Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

She leaned closer. Her hands were warm and slick with Battaglia’s blood.

“What is it?” she asked, her eyes misting over.

She heard a weak rumble in his throat. He drew a wet, gurgling breath. Then he breathed out one word. Despite the deafening sirens that filled the air and the squawk and buzz of her own portable radio, she heard him clearly.

He said, “Rebecca.”

“Ivan! Shoot him with the shotgun!” Val ordered.

Black Ivan leaned between the front seats and extended the barrel of the shotgun past Val. Val leaned toward the side window, pulling Sergey’s limp form with him.

The loud boom of the shotgun filled the car’s interior. Flame extended out of the barrel. Yuri jerked, causing the vehicle to whiplash from side to side.

Behind them, the police car dropped back half a block, out of the effective range of the shotgun. This one was smart.

“Go to the warehouse,” he ordered Yuri.

Yuri swung a left on Wellesley and accelerated. The rotating blue and red lights kept pace.

“Soon there will be more police,” Val said. “Maybe even a helicopter. We need to switch cars.”

Carson stared into Battaglia’s eyes. His face was ashen, his expression almost childlike. Carson’s vision blurred as she blinked away tears.

O’Sullivan burst into the room behind her. “Batts!” he shouted. Carson looked up at him.

“Oh, no!” he yelled. “Oh, fuck, no!”

Sully fell to his knees beside Carson. His hands searched for injuries, brushing hers aside. “I got you, buddy,” he told Battaglia. “You’re going to be fine. Just hang tight for a little while. Medics are coming and they’re gonna fix you up.”

Battaglia turned his gaze to Sully. Carson watched the recognition come into his eyes. The beginnings of a wry smile touched the corners of Battaglia’s mouth, then dropped away. He mouthed something.

“Don’t talk,” Sully said. “Just hang in there.”

Battaglia shook his head slightly and moved his lips again.

Sully looked at Carson. “Go bring in medics,” he ordered.

She didn’t move. Instead she opened her mouth to tell him that the guy in the white shirt was already doing that. But Sully cut her off.

“Now!” he shouted. There was no room for compromise in his voice. Carson rose slowly to her feet. Sully turned his attention back to Battaglia. “Hang on,” Sully told him.

Battaglia’s wet, rasping words drifted up to Carson.

“Rebecca,” he said, his words coming out as a moan.

“You’ll see her soon,” Sully told him. “I’ll call her on the way to the hospital.”

“Tell her…” Battaglia started to say, then he closed his eyes and grimaced.

“I don’t need to tell her anything,” Sully assured him. “You can tell her yourself in a little while, okay? It’s going to be fine.”

Battaglia opened his eyes again. His expression grew more panicked. He raised his hand clumsily and beckoned Sully toward him. Sully leaned in.

Battaglia whispered something Carson couldn’t hear.

Sully pulled his head back. “No, no, no. None of that, goombah,” Sully said. His voice sounded strained. “You hang in there. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Battaglia’s eyes flicked up to Carson, then back to Sully. He opened his mouth again, but his eyes glazed over in pain and rolled back in his head. He took a deep, wavering breath that never came out.

“No,” Sully whispered. “No, no, no, no!”

Carson stood frozen next to him.

“Don’t you leave me, Batts,” Sully croaked. “Don’t you dare leave me, you fucking guinea bastard.”

Battaglia remained still.

“Goddamn it, Batts,” Sully sobbed. “Don’t you leave me!”

Carson watched him lower his forehead to Battaglia’s. Tears rolled out of Sully’s eyes and splashed onto Battaglia’s face, streaking the blood.

Next came a rush of heavy footsteps as firemen and medics burst through the door and brushed her aside.

“Let us in!” one of them ordered Sully. “Get out of the way!”

A crowd formed around the fallen officer, milling frantically in an effort to save him. Sully’s wailing voice mingled with the short, chopping exchanges of the medics as they worked on Battaglia. Carson stood back, transfixed. Then, slowly, she lowered her gaze to her own bloody hands.

2214 hours

Yuri pulled into the parking lot of the warehouse. The police car was half a block behind them.

“Pull right up to the door!” Val ordered.

He looked down at Sergey. He sought a pulse in the man’s throat, but there was nothing.

Sergey was dead.

The car screeched to a halt.

“Get the door!” Val yelled. He turned to Black Ivan. “Get out and cover us!”

Both men exited the car. Val used his shirttail to wipe down the handle and trigger guard of the.44 Magnum, just in case. Then he pulled Sergey up into a sitting position, put the gun in his hand, and wrapped his left hand around it. He squeezed Sergey’s finger on the trigger, sending a shot in the general direction of the pursuing patrol car.

He fired again. Then he dropped Sergey’s hand, which still clutched the heavy weapon. Now Sergey had the gun that killed Oleg and the policeman.

He scrambled out of the door and ran for the warehouse.

Chisolm slammed on his brakes as the shots exploded out of the rear of the Mercedes and struck his patrol car with a plinking sound. He jammed the transmission into park and flung open his door.

A lone figure bolted from the Mercedes and ran for the warehouse. A smaller man stood holding open a door. A third, hulking form stood with a shotgun pointed in Chisolm’s direction.

Chisolm drew his Glock.

The man with the shotgun fired. The spattering of buckshot ripped into the front of Chisolm’s car. The shotgun wasn’t nearly so devastating at this range.

Chisolm level his handgun and squeezed off three quick rounds. The large man ducked down, but the other two disappeared inside the warehouse. A moment later the big man popped up and cranked off another booming blast from his shotgun.

Chisolm ducked and heard the pellets biting into the car. He might be on the outside of the shotgun’s effective range, but that didn’t mean those pellets couldn’t do some serious damage.

A quick glance told him that the big man was holding his ground. He reached inside the car and depressed the microphone, shouting out his number and current location. He should have backup within thirty seconds. Until then-

Another shot tore into Chisolm’s car. One projectile whizzed past his foot along the asphalt.

Chisolm rolled out from behind the doorpost. He cranked off two shots, paused, then fired two more. Just as he was about to roll back into cover, the suspect popped his head up with the shotgun. Chisolm fired as rapidly as he could, peppering the target area with lead.

After eight shots his slide locked to the rear. Smoke billowed out of the barrel and the ejection port. Empty.

Chisolm ducked down and reached for his magazine pouch, dropping the spent mag from his pistol while he pulled out a fresh one. He rammed the magazine into the well, which popped the slide loose. It snapped forward and chambered a round.

Chisolm peeked over the top of the dashboard. No movement. He scanned the area for any sign of the suspect. When he saw none, he turned and crouch-walked to the rear of the patrol car. Using the cruiser for cover, he worked his way around to the far side and looked cautiously around the corner.

The large man lay sprawled out on his back several feet from the Mercedes. The shotgun sat harmlessly on the ground an arm’s length away.

Dead? Chisolm wondered. Or trying to draw me in?

The smart money was to wait for backup. Get the warehouse contained. Call in SWAT. Get the hostage negotiators out here to try to talk them out. Or gas the living shit out of the place and force them out. All better options than going forward from his position now.