He delivers the instructions calmly with just the hint of an accent-East Texas, maybe, or Louisiana. The man with the pistol says nothing. He just stands in the corner of the room, covering me. I glance his way, trying to burn the details into my memory. He wears a tight balaclava, too, and a gray T-shirt that leaves his nut-brown arms bare. There’s a gold ring on his left middle finger. A metallic skull with red stone eyes. Jeans and tan lace-up boots. I catch a smell of musky cologne on the air, the scent intensified by his stress.
“Don’t sit there all day,” the man at the door says. “Get up.”
Keeping my hands flat, I rise into a crouch. The pain in my leg flares up. I try to ignore the sensation. It feels wet, like if I put my fingers to my thigh, they’d come away bloody.
“Okay. Now you’re going to stay like that while my associate takes your gun. This is for our safety and yours. If you try anything, I won’t hesitate.”
“I won’t try anything.”
The second man lowers his gun and tucks it into his waistband behind his hip. He approaches obliquely, removing my SIG from its holster in a practiced motion. Then he rests the muzzle against my back while his free hand roams over me.
“Where is it?”
“Left ankle,” I say, my throat tight.
He stoops slightly, tugs my pants leg up, and slides the.40 caliber Kahr out of my molded ankle holster. A tremor runs up my spine. My skin feels clammy with sweat.
Once he has both guns, the man fades back into the corner. The one with the shotgun finally reveals himself. He steps toward me, bringing the muzzle almost to my face. All I can see is that gaping hole, but I get the impression of a broad chest and thick forearms all blurred behind it.
“We understand each other,” he says. “Now here’s what we’re gonna do. I want you to come around the desk and go over to that corkboard. I want your nose in that corner and your hands on the wall. When I say go, you lift your hands over your head and do it.”
A drop of sweat runs down the side of my nose, hitting the desk.
“Go.”
I lift my hands off the desk. They leave damp prints. I raise them and straighten up, ignoring the needles in my hip and back. Unsteady on my feet, I shuffle around the desk, past the stack of clippings to the bare corkboard. In the corner I rest my hands on the two walls, staring into the crevice where they meet.
“This is a mistake-”
“Don’t bother with the speech,” he says. “We’re taking what we came for, then getting out of here. If you don’t move, everything will be fine. If you do. .”
The second man, the one with the skull ring, sniggers.
“Shut up,” the Shotgun says. “Open the desk and find a folder or something to put all this stuff in.”
I hear them moving behind me, gathering the clippings and putting them away. Then there’s a sound of moving furniture, metal scraping metal.
“Are we taking this whole thing?” Skull Ring asks.
“Just pop it open and take out the hard drive.”
“You got a screwdriver?”
“Just do it, okay?”
A sudden crash makes me jump.
“Don’t you move!” Shotgun yells.
More crashes-they’re banging the computer on something, trying to break open the housing. Skull Ring huffs with the effort, but finally wrenches away the metal and starts digging inside. My shirt sticks to my chest. All I can think about is not moving, keeping calm, storing every detail away in my head. Not the sound of a trigger pull, not the explosion, the stench of blood, the darkness, the death and the nothing.
Live to fight another day. Live to fight another-
“Keep your hands on the wall. Don’t try to follow us.”
I hear them backing into the hallway.
“Leave my guns,” I say.
“Yeah, right. You’re keeping your life. Be content with that.”
Footsteps in the hall. I turn my head. They’re gone. With effort I take my hands from the wall. The front door of the office slams shut.
I let out a breath. I crouch down, hands on knees. Gotta get myself under control. Gotta do something. I stare at the carpet between my shoes. The pant leg rucked up over my empty holster.
The switch flips. I go cold.
I poke my head into the hallway to be sure it’s clear. Then I race into the next office to the open gun safe. I torque the banana mag out of the Krinkov and grab a box of ammo. I start jamming rounds past the mag’s sharp metal lips. My hands are scraped, torn, but I keep loading. When the box is empty, I fit the mag into the little AK and pull the charging handle. The folding stock is already in place.
Running now, confident, invincible, with the assault rifle’s butt in the pocket of my shoulder, I push through the office door, scanning left and right with the muzzle. They’re already downstairs, disappearing into the corridor at the end of the atrium.
Adrenaline pumps through me, dispelling all pain. I glide ahead, descending the stairs in twos, sprinting past the fountain and into the corridor, with no thought but catching up to them, no thought but making them stop.
I reach the entry. I can see the parking lot outside. The bright sun.
Gunshots ring out.
I throw myself into a crouch, slamming into a wall of mailboxes. But there’s no shattered glass. No one’s firing at me. I get up and take a few steps forward. Through the glass I see them outside. One of them, the muscled shotgunner, disappears behind an open car door on the far side of the lot. The one with the skull ring is just standing closer, between my own vehicle and the one next to it. His mask is hiked up over his eyebrows, his right arm extended toward the pavement.
Outside, I advance in a crouch, my finger alongside the Krinkov’s trigger. His back is to me. Looking over the cars, I can only see his head and upper torso. As I hook around the back of my car, I see him clearly. My Kahr shines in his hand, the muzzle pointing downward. On the ground between his feet, lying in a tangle with his gun in one hand and a Five Guys bag in the other, Jerry Lorenz spits blood and glares upward at the coup de grace.
“Police!” I scream.
Skull Ring turns. We’re maybe four feet away from each other. I mash down on the Krinkov’s trigger.
His gray T-shirt erupts in a pink haze, his body jerking wildly. He staggers backward, rolling, and I advance. The thump of the gunstock against my shoulder feels good and right. The man falls. The gun goes silent. It’s empty and smoking.
A car screeches past us and I glance up in time to see the driver. Through the window I can see the outline of his unmasked face framed by a curly mane of hair.
“March.”
I throw the Krinkov down. Get on my knees beside Jerry.
His chest.
Two-no, three wounds. Thick, bright blood coming out in tidal surges, soaking his shirt. A line of blood down the side of his mouth.
“Don’t talk,” I say.
I put pressure on the wounds as best I can. I call for help. Traffic races past on Westheimer, oblivious to what’s happening.
Underneath me, Jerry’s gone pale. His eyes have an unnatural brightness. He’s going. I scream for help again, afraid to take my hands off of him, afraid he’ll slip away if I do.
“Come on, Jerry, don’t do this. Don’t leave me. You’re gonna be okay.”
He tilts his head and spits, trying to clear his mouth.
“Don’t talk. You don’t have to say anything.”
He looks up at me. “My kid.”
“I know, Jerry. It’s gonna be okay. Just stay with me.”
His eyes bore into me. I keep talking, keep reassuring, and then my eyes cloud and my throat fills with phlegm.
“Jerry, no.”
Under my hands, his body is still.
Behind me, I hear footsteps on the blacktop. A hand touches my shoulder.
“We saw everything,” a man’s voice says. “We called the cops and an ambulance. They gonna be here soon. You better get out of here, man. The cops are on the way.”
I shrug free of him. I slump against the car.