Dan O'Shea - Penance

Lynch put his hand on Father Hughes’ shoulder just as the priest went to put his key into the lock in the basement door. Hughes looked back. Lynch put a finger to his lips and pointed up at the bypass wires rigged into the alarm at the top of the door. Lynch motioned the priest back toward the stairs.

“I left my cell phone in the car,” Lynch whispered. “I need you to get back to the rectory as fast as you can. Call 911, tell them you have a break-in at the church. Tell them there is an officer on the scene who needs back-up. Go.”

The priest scurried up the stairs and back up the narrow walk. Lynch edged along the wall and back to the door. He reached up under his jacket, sliding the Berretta 9mm out of the hip holster. Standing on the last step with his back flat against the wall of the church, Lynch reached down and slowly turned the doorknob and pulled. The door moved. It was open. For just an instant, in his peripheral vision, Lynch thought he saw light in the door’s window.

Villanueva had just gotten back down the stairs to the basement when he saw the door move. Just a fraction, but it moved. Instantly, he shut off the penlight. His eyes took a second to adjust to the darkness, but Villanueva spent a lot of time in the dark. He was used to it. Slowly, he unzipped the right-hand pocket on the warm-ups and pulled out the.38.

He saw part of a head slip into view through the door’s window, just for a second, then pull back. The head had come down into the top left corner of the window, so somebody was standing on the stairs, leaning down to peek in. Villanueva knew the person wouldn’t be able to see him inside in the dark. He edged over to the wall, made his way along the wall to the corner, then worked along that wall toward the door.

Villanueva pictured the situation in his head. He had his back to the interior wall to the right of the door. Whoever was outside probably had his back to the exterior wall on the other side of the door. Difference being, Villanueva knew where the guy on the stairs was. That guy had no idea where Villanueva was.

Villanueva ran through the possibilities in his mind. Could be the priest, janitor for the parish, somebody like that. Maybe the guy noticed the bypass on the alarm, maybe he noticed the door was unlocked. Either way, he’d probably be on his way back to the rectory, probably be calling the cops about now. But Villanueva didn’t think he’d take that peek back in the window. And if it was somebody like that, then they weren’t there now. Sooner he got the hell out the better.

Could be the person saw the door a while ago, had already called the cops, now the cops were waiting for him. No. Cops would come in and get him, be on the bullhorn, have the whole place lit up.

That left the chink bitch or someone working for her. She said she’d find him. Maybe this was her plan. Pop him right on the stairs, leave the bugs on him, set him up for the Marslovak shooting.

Thing was, any way he looked at it, his situation wasn’t going to get better. The door was still open a fraction. He was just a step from it. Get the gun up, hit the door with his shoulder, come through ready to start shooting up the stairs. Hope he didn’t see anything. See anything, a shoe, a leg, start pulling the trigger. Best chance he had.

Villanueva took a couple deep breaths, tried to relax some of the tension out, raised the gun, and slammed into the door.

Lynch leaned down to take a peek in the window, pulled his head back instantly. Stupid move. Dark out here, but even darker in there. All he’d do looking through the glass was silhouette his head in the window, give the guy a shot at him. Lynch flattened back against the wall. Could have sworn he’d seen a light. Gone now. If somebody had just shut off a light in the basement, then he’d probably seen Lynch peek in the window. Guy might head back upstairs, try to get out another door. Lynch started sliding back up the stairs, keeping his eye on the basement door as he went up. Figured he could get down to the end of the walk, watch the basement stairs and the vestibule door, cover two exits anyway. Guy ran for it, Lynch would just have to trust he could run him down.

Lynch was halfway up the stairs when the door slammed out, wanging against the cement at the back of the stairwell. A man in dark clothes flew into the cement well, arms extended, a loud crack and a muzzle flash as he fired into the stairs where Lynch had just been. The round hit the step below Lynch’s feet, throwing up cement chips. Lynch felt something cut into his right leg, just above the ankle. Lynch brought his gun up and fired, but the guy had kept moving left, across the stairwell, bringing his gun up higher, seeing Lynch further up the stairs. Lynch’s round punched into the steel door, sparks flying. Another round dug into the wall just in front and to the right of Lynch’s head, bits of cement stinging Lynch’s face, Lynch feeling some blood, his right eye clouding up. He heard another shot, but didn’t feel anything. Guy was running out of options down there, trying to back into the corner now, trying to get behind the door, trying to bring the gun right. Lynch started squeezing off rounds as fast as he could, aiming for the space between the door and the wall. The sound of the shots in the cement well punched into Lynch’s ears like nails, the strobing of the muzzle flash revealing the man in the dark tracksuit as he was slammed back into the wall, the graceless spasmodic jerking as Lynch’s rounds tore into him, one more flash as the man pulled his trigger again, the round ricocheting off the floor and whining up the stairs and into the night.

Lynch felt the hammer in the Beretta click down on an empty chamber. Instinctively, he thumbed the clip release, the top note of his brass still tinkling off the cement as the empty clip clattered down the cement stairs. Lynch tore the spare clip from his belt, slapped it into the Beretta, pulled back the slide, and brought the gun back to bear on the target.

The man was crumpled in the corner of the stairwell, a short-barreled revolver on the cement near his left leg. Lynch went down the stairs carefully, keeping the Beretta level, then flicked the revolver away from the man with his right foot. Lynch could smell blood, could see it beginning to spread around the man. The man’s hand moved a little, and he heard the man trying to say something. Lynch leaned down.

“Fucking chink,” the man said, the words rasping and bubbling through the blood that spilled out of his mouth and down his chin. “Fucking chink.”

Lynch sat on the gurney outside the rear of the ambulance. The EMTs had bandaged his leg where a bullet fragment had punched through his calf, wrapped a turban around his head and taped a piece of gauze over his right eye. Another bandage was on the right side of his neck. They’d cut his right pant leg open past the knee and stripped off the sock and shoe. The pant leg was soaked with blood. Lynch had also bled down the right side of his jacket and shirt. One of the EMTs gave him a blanket. Lynch draped it around his shoulders. Rain had stopped, but it was getting colder.

“You’re gonna need to get some shit picked out of your face, get that leg wound cleaned out, get everything sutured up,” one of the EMTs told him. The guy peeled off his latex gloves and started packing up his material. “Somebody’s got to take a good look at the eye, too. I’m not messing with that. You should be OK. Face is gonna look like shit for a while.”

“Hey,” Lynch said. “You should see the other guy.”

“I did. His face looks fine.”

Captain Starshak walked over. “He about ready to go?”

“Yeah,” the EMT said. “Soon as you guys say, we’ll take him in.”

“OK,” said Starshak. “Give us a second here.”