J. Konrath - Fuzzy Navel

Running away screaming is holding more and more appeal. Unfortunately, there’s no place to run. It’s thirty yards to the nearest tree, and it’s a sapling that won’t provide any cover. He’ll be picked off before he gets halfway there.

A shot impacts the driver’s door. Then another. Only three payments left, he thinks, ducking down even lower. He touches his pants. His stitches have ripped, and blood has soaked through. When the Novocain wears off, that’s probably going to hurt.

The tire he’s squatting beside explodes. He jerks in surprise, rocking backward onto his ass. Another shot plows into the side of his Chrysler, where he was only a second ago.

He’s in a crossfire. No place to run. Nowhere to hide.

Herb’s a practical guy, and he understands his chances of survival aren’t good. But he’s not ready to die quite yet. He and his wife were planning on visiting Italy for the holidays. He’s never been, and has heard the food is spectacular.

Thinking fast, he stands up, filling his lungs, and makes a mad dash up the driveway.

After four steps the shot comes. His whole body jerks to the left, bouncing hard into the rear fender of Jack’s car. Herb staggers, takes two zombie-like steps forward, a short step backward, and then drops to his knees.

He moans, just once, a moan of pain and surprise, and his hands seek out the sudden dampness soaking his right side.

Sergeant Herb Benedict thinks of his wife, pictures her kind smile. Then he stops breathing and falls onto his face, his eyes wide open and staring blankly into the dark night.

PESSOLANO WATCHES the fat cop die.

It’s bloody.

Counting the woman cop by the window, this brings Pessolano’s death toll to three. Not the eighteen confirmed kills he lied to Munchel about back at the bar, but not bad for his first day as a real-life mercenary. Not bad at all.

He points the Gen 3 starlight scope at the large bay window, looking for number four.

THE SMELL OF AMMONIA spikes up my nostrils, and I wake up to the worst headache I’ve ever had. I open my eyes, squinting against the flashlight in my face, realizing I’m on my bathroom floor.

Mom stares down at me, her face a picture of worry.

“You okay?” I ask her. My throat is really dry, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

“I’m fine, dear. How are you feeling?”

“Sleepy. Wake me up in a few hours.”

I close my eyes again, get another whiff of ammonia.

“Mom! Quit it!” I reach up to push the smelling salts away.

“Harry says you shouldn’t sleep after a head injury.”

Harry?

“You need to wake up, sis,” he says. “We’re still in a lot of trouble.”

It comes back to me in a big, ugly rush. Alex. The snipers. Finding out Harry McGlade might be my brother. I raise my hand to my head and gently probe the spot that hurts the most. I touch matted hair and tape, and what might be a staple.

“Did I get hit in the head?” I ask.

“You were shot,” Mom says. “You’ve been out for over half an hour.”

“That long? I remember turning off the circuit breaker. But nothing after that.”

“You’re lucky,” Harry says. “I’m going to remember this last half hour for the rest of my life.”

I cough. “I’m thirsty.”

Harry sticks his hand out the bathroom door, and comes back with a bottled water from the refrigerator. Mom shines the flashlight on him, and I can see that he’s been crying. I take the water, oddly touched by his concern. He must really be worried about me.

Mom puts her hand on my face, strokes my cheek.

“One more,” she says.

Harry vigorously shakes his head. “No. Please. Thirty-eight is enough.”

“Just one.”

“I can’t take it,” he says. “I’m one big hematoma.”

“Don’t be a baby. You have plenty of blood left. Let’s try your leg.”

Mom holds up a syringe. Harry tries to back away, but he doesn’t have anywhere to go.

“Not that leg!” Harry cries. “The veins are all collapsed!”

My mother doesn’t heed him, jabbing him in that leg.

“Holy hell, it hurts so bad!”

Fresh tears flow down his cheeks. So much for him worrying about me.

“Harry’s such a brave boy,” Mom says. “Aren’t you, Harry?”

He moans. “I need aspirin. A shitload of aspirin.”

That seems like a good idea. I sit up, intent on visiting the medicine cabinet. Vertigo kicks in, making everything lopsided, and the pain gets so bad I see spots. I sip some water, try to get my vision to track correctly.

“Is Jack okay?” Latham, from the living room.

“She’s a bloodthirsty demon!” Harry moans. “Draining me dry!”

“I’m okay,” I call to him. “How are you doing?”

“Getting drowsy.”

“Maybe he needs a transfusion,” I say to Harry.

“Don’t worry.” Mom yanks out the needle and pats his thigh. “Harry’s a universal donor.”

“Harry needs some pain reliever,” he says, “because he feels like he just doggy-styled a cactus.”

Harry reaches into the vanity over the sink and finds the Tylenol bottle. He pries off the cap with his teeth, pours a bunch in his mouth, then washes them down with a beer he liberated from my fridge.

“This might hurt,” Mom says to me.

She sticks the needle into my arm, next to dozens of other marks. I look like a junkie after a bender from hell. There isn’t much pain, though. My throbbing head is too much competition.

I drink more water, Harry tosses me the Tylenol, and I swallow three. Mom finishes shooting me up, and then takes a few pills herself. We help each other up. I’m still a little dizzy, but I can function. I give Harry a pat on the shoulder and he shouts.

“Sore! Very sore!”

I consider myself a kind person, but showing kindness to Harry McGlade takes Herculean effort.

“Thanks for the blood, Harry.”

His eyes soften. “Hey, that’s what family is for. We already share the same blood, right?” Then he adds, “And if you develop any kind of itchy rash in the feminine area, I’ve got some cream left over from my last doctor visit.”

I don’t want to think about that.

“What next?” Mom asks.

I finish the water, toss the empty bottle in the trash can. Sort of a silly gesture, worrying about being tidy when there’s a shot-up refrigerator sticking out of the door.

“I’m going back to the bedroom, to get my gun. Then I’m going to find a way outside.”

“They can see in the dark,” Mom says. “They have those scopes.”

That makes sense. The lights were out and they still managed to hit me.

“I’ll move fast. They can’t shoot what they can’t hit.”

Mom hugs me. I hug her back. She’s trembling.

“I thought…” Her voice cracks. “I thought I lost you.”

I want to say something meaningful, something poignant, but I’m getting pretty choked up too. So I settle for kissing her on the forehead and telling her I love her. Then I disengage, heading for the door.

Harry blocks my way.

“Gotta go,” I say.

He holds open his arm.

Oh God. He wants a hug.

I brace for it, stiffening as he encircles my waist. But rather than the sleazy feeling I normally get when Harry touches me, this time it isn’t too bad.

“Be careful, sis.”

I give him a perfunctory pat on the back, and he whimpers in pain.

“Your back too?”

“She stuck me everywhere I had skin.”

I pull away, saying, “Keep an eye on Mom.”

He doesn’t say anything glib or smart-ass. He simply nods.