Natdaze spun, and came up with a handgun—
Kent dodged to his left and took three steps, out of Natadze’s line of fire, behind the corner of the building. He didn’t want to shoot the man, but neither did he want to get shot himself—
Cover, he needed cover—!
Behind him was parked a pickup truck with a florist’s logo on the door. Kent backpedaled toward it, keeping the mouth of the alley covered.
Game over, Natadze. I have you now!
“It doesn’t have to be this way!” Kent yelled.
They were only half a block away from the motel where Natadze had been staying. Kent was behind solid cover, since even the cab of a full-size pickup truck was proof against most handgun rounds, to say nothing of the engine compartment. It was possible that Natadze might skip a round low, off the concrete, but a standard pistol bullet wasn’t going to have much steam — if any — after it ricocheted off the parking lot and went through two steel-belted truck tires, especially if it was a hollow-point, even semi-jacketed. But to try a shot that risky, he’d have to show himself, and Kent was ready for that.
“I’m afraid it does have to be this way!” Natadze called back.
He was behind the corner of the building, and Kent didn’t know what the walls were made of. It looked like adobe, but that could be a thin layer over concrete block, or styrofoam panels. The difference was concealment versus cover — you could shoot through the former but not the latter. Since Kent wasn’t sure exactly where the other man was, he wasn’t going to try and perforate a wall and hope that he hit the bad guy — and maybe generate a ricochet into some little old man five blocks away walking his Pomeranian.
Besides which, he wanted the man alive. There were a lot of questions still hanging, and Natadze knew the answers. Dead men told no tales.
More than that, dead was too easy.
Kent shifted his grip on his pistol. He was lined up, aiming over the hood of the truck, covering the corner of the building. There was one in the tube and seven in the magazine. He had two more full magazines, and if he needed more than two dozen rounds, he was gonna be in deep trouble anyhow.
Right now, they were in a standoff. The alley behind Natadze was a dead end; he wasn’t going anywhere unless he came out the way he went in, and that meant he’d have to get past Kent. On the other hand, Kent couldn’t go in after him, because there was no cover between the truck and the building — an animal clinic next to a dog-grooming shop and a Mexican restaurant — no concealment, nothing.
The first man to leave cover would be the first one exposed to the other’s fire. It was about twelve or fifteen meters from the truck to the building, and even a crappy shooter could make a body shot at that range; Kent had to assume that a professional killer knew how to shoot straight — thinking otherwise could get you dead in a hurry.
Time was on Kent’s side, though, and they both knew it. In a neighborhood like this at night, a little strip mall on the edge of a fairly upscale area, somebody probably would have heard the chase and the shouts. The local police would show up eventually, and while they might not be SWAT-grade officers, they would be cops with guns.
He could have called and warned them about how dangerous Natadze was — if he hadn’t left his virgil on the seat in the rented van. He should have had it on his belt.
Yeah. And if he had X-ray vision and superpowers, he could see Natadze and fly over there and capture him, too. No point in going down the “if only” road.
“You could have shot me back in Nebraska,” Kent called. “Why didn’t you?”
“Why would I have done that? All I wanted was my guitar. I got it and left — no reason to kill you.”
Kent nodded to himself. Yes.
“Cops’ll be coming,” he said. “You can’t get out.”
“And what will they see when they arrive? A man crouched behind a truck, holding a pistol. They are just as likely to shoot you as me.”
“I’ll explain it to them.”
“You have command presence, yes. But how long will it take? Once your gun is lowered, then it is me against a local policeman or two. My chances are passable.”
Kent sighed. The man was right. A local cop, even two or three, would show up, see Kent, and immediately order him to drop his weapon — only cops and bad guys had guns in this city, and they couldn’t tell which Kent was at first glance. They’d have to disarm him. Even if he convinced them he was on their side and there was a bad man with a gun hiding behind the veterinarian’s office, Natadze could come out blazing and take them down before the real danger sank in. Kent didn’t want that.
“You could back off. Allow me to leave. Save the lives of those police officers. They could be men with families. A woman officer. Do you want that on your conscience, Colonel?”
Kent almost grinned. Here was a man with brass balls. A killer, attempting to negotiate his way free by threatening to blame his future killings on the man trying to capture him.
“Cops know the risks of their job,” Kent called. “No deal.”
Natadze laughed. “I did not think so. Still, no harm in trying.”
He was going to make a run for it!
Kent knew this — how he could not have said, but he knew it.
He took a deep breath—
Natadze burst from behind his cover much faster than Kent was prepared for — he must have backed up to get a running start — because he was sprinting like a champion. Before Kent could line up his sights, Natadze was halfway to the truck, and firing, one-two-three—!
Kent ducked as the bullets spanged off the truck’s hood. He had maybe a second before Natadze blew past, and even with spray-and-pray, the man could hit him—
He dropped prone, looked under the truck, and saw Natadze’s churning legs. He led the runner and squeezed off four rounds, tracking the movement.
The first two missed. The third bullet hit Natadze’s right leg, just above the ankle — Kent saw the hole appear in the cloth—
Natadze went down, his speed causing him to skid as he hit on his hands and knees. His gun was in his right hand, and he couldn’t get it into shooting position because it was pressed against the concrete, grinding away as he skidded—
— Kent rolled away from the truck, still prone, keeping his own pistol extended as he angled out. Two revolutions and he was clear of cover and lined up for a body shot—
“Let it go! Let it go!”
But Natadze collapsed onto his right side and tried to thrust his handgun out at Kent.
“Don’t do it—!”
Time, already running slow, nearly stopped altogether. He had him, no question, and Natadze had to see that, but he still kept moving, bringing his piece around, a bug mired in molasses—
“DON’T—!” Kent screamed.
In that bullet-time slo-mo, he saw the other man grin, and he read his mind: Shoot me or die, Kent — that’s the choice.
Kent’s breath was already held and his front sight was dead-on Natadze’s center of mass.
He fired twice—
The.45 slugs hit Natadze right over the sternum and the impact was enough so that his muscle spasm curled him into a fetal ball.
The gun fell from his hand. He managed to roll onto his back.
By the time Kent got there, there wasn’t much left in Natadze’s clock.
He had enough air and energy to say, “Good shot. You… you t-t-take the guitar. S-s-souvenir…” He exhaled his last breath. Kent had heard enough death rattles to recognize this one.
He squatted to make sure. No pulse.
He heard the police sirens dopplering in. He stood, tucked his gun into his holster out of sight, and moved away from the dead man. He stood there with his hands held wide, by his shoulders, as the first SFPD car screeched into the parking lot. He stood very still.