Stephen Hunter - Dirty White Boys

Tough shit.

It was going to be a hard night on everybody.

He pulled her along. He could see the dark line of the trees ahead only a hundred or so yards, and happily accepted the fact that cop cars and choppers and whatever hadn't yet arrived. Maybe Pewtie hadn't called them, had tried to do the whole thing on his own, some John Wayne kind of deal. But no: Pewtie would call for backup and then come in alone. Lamar knew the plan: Kill him and walk out with the girl, knowing the others would fade.

Now Lamar was but fifty yards from the tree line. A sudden spurt of energy came to him, and he roared ahead, pulling the girl. She seemed wasted, without much fight, but in some mix-up of limbs, she went down and he got tangled in her and he went down, too, with a thud, tasting dirt as he fell. There was a slight moment of concussion, and suddenly she squirmed savagely and ripped away from him. With more power than he ever thought she had, she raced away.

“Goddamn you!” he hissed and brought the gun up and began to press the trigger, but stomped on the impulse, knowing the flash would give him away. Instead he rose and leaped after her, slipping once in the mud, but in three short bounds had her. He tackled her, feeling his weight and strength bring her down, but she kicked and bucked under him, and he tried to push her face in the mud, but somehow his hand slid off her face, just enough to dislodge the gag.

“BUD! BUD, OVER HERE!” she screamed as he finally pushed her face into the mud, but before he could do anything more, he saw Pewtie on the crest line He drew up the pistol and fired. He couldn't stop shooting, the mesmerizing pleasure of it drawing him onward as the gun leaped in his hand and the gun flashes blossomed like a tulip of light.

Pewtie disappeared.

He didn't think he'd hit him.

“Come ON,” he yelled, pulling her up, but again she pulled away and this time instead of running after, he simply watched her run and then himself turned and headed to the trees.

Bud saw movement and brought the gun up to fire.

He took the slack out of the trigger as the phantasm wobbled desperately to him but saw in the next second it was Holly.

“Holly. Here.”

She slipped as she turned, and he ran to her.

“I got away. He didn't shoot me. Oh, Bud, I knew you'd come.”

He got out his knife. He cut her arms free. She threw them about him.

“Oh, Jesus. Bud, you have saved my life sure.”

He said nothing.

“You do love me. You came for me. God bless you, mister, you are a man.”

“Yes, well,” he said.

“Bud, you must love me, what you risked for me.”

“Holly—”

“Take me out of here.”

“You have to do that yourself. I want you to go into the field and just lie down flat no matter what happens. We got everybody coming in on this thing in a minute or two.

You're safe. You made it. I got you out.”

“You're done. Bud. Oh please don't do what I think you're going to.”

“I have to finish it up now. I've got to go get Lamar.”

“Bud! He'll kill you!”

“I have to—”

“Bud!”

“I have to go.”

But she pulled him toward her, as if to draw him in forever, to make him hers now that it was so close, so easy and-He hit her with his open hand, hard, left side of the head, driving her down.

No one had ever hit her before.

His nostrils flared, his eyes were wide and strange and fierce. She saw nothing in them at all that she could recognize.

“Don't you get it yet?” he almost screamed.

“It's over!

Goddamn it, I am quit of you and you are quit of me! Now get out of here. I got man's work to do.” And without looking back he set off down the crest for the trees, knowing that he had another few minutes until Lamar's eyes regained their night vision. He saw the dark band of vegetation up ahead, dense and beckoning and otherwise silent.

Wait for backup, the rules all said.

Not this time, he thought. This time we get it done.

Lamar crouched in the trees. No moon, no stars, it was so damned dark.

His eyes still weren't working right. Shooting at the cop had been stupid. Like an amateur, like something little-bitty-dick Richard would do. The gun flashes again, so close to his face had blasted his vision to hell and gone:

everywhere he looked he saw stars and pinwheels, dragons breathing fire, lions' manes flashing in the sun.

Time. He had no time.

He also had almost no ammunition now. The gun hadn't locked back, but he slipped the magazine out and felt its lips and realized they were empty. That meant he had but one cartridge, the one in the chamber.

Damn!

He thought he saw the man coming down the slope through the strobe effect, but there was no way it was a clear-enough image to shoot at.

And he couldn't even see his gun.

The only way was to get in close, real close, put the gun up to him so the muzzle touched flesh, and then blow him away with the last bullet.

But Lamar didn't like that either. It depended on Pewtie getting close and once he got in the goddamn trees there was no way of telling which way he would go. And Pewtie saw better than he did, because the rifle hadn't flashed nearly so much as the shotgun and he hadn't fired in quite a while. And Lamar couldn't just wait. The longer he was here, the surer it was he'd get caught.

No sir. Got to bring him to me and kill him fast and get on out of here before the posse shows.

An idea flashed before him.

The gun, the gun, the gun.

Yes. Secure the gun in the crotch of a tree. With a branch or something wedged into the trigger guard. Let Pewtie come. When he approaches, fire the last shot.

Pewtie will then fire back on the gun flash with every damn thing, blowing his own eyesight to hell and gone.

Then he's blind and you ain't.

In the second after he's done, you hit him hard and low and take him down. It becomes a thing of man on man, strength against strength, and Lamar knew that there was no man who could stand against him one on one. If Pewtie had any doubts, he could ask Junior Jefferson.

Lamar slipped back and in not much time found what he needed: a young sapling with a stout crotch maybe five feet up. Lamar wedged the SIG into it, slipped off his belt, and secured the gun tightly. He looked around and then up and with a snap broke off a four-foot length of branch.

Ever so delicately he wedged the tip into the trigger guard so that it just about filled the gap between trigger and guard. Force it another half an inch and it would trip the trigger and the gun would fire.

Lamar slipped down, waiting for the sounds of his quarry.

I'll still get him, he thought.

Bud had reached the trees.

No sir, don't like this a bit.

He reasoned now that if he had to shoot, it would be in response to fire, and he wanted a lot of chances, not a few.

So he restored the .45 Commander to his high hip holster and reached up and unslung his Beretta. With a thumb he snicked the hammer back.

Then, finger on the trigger, he began to snake ahead.

He's in here, goddammit, just waiting till his vision clears enough.

Got to move fast or I'm a dead man.

He slid into the brush. His night vision was clear as it could be.

Before him he saw only a thin maze of trees, ground cover, the furrow that was a stream, beyond, a fence, and beyond, way beyond that, the humps of the Wichitas. But no Lamar.

He was so slow, he was sure Lamar couldn't see him.

He eased ahead, almost soundlessly, scanning as he went, seeing nothing.

“Lamar!” he called.

“Lamar, give it up. They're on their way. You don't have to die tonight like your poor girlfriend.”

Silence.

“Lamar, they'll just send you back to the House. You'll be a big man.