77
ANSON
Boom.
Fireballs shot out from above, blinding white and hot, then sucked back into the building when the explosion inhaled with a deafening gasp. Every inch of the Quick was aflame.
Glass rained down.
An image of Detective Moss standing at the door of the north steps filled my mind. Maybe she saw the matchbook; maybe she didn’t. I imagined her realizing her mistake an instant before the flames ate the flesh from her bones.
Your match trick worked, Father, I thought silently.
Duck! he quickly replied.
And I did.
I slumped down as the force of the explosion threw Hillburn toward me.
Somehow, even in his surprise, he managed to keep hold of the needle.
His arm came around, swinging toward my neck, or, more appropriately, where my neck had been.
As I dropped, his elbow brushed across the top of my head, skated over my hair, and twisted wildly above me as he lost his balance and crashed down on top of me, pinning me to the ground with his weight.
I brought my knee up, tried to catch him in the groin, but I hit him in the thigh instead. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the needle skittering across the blacktop.
Hillburn groaned, “You little shit!” He twisted to his side and lunged for the needle.
I grappled for anything I could use as leverage.
My fingers found his belt, and I seized it.
I jerked him hard in the opposite direction.
He had nearly fifty pounds on me, maybe more, and while Father had taught me to defend myself, his number one rule was never let them get you on the ground.
His number two rule was never let them get on top of you if you do end up on the ground.
He may have told me to duck, but he’d gone quiet after that, and I could picture him watching with a soft tsk, tsk, tsk, hoping at the very least that I would catalog my mistakes here so it never happened again.
Jerking Hillburn’s belt did nearly nothing. He shifted his weight and managed to get his knee on the palm of my other hand, pinning it tight. He ground it, dug in deeper, and I refused to give him the satisfaction of a yell.
My fingers slipped from his belt and brushed his holster.
I had no idea what kind of gun Hillburn carried and didn’t much care.
I fumbled across the leather, found the small strap securing the weapon, and popped the snap.
Hillburn was stretching for the needle again when I managed to pull the gun from the holster and turn the barrel toward his flank, stuff it tight against his gut, and pull the trigger.
Nothing happened.
“Christ, Hillburn,” came a voice from above us.
Carmichael again.
He kicked the gun from my hand, sent it flying.
“The little shit nearly put a hole in you!”
I caught a glimpse of him standing over us, thick black smoke bellowing out from above, this scowl on his face. Then I felt the needle enter my neck.
Cold liquid under my skin.
Hillburn and his ridiculous grin looking down at me in the moments before all went dark.