The leader shuddered, coughed. Flynn walked stiffly toward him.
There were three short steps from the loading dock to the main floor. Morgan went down them without a sound.
The man on the floor moaned. Flynn stood over him.
“What was that?” Flynn asked, his words slurry. “I can’t hear you.”
Another moan. Flynn bent, caught a fistful of the man’s shirt, dragged him over onto his back. The man cried out in pain. Flynn pulled the ski mask away.
“Still can’t hear you,” he said and pointed the Colt at the man’s face, the muzzle inches from his right eye. The man looked up at him.
“Kolan guete…” he said. “Maman ou… Bouzin.” He spit.
“Didn’t work out the way you planned, did it?” Flynn said and pulled the trigger.
When she heard the gunshot, Sara drove her heel up again into the pipe and it bent abruptly, the metal sleeve popping off, clattering on the floor. The two pipes sagged, ends falling away from each other. She ran the cuff along the top pipe and then it was off and she was free. She rolled to her feet.
Morgan stepped out of the shadows, pointed the Beretta at Flynn’s back.
“Don’t turn around,” he said. “Just drop the gun.”
Flynn didn’t move.
“Drop it or you’re dead right here, right now.”
Flynn tried to straighten, the gun hung at his side.
“You can still walk away from this,” Morgan said. “You just need to tell me where that money’s at. But first you need to drop that gun.”
Flynn gave a flat laugh that turned into a wet cough. He spit blood on the floor. Then he started to turn.
Sara looked around. No weapons in the room. She could hear talking below, then Billy’s laugh, a cough. She looked at the half-open gearbag, caught it by its straps, felt its weight. Then she was out on the catwalk, looking over the railing at the two of them below, lit by the single lamp, the black man called Morgan, gun up and steady. Billy, bloody and bent, turning to face him.
Morgan’s finger was tightening on the trigger when he heard the shout. He looked up and there was the woman deputy, at the catwalk railing, lifting something over her head, throwing it at him. He raised the Beretta.
She swung the bag, aiming it as best she could, the weight tearing it from her fingers. It turned over twice in its flight and Morgan stepped back, away from it, gun up, and Sara heard the shot, saw the bag jink in midair as the bullet hit it, and then it was falling the rest of the way, and she knew her only chance was gone.
Morgan stepped away and the bag thudded onto the floor with an upkick of dust, packets of money flying out. Flynn stumbled back, a hand raised against the dust. Then he saw the money, realized what it was. He brought the Python up and the woman screamed no no no no no and then the Python’s hammer fell with a dry click on a spent shell.
Morgan shot him three times.
THIRTY
The shots sounded almost as one. Sara saw Billy spin away, the Colt fly from his hand. He twisted, fell hard, and then she was running down the stairs, and when she reached the bottom, Morgan was pointing his gun at her.
“Just stay right there,” he said. “No need to come any closer.”
She didn’t move. After a moment, he lowered the gun, crouched, turned the bag right side up, gathered the bricks of money from the floor, put them back in, watching her. When he had them all, he tugged at the zipper, got it halfway closed. Then he lifted the bag by a carry strap, looked at her, slung it over his left shoulder. He shook his head.
“Foolish,” he said. Then he turned his back on her and walked away.
• • •
Morgan went back the way he’d come. Up the steps to the loading dock, through the ruined door. The bag was heavier than he expected, the strap cutting into his shoulder. It felt good.
He scrambled down from the loading dock. The man in the dirt hadn’t moved. Morgan headed for the trees.
Billy was still breathing. She ripped his shirt open, the flannel already soaked through with blood. Four entry wounds, three in the chest, one in the stomach.
He coughed once, looked up at her. Don’t die, you son of a bitch. Don’t die on me. Not like this.
“Your cell, Billy. Where is it?”
His eyes seemed to drift in and out of focus. He raised his right hand toward her.
“Where’s your phone?”
She patted his jeans, felt the bulk in his right pocket. She reached in, got the phone out. A handcuff key tumbled after it.
She opened the phone, fingers slick with blood, turned it on. She waited for it to glow into life, then punched in 911. As the call went through, he touched her face gently. She could feel the warmth of his blood.
Halfway through the woods, he ejected the clip from the Beretta, replaced it with a full one. The moon was high and bright, made it easier to find his way.
He began to feel flush, hot. He stopped for a moment, let the dizziness pass, felt the first glow of pain in his right side. He caught a tree limb, held on to it for balance. The strap slid from shoulder to elbow.
He stayed that way for a moment, breathing in, filling his lungs. Then he let go of the branch, pushed the strap back up his shoulder, kept going.
She worked the key in the lock and the cuff came loose, the shiny metal smeared with her blood. She tossed the cuffs away, saw the cuts left on her wrist.
Billy’s eyes were open, his chest rising and falling slowly. She’d taken the lamp from the crate, set it beside him.
“It’ll be okay,” she said. “An ambulance is coming. It’s on its way. You’re going to be all right.”
He half-smiled at her and then coughed, pearls of blood on his lips. She put a palm on his face, and he laid a bloody hand over it, held it.
“It’s going to be okay,” she said and felt the wetness in her eyes spill onto her cheeks.
She watched the light go out of his eyes, a soft breath escape his lips. His eyes half closed, as if he’d grown drowsy without warning. His hand slipped from hers. She knew he was gone.
Morgan reached the first service road sooner than he expected. The vehicle was still there, in front of the shacks, and he saw now it was the woman’s Blazer. He thought about shooting out a tire, but there was no time to waste. Others would be here soon. He had what he’d come for.
The pain was still sharp in his stomach, but the dizziness seemed to be gone. His skin felt cool where the sweat had dried.
He pushed through trees, undergrowth, branches snagging at the bag. Twice he had to stop to pull it loose. Then the trees thinned, moonlight shining through, and he was at the second road. He started down it, saw the outline of the Lexus. The driver’s side door was open, the interior light on. He saw the dreadlocked boy sprawled there, half in the car, half on the road, trying to pull himself up onto the seat, his face dark with blood. Morgan raised the Beretta.
Sara could hear sirens far away. She knelt on the concrete beside him, his face turned to the side, his chest still. She’d checked his carotid pulse twice, known what she would find.
She stood, wiped her bloody hands on her jeans. The sirens grew louder.
He’s still out there, somewhere close. Maybe waiting to open fire on them when they get here. They could be driving right into it, not knowing.
She could stay here, let him get away. Let the danger pass. No one would blame her.
She knelt again, reached beneath Billy, felt his warmth, gently tugged the Glock from his belt.