CHAPTER 105
I HIT THE FLOOR, belly-first. “Shooter! Twelve o’clock!”
Roland Perkins is lying on the carpet a few feet away, skull splintered, brains and gore oozing out in a gleaming wet mass. I grab the blood-spattered paper and stick it in my pocket. Phillips is on the floor too, covering Walsh with his body. He looks over at me. “It’s Polermo!”
Phillips reaches over and yanks the desk lamp down by its cord. The bulb shatters when it hits the floor. The room goes dark except for the glow of the streetlamps through the windows.
I crawl toward Phillips. “Give me a gun! You’re in no shape for this!”
He reaches into his rear waistband and pulls out my Glock. He tosses it to me. “Full clip.”
Walsh lifts his head and shouts, “Polermo! It’s Walsh! Don’t shoot!”
Phillips rams Walsh’s head into the floor, stunning him. He pulls a few long black zip ties from under his belt and slides them over to me. “Get him secured and under cover!” He stands up and limps to the front window, pistol raised, hiding himself behind the thick curtain.
Walsh is half conscious, bleeding from the nose.
I pull off his necktie and put it between his teeth, then tie the ends tight behind his neck.
I zip-tie his ankles, then his wrists. I grab him by the belt and drag him past Perkins’s bloody body and under the desk.
He starts mumbling through the gag. I point the pistol at his forehead.
“Keep quiet and don’t move or I’ll shoot you myself!”
I’m still not clear on what the whole story is, but I don’t have time to find out. What I know for sure is that there’s a trained vet with a high-powered rifle outside. The second he spots a helicopter or hears a siren, he’ll be gone again. Maybe for good.
I can’t call for help. And I can’t hide.
All I can do is fight.