Richard Doetsch - Half-Past Dawn

Jack remained silent.

Kpow. The gun exploded, the large-caliber bullet shattering Charlie’s knee cap, cartilage, and tendons, nearly separating the leg at the joint. Charlie grimaced in agony, but no cry escaped his lips, his pain channeled into an angry gasp.

“Mr. Keeler,” Cristos said without remorse, without emotion, “I’ve got far more bullets than you have time. I suggest you answer me.”

Jack remained silent, his soul broken as he watched his friend suffer. As despicable as it seemed to watch a friend die, he knew that it was inevitable. They had no intention of allowing Charlie or, for that matter, himself to live.

Kpow. The bullet tore into Charlie’s groin. Charlie’s eyes were glazing over from the pain, his staccato gasps echoing in the room.

“Your wife’s survival depends on you. I suggest you speak to your friend and get me that case before it’s too late.” Cristos spun around and walked back down the aisle, leaving Charlie sitting there in the open.

Jack moved closer. He could see the damage to his friend, shocked at his condition: his face dotted with wounds, his lower body soaked in blood.

“I’ll give you thirty seconds to talk to him,” Cristos called out. “Then you’ve got one minute to get me the case. Or your wife will die a far more slow and horrific death than your friend.”

Charlie looked around the room, his head turning to and fro, when he finally caught sight of Jack. Their eyes locked, a moment of painful understanding passing between them.

Charlie managed a pained smile and nodded as Jack emerged from the rows of shelves. He slowly walked forward, paying no attention to Cristos and Aaron, who stood in the doorway at the other end of the room. Jack put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder and stared down at his shattered body. He was filled with pain, heart-rending agony at the torture of his friend. He had spent so much of his life seeing the aftermath of crimes, the horrific photographs, the witness statements, the testimony of those who had seen the evil in men’s eyes, that he had forgotten the reality of the brutal origins of those pictures and stories.

“Don’t look so troubled,” Charlie whispered.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Jack,” Charlie whispered, “you have to do me a favor.”

Jack leaned into his friend, taking his bloody hand in his own. “Is there something you want me to tell your wife?”

“No, she knows how I feel. No worries.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Row S,” Charlie struggled to speak. “Case nine-two-nine-six.”

Jack looked into his dying friend’s eyes. “What’s in it, Charlie?”

“Just find it. You’ll understand.”

Jack nodded.

“And Jack,” Charlie whispered, reaching out with a closed fist to place something in Jack’s hand, “it’s always brought me good luck. It will help you get out of here.”

Jack said nothing as he looked down at the tip of a rabbit’s foot protruding from his closed fist. Without a word, he slipped it into his pocket and smiled at his friend.

As he looked Charlie in the eye, he watched the light slip away; he heard the last subtle breath escape his lips as his head gently tilted forward.

Jack’s head snapped up as he saw Cristos nod at Aaron and Aaron begin his approach.

Without thought, Jack broke into a full-on sprint, racing down the aisle, calling out the rows as he went. K, L, M… O, P… S. Quickly ducking in, he scanned the shelves, eyes darting back and forth. He heard Aaron’s running footsteps charging his way. Moving down farther and farther, Jack finally spied it on the fifth shelf: 9296.

The box was simple, reinforced cardboard, looking as if it had been up there for years, blending with the numerous metal cases, transfiles, and accordion folders. The section was civil, not criminal. Jack didn’t fully understand what Charlie did, but he realized that his friend had taken matters into his own hands when he heard that Jack and Mia were killed. He was the only other person to know about the box and its location and, Charlie being Charlie, realized that people would be coming for it, so he took it upon himself to create a contingency plan.

With Aaron’s footsteps nearly upon him, Jack drew down the box and flipped open the lid. And as he peered inside, he was floored by what he saw.

Aaron charged down the center aisle, clutching his pistol, his bag banging against his back. He had watched Jack dodge right into row S and pumped his legs as hard as he could. Cristos’s orders not to kill him were clear, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t maim him, shoot him in the leg or the spine to cripple him. All they needed was the case’s location; it didn’t matter if it came out of Jack’s mouth clearly or as a last gasp.

And as he turned the corner, his gun held high, double-fisting it as trained, he caught a glimpse of Jack standing there. But much to his surprise, Jack wasn’t scrambling away like a trapped animal-he was facing him, his eyes focused. And when he realized what Jack was holding, it was too late.

By the time Aaron pulled the trigger, a bullet was already tearing into his own chest, straight through his heart, the force knocking him back and to the ground.

Jack was instantly upon him, grabbing his gun and tossing it away. He took his cell phone, the key-fob-like device, and finally the black bag from his shoulder before melting back into the shadows of the aisle.

Jack looked back at case 9296, the case that, besides a canvas shopping bag filled with Oreos, two bags of chips, beef jerky, and a six-pack of Budweiser, also held a loaded pistol and two clips in the event that a situation arose. Charlie always said this place was his home and that his home had its little touches, its little stashes for all kinds of emergencies.

Jack quickly ran to row Y, looked up to the seventh shelf, and found the evidence case that he and Mia had stashed away on Thursday. He quickly opened it, verifying that it hadn’t been discovered and emptied. He had no idea what he was looking at, nor did he take any time to inspect it.

He unzipped Aaron’s black bag, tucked the metal case inside, and threw it over his shoulder. He slipped the gun into the waistband of his pants but pulled it out as he heard Cristos’s rampaging approach; his accent had all but vanished as he screamed desperately on the run, “You will never get out of here!”

Digging into his pocket, Jack felt Charlie’s rabbit foot and smiled. Filled with hope, he charged out of the row, catching a glimpse of Cristos seventy-five feet away, racing toward him. Gunfire erupted, erratic and staccato, ricocheting off the floor, walls, and shelves. He pressed on, driving his legs as hard as he could.

Without looking back as he ran toward the rear of the evidence room, Jack shouted between deep breaths, “I’m going to burn everything in this case!”

Suddenly arriving at the rear fire door, Jack ground to a halt, pulled out the rabbit’s foot, and stared at it-more specifically, at the three keys that dangled off the small chain. He tucked the largest key into the lock, turned it, and, with a broad smile, opened the rear emergency exit.

Cristos ran through the evidence room. He needed that box at all costs. His life, his future, depended on it.

When he saw Jack race out of the shadows, he knew what had happened. Somehow Charlie had gotten the better of him. Although shot multiple times and left to die, the old man had somehow reached up from the dead and helped his friend. They had taken his gun, his cuffs, but they couldn’t take his mind; Charlie had tricked them all.

Cristos had no idea where Jack was running to, but his greatest fears were realized as he saw the open emergency door, the wash of dim light pouring out of its opening. Cristos held his gun tightly, ran through the door, and charged up the stairs.