Lee Vance - The Garden of Betrayal

I nodded and looked back to Reggie. The tendons tightened on the back of his arm as he began to apply pressure to the trigger. I believed he was about to fire, and also believed that we’d all be equally dead shortly thereafter, just as Smith had said. I felt terrified and calm at the same time, one half of my brain screaming to run and the other half analyzing my situation. I needed to get in touch with Claire, to warn her to leave the Meridien and to tell her how much I loved her. I reached for my phone.

“Guys getting out of the car now,” Joe announced from behind me. “Both look to be wearing body armor. I can’t tell about HKs, but they got some kind of assault rifles.”

“Last chance,” Reggie crooned softly.

Smith laughed. Reggie took a deep breath, his chest expanding.

The staccato hammering of automatic gunfire from outside made me dive to the floor, both arms locked over my head in an instinctive effort to protect myself. Mohler shrieked, and I figured he’d been hit, but I realized almost simultaneously that I wasn’t hearing any impact noise from bullets. Somebody was shooting at something, but not us. I lowered my arms as the firing ceased and saw Mohler scuttle, crablike, into the bathroom. Reggie, Smith, and Joe were all frozen in the same postures they’d been in a moment ago.

“What the fuck happened out there?” Reggie demanded, his eyes still glued on Smith.

“White delivery truck on the east side of the lot,” Joe responded urgently. “Rear door rolled open and some guy opened up with a weapon on a tripod. Maybe a BAR. Both bad guys down. Shots penetrated right through the body armor. Had to be large caliber. Truck’s pulling out now.”

“Plate?”

“Obscured. Writing on the side reads west end storage. Also a slogan and some kind of phone number that I can’t make out.”

I got up unsteadily and joined Joe at the window, ebbing adrenaline leaving me shivery and nauseated. His description hadn’t done justice to the scene below. Smith’s men had literally been ripped to pieces. A blood-soaked leg had come to rest almost immediately beneath us, a brown construction boot still neatly laced to the foot. I gagged and turned away as a woman began screaming in one of the downstairs rooms.

“Our lucky day,” Reggie said, his voice clipped. He sounded amazingly composed, and I wondered how he did it. He tipped his gun toward Smith. “Who shot up your pals?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Smith said, sounding a lot less confident.

“Watch him,” Reggie said to Joe, stepping over Smith’s legs and heading for the bathroom. He pushed open the door and swore. “Mohler’s gone.” He went inside, reappearing a moment later. “Skinny bastard must have wormed his way through the window and jumped. There’s a Dumpster right below. Probably half a mile away by now.”

“So, what do you want to do?” Joe asked.

“Secure the area and call in the cavalry,” Reggie replied, stooping to cuff one of Smith’s wrists to the bed frame. “All we can do. We fucked up, and now we got to deal with the consequences. We straight on our story?”

Joe nodded and I followed suit, trying not to betray how unsteady I felt. We’d rehearsed a version of events that minimized the illegalities on our part, anticipating the likelihood that capturing Mohler and whoever might be following him would end the cowboy phase of our investigation. I was sorry we’d lost Mohler but glad to be alive, and particularly glad to still have Smith. There were some things I wanted to talk to him about.

“Okay, then,” Reggie said as he straightened up. “Joe, you cover me. I’m going to head below and take charge of the scene.” He glanced at the Ruger still dangling from my hand. “Thanks for sticking it out with us, Mark. You got to lose that gun when the reinforcements arrive, but for right now, why don’t you keep an eye on Smith?”

“No problem.”

“Be careful,” he added in a lower voice, brushing past me on his way toward the door. “Keep your distance. I want your finger off the trigger and the safety on. We don’t need any more accidents. We have enough explaining to do already.”

He patted me on the shoulder and vanished outside. Joe stood guard in the open doorway, his back to the hinged side of the frame, eyes sweeping from Smith to the parking lot below and back. The woman downstairs was still screaming.

“I’m okay here,” I said to Joe. “You keep watch on Reggie’s back.”

He nodded hesitantly and moved to the gallery railing. I squatted down in front of Smith, the gun in my hand concealed from Joe by my body. My finger was on the trigger, and the safety was off.

“See my wife and daughter again, you said,” I hissed to Smith. “When have you seen them before?”

Smith wiped blood from his face with the back of his hand, his cold, gray eyes fixing on me.

“Tough guy,” he snarled. “Who would’ve guessed?”

“Because I didn’t run out on my friends?”

“Because you already lost one kid. And now you’re risking the other.”

I tilted the gun by my hip, pointing it at his face.

“You know something about what happened to my son?”

“I know what’s going to happen to you and the rest of your family.”

The urge to pull the trigger was overwhelming. But Smith dead wouldn’t be able to tell me who was responsible for murdering Kyle or provide me with the information I needed to protect my family. I forced my hand to relax, flipped on the gun’s safety, and jabbed Smith in the mouth with the butt.

“Consider yourself lucky that I need you alive.”

He shook his head like a boxer tagged by a punch and then spit blood and a broken tooth onto the floor.

“Difference between us,” he said, giving me the same vermilion-hued smile he’d given Reggie. “I don’t need you for anything.”

A siren sounded in the distance. I glanced toward the door and Smith lunged forward, snatching the gun cleanly from my hand. He spun the weapon upside down and had the barrel to my throat before I could react. I grabbed his wrist, feeling his thumb scrabble for the safety. A shot rang out as I twisted sideways, the bullet missing me by inches. I threw my body on top of his, pinning the gun flat between us. He fired twice more before I could get a clean hold on the weapon, each shot giving rise to a burning pain in my side. We struggled for what seemed an interminable time, Smith with a death grip on the gun despite having one hand cuffed to the bed. I wondered where Joe was. I finally worked the weapon free, hearing it fire a fourth time as I wrenched it from Smith’s grasp.

“Freeze,” Reggie screamed. He was standing over us, gun out and pointed straight down. I rolled onto my back and let the Ruger slip to the floor. Smith lay beside me lifeless, the wound in his chest just beginning to bleed.

“You hurt?” Reggie demanded.

“My ears are ringing,” I said thickly.

“No surprise. What about the rest of you?”

“I think I’m all right,” I said, exploring my chest tentatively. My shirt was torn and singed, but everything else seemed intact. “Maybe a contact burn…”

The words died in my throat as my eyes traveled to the open door. Joe was on the floor of the gallery, back propped against the railing and legs stretched out in front of him. His gun was on the ground next to him, and he had both hands pressed to his left thigh. Pain creased his face. I started to my feet, but Reggie held me down by the shoulder.

“Stay down. I don’t want you keeling over. We got too many casualties already.”

He turned his head to the door. “You doing okay out there, partner?”

“Fine. That first shot just put a little nick in the leg. Smith dead?”