Richard Doetsch - Half-Past Dawn

“What do you say I go pick up dinner?” Bracato said to Holly and Stratton.

Holly looked up from her computer amid the stacks of paper and smiled in the affirmative.

“Sure, how about-”

The sound was muted, a dull pop, but Stratton knew at once what it was.

“Shit,” Stratton said as he drew his pistol. “Holly, go to the back corner, and stay there until we come back for you.”

The second muted gunshot sounded. Bracato pulled his gun and was already on the run up the aisle.

“Who the hell would try and shoot their way down here?” Bracato said. “They’ll never get in.”

Then the sound of the muffled explosion reverberated through the evidence room, the tinkle of shattering glass trailing off.

“Holy shit,” Bracato whispered as Stratton arrived at his side. They bisected the main aisle, hiding between the twelve-foot-high rows of shelves twenty feet from the main entrance door. Sounds of commotion drifted out from the office.

Bracato looked to Stratton for direction.

“No question, they’re coming in here. Stay lost among the shelves. If you take one out, quickly move your position so they don’t find you.”

A skinny red-haired man in a sportcoat rolled into the room, spinning into the first row of shelves. Bracato watched as he looked back, signaling a second, taller man who came in gun held high, sweeping the room. Bracato could see from the way they held their guns, the positions they took, that they were law enforcement.

Bracato stayed low, two rows back from the two men, watching, thinking. The taller man was obscured by the shelves, but Bracato could see over the evidence boxes, through the open spaces, as the man took a few steps forward. Bracato could see his eyes focused. This man was not there to capture anyone. He was there to kill.

In that single moment, Bracato made his decision. He crouched low, creeping forward, his eyes fixed on the man through the slatted shelves, watching as he approached, only ten feet away now.

Bracato wrapped his fingers around the trigger. He could hit a small target at one hundred feet, so ten feet should be nothing. But he had never shot anyone; this man would be his first. And Bracato had no intention of shooting to immobilize, to take out a leg or an arm. He was going for the kill, knowing that the man would do everything to kill him if given the chance.

He lined up his sight, shoulder high, and waited for the man to appear in the open.

And the bullet exploded through Bracato’s chest, entering through the left of his back, piercing his lung, nicking his heart. Bracato collapsed face-first to the floor.

He never saw or heard the other man’s approach. He was so focused on the tall man that he failed to notice the other.

Bracato was roughly flipped over onto his back. The tall man, the one who had been the bait, leaned down and took the gun from his hand.

“Where’s your partner?”

Bracato stared up into the man’s eyes. His face was plain, an average-Joe kind of look that would get lost in a crowd, the type of face that so easily obscured a dark heart.

Bracato knew that he was dying, a minute, maybe two, left as his lungs filled with blood, and in those two minutes, he would do everything he could from his position to save his friend and the young woman with whom he would be missing a date next Saturday.

“He left,” Bracato struggled to say, stifling a cough. “He and Holly went to get our dinner.”

“When?”

“A couple of minutes ago.” Bracato could taste the iron flavor of blood in his mouth. “Maybe five.”

The man leaned down and looked into his eyes, searching for truth. Bracato did everything his crippled body could do to convey it. It was a moment, the two men assessing each other.

Then the tall man laid his pistol on Bracato’s brow. “You shouldn’t have hesitated. Lucky for me, I guess, or we’d be switching positions.”

And the man pulled the trigger.

Jack watched as Charlie’s large body was violently hoisted up into a rolling desk chair by Cristos. Small rivulets of blood rolled down his friend’s face, pooling in the collar of his white shirt. But other than the small cuts and singed hair, he seemed to be all right. Jack couldn’t bear the thought of his friend dying at his expense.

Aaron stepped back into the office.

“Well?” Cristos said.

“We got one. He says the other two left to get dinner. We’ve swept the room, didn’t find anyone, but I’m not sure.”

“Then the two of you escort Keeler back there. We are running out of time.”

Jack looked around at the devastation, through what was left of the window into the vestibule, and could see the three bodies lying there in intermingled pools of blood.

“You said no one was going to die. You’re going to kill my wife and me as soon as you get the box, so why should I get it? Why should I help the man who is going to kill me?”

Cristos stared at Jack. “I’ll make a deal with you.”

“I’ve seen your deals.”

“I made no promise about people not dying. Collateral damage, you remember what that is? You remember those teens who died in your pursuit of justice?”

Jack hated this man.

“I give you my word, I’ll let Mia live,” Cristos said.

“You have no word to give.”

“On the contrary. If you get me what I want, she will live.”

Jack said nothing, not believing the word of the man before him.

Aaron and Donal stepped over to Jack, flanking him. They looked to Cristos for guidance.

“Or how about this?” Cristos said as he drew out his gun, laying it on Charlie’s thigh.

“I’ll let you choose: your friend here or Mia. Could you make that choice in front of your friend?”

“Jack, don’t let this guy mess with your head,” Charlie said as he looked up.

“Say it, Jack, who would you choose? Could you watch the eyes of your friend here as he suffers and dies so that your wife may live? Does he even know her? Would he be willing to make the sacrifice for her?”

Jack’s mind was spinning. He couldn’t bear to look into Charlie’s eyes. They both knew the choice Jack would make, what any person would do for the one they love.

“If you don’t want to be faced with that choice, you’ve got one minute to go get me my case.”

Remaining in the shadows of row Q, Stratton watched at the far end of the evidence room as three men walked through the main door into the room. He couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw Jack Keeler. Stratton did not know the man, since he and Bracato were based out of the Washington office, but he had seen his file not twelve hours earlier when he was assigned to babysit this place.

Keeler was being escorted by the two men who had killed Bracato. Stratton heard the gunshot too late, rounding the corner to see his friend lying on the ground. He had tried to take a shot but had no clear angle, and by the time he did, the two men had lost themselves in the rows of shelves, only to slip out the door.

Stratton watched as the taller man shoved Keeler forward. He was their prisoner and there was no doubt that he was leading them to the mythical box everyone had been searching for all day.

As he watched the three men walk down the aisle, he had a clear shot, and he was certain that he could take one of them out. But that one kill could lead to Keeler’s death, Holly’s, and his own. The second man could disappear into the oversized rows of shelves and later come back at him without warning, striking him down just like Bracato. And he had no idea how many more were outside.

But all moves be damned. He could overthink a simple decision. He held his gun in a two-handed grip, lined up the sight on Bracato’s killer, and pulled the trigger.