John Avery - Black Cobra

Michael checked his watch. 7:05 p.m. He considered Aaron’s question for a moment. His immediate goal after leaving Sally’s Diner had been to put as much distance between themselves, the dead man, and the approaching sirens as he could. He looked at Aaron, then back at the road, and decided to try a more comforting answer.

“We’re headed to a faraway place where no one can bother us ever again,” he replied, and Aaron and the others thought that sounded really good.

Ashley had seen Aaron take out the photo of her and Danny. “May I see the picture, Aaron?” she asked over his shoulder, and he handed it to her.

Tears welled in her eyes as she took a long look at the photo, imagining herself wrapped in Danny’s loving arms once again.

Just then a large black Hummer moving at high speed skidded wide around the flooded corner ahead of them and crossed into their lane. Aaron caught a fleeting glimpse of the oncoming driver’s face just before they collided head-on, sending the Aston spinning violently in a shower of glass. The Hummer zagged hard, jumped the curb, and careened through a street-light pole before crashing to a stop against an overflowing dumpster. The Aston Martin slid to a stop in the middle of the block, doors flung wide open, its fabric top mostly torn away, and for a moment nothing moved except for the falling rain…

Then BOOM!

The Aston’s fuel tank blew with enough force to heave the car several feet into the air where it rolled onto its side before returning to earth with a violent whump, flames roiling from its shattered windows.

Jason stumbled out of his Hummer, stunned, but unhurt. He approached the Aston’s fiery wreckage; but the heat was too extreme and there was nothing he could do, so he backed off.

As he turned back toward his Hummer, Jason was surprised to see what appeared to be a boy, about thirteen, lying in the shadows on the wet sidewalk a few feet from him. The boy’s face was blackened and bloody, but he was still breathing and appeared to be in one piece. Jason checked the boy’s pulse, finding it weak but steady. He spotted a curious bandage wrapping the boy’s chest and shoulder — it was soaked with fresh blood but appeared to be controlling any excessive bleeding.

Jason lifted the boy into his arms and carried him to the Hummer, laying him gently across the wide rear seat and covering him with a wool blanket. Then he swung the door shut.

He checked the front of the Hummer for damage: It was smashed in, but not severely. He climbed into the driver’s seat and tried the engine, which started easily, and then he backed away from the dumpster and onto the street, heading west with the intention of finding the nearest hospital.

After rounding two corners, Jason remembered why he’d come downtown in the first place. He pulled over and skidded to a stop in front of Sally’s Diner.

In the distance, sirens …

The old, black, desk phone rang, shaking Detective James Harness out of a good sleep. He checked his watch, 7:10 p.m., and then slid his feet off his desk and sat up, fumbling for the receiver.

“Detective Harness,” he said in a gruff voice, pinching the bridge of his nose to help ease his headache.

“Harness, it’s your Captain. Several calls just came in concerning gunfire downtown at Sally’s Diner, and I guess there’s been a fatal automobile accident two blocks from there. You and your partner get your asses down there. Got it? Backup’s on the way and emergency services have been notified.”

“Roger that, Captain,” Harness said, yawning deeply. He’d been cooped up in his hot, tiny office all afternoon and welcomed the evening’s first real diversion.

He hung up the phone and called to his partner. “ Roberts? You out there? ”

Officer Roberts was just outside Harness’s door in the deserted precinct office refilling his coffee cup. He was nursing a huge hangover and a steady stream of black coffee was the only thing keeping him alive.

“Right here, sir,” he replied. “No need to yell.”

“Pour me some joe to go and grab your shotgun,” Harness ordered. “We have a situation.”

Jason listened to the approaching sirens, judging their distance at two minutes. He pulled his .45 caliber pistol out of the Hummer’s glove box and stepped out into the rain.

Brandy Fine had been right to be concerned, the front of Sally’s Diner looked like a war zone: the green canvas awning hung in tatters; the huge, plate-glass front window was blown out; and two rusting bicycles lay tangled on the sidewalk amid piles of broken glass.

Jason raised his pistol and stepped cautiously through the shattered window into the diner.

Inside, Jason saw the familiar signs of recent mayhem and brutal violence: fresh blood spattered the floor, walls and ceiling, and the entire room was riddled with bullet holes.

Two bodies lay sprawled on the floor: The first, lying under one of the stools at the counter, appeared to be an old man. Jason tried to check the gentleman’s pulse, but the old geezer jerked awake and abruptly stood and wandered out the front door, as if he’d simply finished his donut and was heading home.

Jason turned to the other body and saw lying next to it a familiar, worn leather fedora, and, although the dead man’s face was obscured with blood, he knew at once who it was. He leaned down and knelt next to his dead brother.

“ Drop the gun and put your hands in the air! ”

The booming voice from behind sent a sharp chill up Jason’s spine. Damn it! he thought, kicking himself for forgetting about the police. He let the pistol slide through his fingers and onto the floor and then slowly raised his hands.

“Now, stand up and turn around so I can see you,” the voice said.

Jason did as he was told, and as he turned he was surprised to see only two men: one, about 5’7”, wearing plain clothes, pointing a pistol at his face; the other, approximately 6’2”, in uniform, wielding a shotgun.

The one in plain clothes was clearly in charge. He glanced around at the disaster that used to be a diner. “ Damn , Roberts,” he said. “I’d say this guy’s one mean son-of-a-bitch.”

Officer Roberts smiled and leveled his 12 gauge on Jason, cherishing the moment. Action like this was scarce in the Podunk 3rd Precinct, and it was a rare pleasure to aim a gun at a real person as opposed to a cardboard cutout. Wielding that kind of power made up for his deep lack of self-confidence, and the adrenaline rush felt really good.

“You went a little too far this time, my friend,” he said.

Jason hated when strangers called him friend — especially cops. He looked at Roberts and his shotgun, weighing his options. “I’m not your friend,” he said.

Roberts’s eyes narrowed and his finger twitched on his shotgun’s hair trigger.

“I’ll need to see some I.D.,” the man in charge said.

Jason wished he’d gotten around to changing the name on his driver’s license to the pseudonym he used around Brandy: ‘Jason Beckham’; but it was too late now, so he reluctantly handed the license over.

“ Jason Souther ,” the one in plain clothes read aloud. “I’m Detective Harness, Third Precinct. This is Officer Roberts.” He indicated his partner.

Jason did not respond. Not counting visiting rooms, he had never set foot inside a bonafide state prison, much less done time in one. Sure, he’d overnighted in a few county jails, and there were the three months in the brig awaiting his dishonorable discharge from the Navy; but whenever there’d been serious trouble, his big brother had always figured out a clever way to take the fall for him — spending half his life behind prison bars so that his little brother could remain free. Jason had always loved and respected Johnny for that.