
“You tell the truth, we’ll believe you.”
“That’s bullshit and we both know it.”
“It’s not bullshit, Rocky. We’ll listen to what you have to say.”
“You bastards ain’t nothin’ but bullshit artists.”
“Tell you what, Rocky. You let us in and agree to talk, here’s what I’ll do. I’ll call ahead and line up an attorney to sit in with us. You won’t even have to ask for legal representation. That’s a deal I’ve never made before. What do you say?”
“Same thing I said before… you’re a bullshit artist.”
“No, I’m not. You don’t have to say a thing until the attorney gets here. You have my word on it.”
“Yeah, well, how much do you think your word means to me? Less than nothing, that’s how much. And if I did believe you, what kind of lawyer would you call? Another money-grubbin’ loser like Colt Rogers? No, thanks.”
“Open up, Rocky,” Dantzler said, forcefully.
“Go away. I ain’t sayin’ nothin’.”
“We’re not leaving, Rocky, so you might as well let us in.”
“Go to hell.”
“Open the door, Rocky.”
“Sure. Let me unhook this chain.”
Seconds after Stone closed the door, Dantzler and Milt heard two familiar sounds-the dead bolt closing and a bullet being jacked into the chamber of a weapon.
“Gun,” Milt said, ducking to the side of the door. “The dumb bastard’s gonna make this difficult.”
Dantzler, Glock in his right hand, leaned across and banged on the door with his left fist. “Don’t be crazy, Rocky. Nobody is accusing you of anything. All we want to do is get some facts straight.”
Silence.
“Rocky, open up,” Dantzler yelled. “Let’s talk.”
Dantzler pressed an ear against the door, listened, and heard the sounds of movement coming from inside the house. A chair scraping the wooden floor, Stone laughing out loud, footsteps, a door slamming shut.
“He’s bolting,” Dantzler said, turning the doorknob. “Godammit, he’s jammed the door shut.”
“This is gonna get ugly,” Milt said. “Knew I should’ve put in those damn retirement papers.”
From behind the house a sudden burst of gunfire shattered the quiet. After a few moments of silence, more gunfire erupted, another staccato burst, followed by silence. Dantzler could tell from the sounds that Stone was exchanging fire with Eric and Scott. He also knew Stone had far more firepower than the two detectives.
“That’s an automatic,” Milt said, reading Dantzler’s mind. “I guess that answers our question about whether or not he’s armed.”
Staying in a crouch, Dantzler and Milt moved quickly toward the back, hugging the fence like a pair of rats. Ten feet from the end, they saw Stone send a hail of bullets toward Eric and Scott. Stone turned and ran past a big oak tree, pausing long enough to insert a new clip into his rifle, then headed for the street, stopping every few yards to spray more bullets at the detectives.
Dantzler reached the end of the fence and immediately looked to his left. Eric, partially hidden behind a girl’s bicycle, was on one knee, gun in his right hand firing at Stone while keeping his left hand pressed against Scott’s chest.
“Oh, shit, Scott’s been hit,” Dantzler yelled to Milt. “Call for backup and go help Eric. Keep that damn kid alive, Milt. I’m going after Stone.”
Milt went left toward Eric and Scott, cell phone at his ear, screaming orders for backup and an ambulance. Cramming the phone into his pocket, he knelt next to Eric, who now had both hands on Scott’s wound. Scott was alive-barely. His eyes were open, he was white as a snowman, but he was breathing.
“You hang in there, Rookie,” Milt said, putting his hands over the wound. “Medics will be here in seconds. Keep those eyes open, hear me? That’s an order.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Dantzler was about to cross Palms Drive when he saw Stone dart between two houses, veer to his right, and disappear behind a large storage shed. Dantzler crossed the street, took cover behind a black Honda Accord, and checked the clip in his Glock. As sirens wailed in the distance, Dantzler duckwalked past the Honda, using a row of cars for cover, until he was even with the opening Stone had taken. He raised his head in an effort to see Stone, but had to duck down quickly when a new burst of gunfire shattered the car’s front windshield and blew out the right front tire.
Dantzler returned fire, waited for a second assault from Stone, and was surprised when nothing happened. Briefly, he entertained the thought that one of his bullets had wounded or killed Stone. But that was, he knew, only wishful thinking. Stone was too well protected by the shed to have been hit. Seconds later, Stone made it official that he was alive and well by rattling off another dozen shots, all of which did further damage to the car protecting Dantzler.
When the shooting stopped, Dantzler peered over the car’s hood and saw Stone running hard between the houses. Dantzler gulped in fresh air to refill his burning lungs, stood up, and began to give chase. As he reached the opening between houses, he heard noise coming from behind. Turning, he saw Eric moving at blinding speed, gun in his bloody right hand, a hard look of hate on his face. Before Dantzler could say a word, Eric raced past, quickly closing in on Stone, who had made the crucial mistake of running into an alley with no exit.
Realizing he was trapped, Stone, now desperate and panicked, swung around, steadied himself, and prepared for what he had to know would be his last stand. Screaming like a mortally wounded animal, Stone lifted his rifle and took dead aim at Eric.
Then in a flash Stone’s head came apart. Blood, bone, and brain matter painted a grotesque mural on the side of the house Stone was standing in front of. The rifle fired skyward as it flew from his hands. Stone tumbled to the ground, right leg twitching for several seconds, his shattered head at the center of an expanding pool of blood. After several more seconds, the twitching stopped and his breathing ceased.
Eric had ended the rampage with a single shot.
Dantzler got to Stone’s body first. Out of habit, he kicked the weapon, a.223 assault rifle, away from Stone’s right hand. He thought about checking for a pulse, but knew it wasn’t necessary. Kevin “Rocky” Stone was a goner.
“You okay?” Dantzler said to Eric.
“Never felt better.”
“That was some serious cowboy shit you pulled, Eric. You should be thankful you aren’t the one lying on the ground.”
“He shot my partner. I had to go after him.”
“Is Scott still alive?”
“Yeah. But he’s hurt bad.”
“You know, Eric, if I wasn’t so damn relieved, I’d be pretty pissed at you.”