Stephen Hunter - Dead Zero

“You wanna be tied up or dead, big guy? Okay, get over here,” he said, gesturing with the pistol. He led the three of them to the rear of the truck.

“You two, you climb into the scoop, you lay flat, you don’t breathe, you don’t shout, you don’t yell, nothing. You give me up and before I go, I’ll take you down. Don’t disappoint me, don’t disappoint your widows and orphans.”

Larry the driver helped the bound trashmen into the scoop, which was big enough to conceal the two.

“Don’t fall in love and come out of this engaged,” said the gunman.

“Motherfucker,” said Antwan.

“Throw some shit on them, Larry.”

Larry lifted a can and shook its contents over the two bodies.

“Larry, man, that’s rank, goddamnit,” Antwan protested.

“Okay, Larry, into the truck. You’re going to turn left, hit St. Paul, go right, pass beyond Eager and Read, and turn right in the alley before Madison.”

“Man, they got all that blocked off.”

“Not for this crate they don’t. And if a cop stops you, I know you can talk your way by him.”

Larry got into the truck cab, while the gunman, keeping him covered, moved around, came in the other door, and settled low in the well under the dashboard.

“Chinaman,” said Larry, “this is all fucked up. This is going to cost me my job.”

“You tell ’em I had you at gunpoint and, as a matter of fact, I do have you at gunpoint. You do what I say. This isn’t about you. You’re just a little part of it.”

Larry threw the big truck in gear, ground down the alleyway to his cross street, turned left, then right at St. Paul.

“You’re just a garbageman doing your job. Keep your face still. I can read it like a paperback and you don’t want to get hurt over nothing that concerns you. Believe me, this is not worth dying for unless you lost a son in Afghanistan.”

At the alleyway, Larry turned right, but halted at a policeman’s signal.

“Closed down, big guy,” the officer said. “Some security thing a block over.”

“Officer, I am so behind schedule. I ain’t going through, but I got to get in the alley, collect, then I’m backing out and getting on with my route. This traffic done messed me up bad, bro.”

“It’s not my problem,” said the cop.

“Five minutes,” said Larry. “No shit, then I’m out of here.”

The cop shook his head, seeing a conundrum that could only be solved by mercy. “Don’t nose out onto Charles,” he said. “You get yourself and me in big bad trouble.”

“Got it, Officer.”

Larry geared the big truck into motion, and it lurched, then began to creep forward over the cobblestones, between the looming profiles of old mansions turned into apartment houses, whose perspectives dampened the sunlight away.

“How far?” said Larry.

“Right to the edge of Charles Street. But don’t go out. Not yet.”

Larry eased forward a bit.

“Now what?”

“We wait.”

Helicopters gnashed overhead, their black shapes scooting across canyons between the buildings, and Larry, looking out, could see figures of policemen on roofs.

“What you waiting for?” Larry said.

“When the action starts, the birds will descend. As they descend, their pilots will be changing the pitch of the rotors. I’ll hear it. Then you roll this crate out another five feet, turn it off and put your hands through the wheel, and I’ll cuff you. You fuck me by gunning into the street, I will kill you and you would be dying for nothing on this earth that can be weighed or counted, you hear?”

“I hear you, man. Ain’t dying today, no way.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Man, them guys got a hell of a lot more guns than you, Chinaman.”

“Can’t be helped,” said the gunman.

“You gonna get so fucked up.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” said the gunman, and then even Larry heard the helicopter engines begin to alter the speed at which they churned out their message of fuel consumption, exhaust, and brute energy.

“Go, goddamnit,” said the Chinaman.

Larry eased out till his cab cleared the edge of the building. About two hundred yards to the right, he could see a convoy of black Explorers, blue-red light flashes blinking out from their interiors, before and aft a great black Lincoln limousine. A gaggle of people seemed to be emerging from the restaurant.

“Wrists,” said the Chinaman.

Larry put one wrist through the wheel and the other around it, felt the loop go over one, then the other, then yank tight as the Chinaman pulled hard on the flex-cuff strap that locked in place, even against the power of his strong arms.

Larry watched as the man shifted in the seat, reached under the old overcoat he had on, and rotated out what appeared to be a toy gun with a thick, short barrel. It had a telescope too, and appeared to be cinched somehow to the shoulder under the coat.

“You a fucking terrorist?” he asked.

“Not quite. Now shut up.”

Carefully the Chinaman braced himself, bringing his right leg up, crossing it and forcing it under the left leg, locking it tight, at the same time locking himself against the seat back. Larry understood that he was tightening himself up for a shot.

Holding the rifle in his right hand, he rolled down the window just halfway.

Quickly the rifle came up and Larry understood that he was in the presence of some kind of artist, for the move had the grace of an athlete, that sure manipulation of limbs and torso in liquid syncopation, and Larry knew that whatever he was aiming at was a dead man walking. It was Chow Yun-Fat.

But he didn’t shoot.

What the fuck, Larry thought. Conditioned by a popular culture that rode narratives to completion and left no gun unfired, he felt a secret urge slide into his bloodstream, along with a quart or so of chemicals. Shoot the motherfucker, he couldn’t help himself for thinking.

Swagger’s eyes saw nothing; he had a frozen moment. But then he saw some kind of blurry movement on the truck cab, took another second to relate it to his own knowledge and discern through his fading distance vision that the window had come halfway down, had another thought arrive so fast it came as a rebus, not a sentence: window half down means shot/window full down means curious watcher. Then forces he’d never figure out took over.

He threw himself hard against Nick, shoving the astonished FBI agent against a parked car, reaching simultaneously to the.40 Glock secured against Nick’s leg, nimbly popped the security latch, and pulled the gun skyward. He pulled the trigger five times fast.

“What the fuck?” said Nick.

“Gun, gun, gun,” screamed Bob, “over there, that garbage truck.”

But by that second, everything was lost in chaos, as the radios all shrieked and ten people started talking at once, signifying the confusion on the ground.

“Break-break, shots fired.”

“Principal down.”

“Call a goddamned ambulance.”

“Where is the fire coming from?”

“North, north, a burst of fire north, about a hundred feet up-”

“Negative, negative, that was an agent returning fire. I can’t see a sniper.”

“All units, all units, stand fast, go to glass, get me situation reports fast. What is story on principal, Ground One?”

“Fuck, it’s a mess, we got agents all over him, the kids are crying, I don’t see blood, but I can’t-”

“Did you take fire?”

“I don’t know, I can’t verify.”

“Somebody tell me what the fuck is happening. Air, any air, do you have a visual?”

“Negative, negative, I just see crazy shit around the principal, I see agents and cops racing toward him, I see no-”