standard-size bag of sugar in a sling, it was sure to cause chronic
neck pain, but not too big to fit an oversize shoulder holster under an
Armani suit–and worth the trouble if a man had snake-mean enemies.
Could be an FN P90, too, or maybe a British Bushman 2, but probably not
a Czech Skorpion, because a Skorpion fired only .32 ACP ammo.
Judging by how hard Luther had gone down, this seemed to be a gun with
more punch than a Skorpion, which the 9mm Micro Uzi provided. Forty
rounds in the Uzi to start, and the son of a bitch had fired twelve,
sixteen at most, so at least twenty-four rounds were left, and maybe a
pocketful of spare cartridges.
Thunder boomed, the air felt heavy with pent-up rain, wind shrieked
through the ruined door, and the gun rattled again. Outside, Hassam
Arkadian’s cries to Jesus abruptly ended.
Jack desperately pulled himself around the end of the counter, thinking
the unthinkable. Luther Bryson dead. Arkadian dead. The attendant
dead. Most likely the young Asian mechanic too. All of them wasted.
The world had been turned upside down in less than a minute.
Now it was one-on-one, survival of the fittest, and Jack wasn’t afraid
of that game. Though Darwinian selection tended to favor the guy with
the biggest gun and best supply of ammunition, cleverness could
outweigh caliber. He had been saved by his wits before and might be
again.
Surviving could be easier when he had his back to the wall, the odds
were stacked high against him, and he had no one to worry about but
himself. With only his own sorry ass on the line, he was more focused,
free to risk inaction or recklessness, free to be a coward or a
kamikaze fool, whatever the occasion demanded.
Then he dragged himself entirely into the sheltered space behind the
counter and discovered that he didn’t, after all, enjoy the freedom of
a sole survivor. A woman was huddled there: petite, long dark hair,
attractive. Gray shirt, work pants, white socks, black shoes with
thick rubber soles. She was in her mid-thirties, maybe five or six
years younger than Hassam Arkadian.
Could be his wife. No, not a wife any more. Widow. She was sitting
on the floor, knees drawn up against her chest, arms wrapped tightly
around her legs, trying to make herself as small as possible, straining
for invisibility.
Her presence changed everything for Jack, put him on the line and
reduced his own chances of survival. He couldn’t choose to hide,
couldn’t even opt for recklessness any longer. He had to think hard
and clearly, determine the best course of action, and do the right
thing. He was responsible for her. He had sworn an oath to serve and
protect the public, and he was old-fashioned enough to take oaths
seriously.
The woman’s eyes were wide with terror and shimmering with unspilled
tears.
Even in the midst of fear for her own life, she seemed to comprehend
the meaning of Arkadian’s sudden lapse into silence.
Jack drew his revolver.
Serve and protect.
He was shivering uncontrollably. His left leg was hot, but the rest of
him was freezing, as if all his body heat was draining out through the
wound.
Outside, a sustained rattle of automatic-weapon fire ended in an
explosion that rocked the service station, tipped over a candy-vending
machine in the office, and blew in both big windows on which the gang
symbols had been etched. The huddled woman covered her face with her
hands, Jack squeezed his eyes shut, and glass spilled over the counter
into the space where they had taken shelter.
When he opened his eyes, endless phalanxes of shadows and light charged
across the office. The wind coming through the shattered door was no
longer chilly but hot, and the phantasms swarming over the walls were
reflections of fire.
The maniac with the Uzi had shot up one or more of the gasoline
pumps.
Cautiously Jack pulled himself up against the counter, putting no
weight on his left leg. Though his misery still seemed inadequate to
the wound, he figured it would get worse suddenly and soon. He didn’t