Chapter 6
The house was pale blue with white trim and a big front porch. On both sides were low gates, one cedar and one chain-link. Peter chose the cedar, knowing he could kick it open if it was padlocked, but it wasn’t even latched. “This way.”
Down on the street, he heard shouting, a man’s voice coming closer.
KT was slowing. He pushed her ahead of him, hoping Ellie would help keep her mother moving, then slipped through the gate, closed and latched it, and followed after them, looking over his shoulder.
Under the armor, his chest hurt like hell every time he breathed, but it was a lot better than the alternative.
The space between houses was maybe four feet wide.
They ran down the narrow concrete walkway through knee-high ferns wet with rain.
He passed a hose hanging from a hook and threw it down in a tangle.
He did the same with the wheelbarrow leaning up against the wooden siding, anything to slow the other man and buy KT and Ellie some distance.
Then into the narrow back yard like a miniature nature preserve with small trees and shrubs and mounded garden beds filled with still-green leafy plants, the whole thing enclosed by a six-foot cedar fence.
Ellie had already opened the rear gate beside the two-car garage.
It was directly behind the side yard with a clear line of sight.
Then the shooter put his gun arm around the front of the house and pulled the trigger blindly.
BANG BANG BANG BANG. Peter ducked behind the back corner, protected by the house’s hundred-year-old framing.
The guy wasn’t likely to hit them without aiming, but even a broken clock was right twice a day.
When the gunfire stopped, Peter raised the pistol and aimed just above the gate, at chest level.
Also in his sights, in the house on the other side of the street, was a man staring at him from a second-story balcony like he was watching an action movie on TV.
If the would-be killer went to open the gate and Peter fired on him, he might well kill the wrong man.
He couldn’t pull the trigger in this shooting gallery. He turned to sprint toward the back gate. “Go,” he shouted.
Ellie pulled her mother into the alley and out of sight, her voice floating behind her, high and frantic. “Mom, c’mon, please.”
Running, Peter heard the other man firing again, now more deliberately, thirty yards away. BANG. BANG. BANG. He waited for the burning brand of a pistol round in his shoulder or butt or legs. None came.
Then he was through, slamming the gate behind him. There were splintered holes in the fence. “Time to move.”
Katelyn leaned against the side of the garage, bent over with her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath. “I need a minute.”
Ellie’s eyes were wide, her pale face rigid with fear. “What do we do?”
Two houses down, on the other side of the alley, a man was in the parking place beside his one-car garage, getting into a red Audi sedan. Peter hauled ass for the car, calling over his shoulder, “This way. Get her moving.”
The Audi backed up into the alley. It was long and low, the engine growling. Peter knocked on the window. The driver startled, staring at him. “What the hell?” His voice was muffled coming through the glass.
“I need your car,” Peter said. “Open up.”
The driver gave him a scornful look. “I’m not giving you my car, bro. It’s custom. Get a job.” He was younger than Peter in a very expensive hard-shell jacket and what looked like recent hair plugs.
Peter held up the pistol. “Open the door or I’ll break your window. Then I’ll break your face.”
“Shit, okay, don’t hurt me.” The driver put up his hands and began to climb out of the low-slung car. Peter looked past him and was glad to see the key fob in a cup holder. They wouldn’t get far without it.
Ellie came up, towing her panting mother, whose face was bright red. Behind them, the sound of gunshots. Obviously the gunman had brought a few extra magazines.
Peter found the unlock button and opened the rear door. KT climbed inside, with Ellie right behind her. Two houses back, the gunman banged the gate open. The Audi owner looked at him stupidly.
“Ellie, climb into the front,” Peter said. “Now.”
She began to move. Peter grabbed the Audi owner and bent him over and shoved him into the back seat and slammed the door. The man was a dickhead, but he didn’t deserve to die.
The gunman turned at the sound, his pistol rising. Peter slid behind the wheel, his battered chest aching from the motion, then slammed the shifter into drive and punched the gas.
The Audi leapt forward like a jackrabbit, tires grabbing the wet concrete.
The car smelled brand-new, the dashboard pristine.
The odometer had nineteen miles on it. The alley ended and he was going too fast for the turn; the car slid sideways and banged off a parked car but kept moving forward, the Audi’s owner shouting his outrage.
Another half block and Peter stood on the brakes and threw it in park. He turned to KT. “Can you drive?”
“I think so.” She was still breathing hard.
He got out, taking the pistol from his waistband again. “Come around and get in. Get off Queen Anne, keep driving until you hear from me. June gave me your number.”
KT came around the front of the Audi. Ellie stared at him, eyes wide with fear. He could see the pulse in her neck. She said, “Where are you going?”
Peter gave her a soft smile and backed away to give Katelyn room to get in. “Eleanor, your job is to call 911. Tell them shots fired, shooter is a man in a red baseball cap, and this intersection. Got it?”
She nodded.
KT wedged herself behind the wheel and fixed him with a stare at once grateful, terrified, and determined. “Peter, I…Thank you.”
He nodded. “My pleasure, ma’am. Now go.”
Then she hit the gas and the car flew away and Peter stood alone on the street in the driving rain like a time-tarnished statue from a long-forgotten war. Skin hot despite the rain soaking through his fleece, the .45 hanging heavy in his left hand like an extension of his arm.
He turned and began to jog up the sidewalk toward the idling hatchback, his legs feeling strong and sure.
Maybe the shooter would follow him down the alley and around the corner.
Maybe he’d think it was a lost cause and retrace his steps.
But either way, with KT and Ellie gone, the guy would almost certainly return to his car. And find Peter, waiting.
At the hatchback, he took out the knife he kept clipped to his front pocket, thumbed it open, and bent to the front tire. With a single quick slash, he cut the valve stem and the rubber went flat.
Neither of them was going anywhere until this was over.
—
As Peter straightened up, he saw the guy return through the side gate of the same house and spot him in the street. It was thirty yards, a shot Peter could make.
But in the picture window to the shooter’s left was a little girl in a yellow shirt, standing on the couch with her hands on the glass, looking out.
Peter lowered his pistol. “Come on down, buddy. Let’s talk.” Hoping he could still end this without a bullet. Or at least get this guy down on the street with the hill behind him, so nobody else would get hurt.
The guy raised his own gun toward Peter and fired too quickly, BANGBANGBANG.
Thirty yards was a long way when you’d been running and your pulse was jacked up and you were burning with adrenaline. Two of the three rounds cracked into the hatchback behind Peter, nowhere close to hitting him. The third was higher and he heard the whisper as it passed a foot from his ear.
Then he was in motion toward cover behind the hatchback’s hood, fast but unhurried, in that slow-motion zone where the world is smooth and fluid and nothing can harm you.
Peter was well aware that zone was a chemical lie cooked up inside his brain, but he was addicted to the rush of it, the feeling of being acutely alive.
Otherwise he’d have stayed in the Audi and kept driving away from gunfire like any normal person would do.
But Peter was not a normal person. He was a Recon Marine, with more combat deployments than he cared to remember. Those eight years in the Corps had rewired him, turned him into a man with the war inside him like a sleeping dragon, waiting for a chance to wake up and feed.
The dragon was awake now. Peter smiled at the guy, beckoned with the gun barrel. “Come a little closer, maybe next time you’ll actually hit me.”
The shooter walked across the yard toward the concrete steps. The little girl in the yellow T-shirt still watched through the window, directly behind him.
Peter heard sirens now, distant and filtered by the rain. Maybe he wouldn’t have to kill this guy. Although the cops might.
The shooter was coming down the steps, the pistol fully extended. “You didn’t have to get in the way,” he said. “All I wanted to do was keep my promise.”
“Your promise? What promise?”
“Kill the lady,” he said. “She was supposed to stop, but she didn’t.”
“Who did you promise?” Peter kept his voice calm. “Who told you to kill her?”
“I got a special message, just for me.” With his free hand, he swiped off his Red Sox cap and ran his arm across his forehead.
His eyes were wet and red with sagging bags beneath them like puddles of melted wax.
“I was going to be a hero. But I failed. And it’s all your fault. So now I have to kill you instead.”
This guy was obviously a few tacos short of a combination plate. Peter kept his pistol barrel down and away. “Buddy, you don’t have to kill anyone,” he said. “Everything’s okay. Put the gun down, let’s talk. You can tell me all about it.”
The sirens were louder now, a rising wail. The gunman kept descending the steps until he reached the sidewalk, walking toward Peter with nothing but concrete behind him. If Peter was going to pull the trigger with the least amount of risk to others, now was the time.
The duct tape on the guy’s sneaker had come unwrapped in the rain. The loose sole flapped with every step. He was crying now. “It’s not okay. Nothing is okay. I promised, and I failed.”
Peter thought back to a hostage negotiation course the Marines had sent him to, years ago. “Hey, buddy, what’s your name? My name’s Peter. I can help if you let me. Just please put the gun down.”
A dark blue police cruiser flew around the corner to Peter’s right, siren screaming, another car immediately behind it.
They must have seen the hatchback blocking the street because both skidded to a stop, lights flashing.
On Peter’s left, a black unmarked SUV with flashers in the grille came up the next block and eased through the intersection.
Peter said, “Put the gun down, buddy. Please. Hey, do you like ice cream? Let’s get some ice cream.”
The gunman looked at the cruisers. Officers were out of their vehicles now, crouched behind their doors, weapons out. Some pointing at the guy, some at Peter.
“Jeez, I think we should both put our guns down, don’t you?
” Moving slowly and carefully, Peter laid his pistol down on the hood of the hatchback and held his hands out to his sides.
He knew the cops would rather he threw it away from him, but he wanted to be able to snatch it up again if the guy started shooting.
“C’mon, buddy. Put your gun down and let’s get some ice cream.
Or coffee. Or whatever you want. A nice cold beer?
” That last one sounded pretty good to Peter right now.
The shooter’s arms slowly lowered to his sides, the pistol in his right hand. His face calm now, resolute.
A distorted voice came through a police loud-hailer. “Drop the gun and step away. Get down on your knees with your hands behind your head.”
The shooter didn’t move.
“Put the gun down,” Peter said. “It’ll be okay.”
“No, it won’t.” The shooter shook his head sadly. “You don’t know what’s coming.”
Then he raised the pistol and fitted the barrel under his chin and pulled the trigger.