Marcus Sakey - Good People

Jack shook his head, smiled. “I’m afraid not.”

ADRENALINE LIT HER UP, and she yelped, not quite a scream, more startled than anything else.

Halden stood outside the car door with his gun pointed at her, the same gun that had caught her eye every time she’d seen him, the one she’d wondered what it would be like to lift and hold and point, only now it was aimed at her.

“Set down the phone and get out of the car,” he said.

She stared, swallowed, blinked. “You don’t-”

“ Get the fuck out of the car .” His voice was commanding, and she found herself reaching for the door handle. He stepped back, the gun level. “Slowly.”

“Detective, this. Tom, he’s inside that house, with – you have to get out of sight. If he sees you-”

“Get out of the car, turn around, and put your hands on your head.”

“But-”

“Now.”

She stared into eyes gone cold and professional, realized that all he saw was a criminal, someone tied up in the death of a cop. Worse, a woman who had lied to him, embarrassed him. The thought made her heart sink in her chest. There was nothing more stubborn than a man humiliated. Somehow she had to calm him down, explain what was going on in the house. Tom could be bringing Jack out any minute. If he saw a cop here, everything would fall apart.

The best thing would be to go along, put him at ease. She opened the door, stepped out, keeping her hands at chest height. “I’m not going to do anything. You don’t need the gun.”

“Turn around and put your hands on your head.”

Her mind raced. Tom was depending on her. “Listen to me. Jack Witkowski is in that house” – she nodded with her head – “that was him that called me. I’m sorry we ran, but he has my sister.”

He shook his head. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to cuff you, and then I’m going to cuff Tom. Then you two are going to tell me where the money is. I’m going to walk into the station with you in one arm, Tom in the other, and that cash slung on my back.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” She stared at Halden, realizing that it wasn’t just a professional distance in his eyes. He had the same fixity of vision she’d only recently overthrown. For her the blindness had centered on the money; for him it was something else, maybe, but the intensity was the same. She had to reach him. “Listen to me. Jack is here. He’s here now .”

The cop said, “Turn around and put your hands on your head.”

Then there was a sound, a strangely familiar shhk-chhk sound, loud and to her left.

That got Halden’s attention, his eyes widening as he spun fast, the gun leading the way, and she turned in the same direction, saw a figure, a man, oh Jesus , the other guy from the mall, a shotgun pointing right at her.

The blast was louder than she would ever have imagined.

A ROAR CAME FROM OUTSIDE, loud and sharp and close. A gunshot, and then another.

Anna. She was out there alone. And she didn’t have a gun.

Tom knew right then that she was gone, and nothing else mattered.The howl that had been building inside broke in a terrible roar, and he threw himself forward. The rage was stronger and crueler than anything he had ever known, and he lowered his head and charged, slamming his shoulder into the man’s gut, straining forward with every muscle and sinew, the breath whistling out of Jack’s lungs, and something falling, the gun, shaken loose, and Tom kept pushing, slamming him up against the door frame. He hammered a punch into Jack’s stomach, then wound up and did it again. This close he could smell sweat and after-shave, could see the texture of his shirt, the perfect straps of the empty shoulder holster. He would tear him apart, yank his arms from their sockets and twist his head off his body. Jack brought his elbows down on Tom’s back, the impact like lightning, but he wasn’t letting go, he would never let go, he’d take everything this fucker could dish out. He threw another furious blow into the man’s side and was rewarded with a sharp gasp, and knew that he was going to win.

Then Jack’s right hand squirmed between their bodies to find Tom’s left. He gripped the bandaged fingers and jerked them back, and Tom’s legs gave in a flash of white agony.

THE WAY HALDEN stepped backward into a shaft of sun, it looked like the light had speared him, like the sun had turned him red and wet and yanked his insides out. His mouth was open as if surprised. Anna stared, one hand reaching, like if she could catch him, she could somehow put him back together, and then there was another roar and his body spun and splashed and the pistol fell from his hand and she turned back to see the man from the mall with a shotgun raised to his shoulder, turning now toward her.

She ran.

There was another roar, and the windshield exploded in a rain of sparkling prisms. Her foot hit the edge of the curb and she stumbled, nearly fell, but got her balance and lunged forward, aiming for a narrow path that ran between two buildings. Her brain was on automatic, an animal desire to get away, she was every hunted thing that had ever run through the forest, and the corner of the building blew up, brick chunks flying, one of them touching her face with razor edges, red dust like sand, and then she was down the path, her arms pumping. Behind her she heard a curse, and the sound of heavy footfalls.

THERE WAS NOTHING but the roar of blood in his ears and the pain shivering up his nerves, the agony so sharp and hot it seemed to blend senses, to be something he could taste and smell and hear. Tom told himself to get up, that he’d been winning, but Jack got hold of his little finger, the broken one, and wrenched it sideways, and the air sucked out of his lungs.

A fist smacked into his nose, the blunt intimacy stunning, stars popping behind his retinas. He felt Jack let go of his hand, and rocked forward, hugging it to his chest, fighting for breath. His head was inches from Sara’s body, and he imagined what the bullet would feel like, how he would fall across her, and he welcomed it.

He told himself to move, but his body didn’t respond. Darkness beckoned, and from it, Anna.

IN HIS HURRY, Marshall hadn’t seated the shotgun properly, and the stock had twice punched his shoulder like a giant’s fist. Adrenaline muted the pain, but the mistake had caused him to miss two easy shots on the woman.

It didn’t matter. When he’d played ball, he could clock a sprint to first faster than anybody. He raced after her, holding the Remington one-handed.

The path between the buildings was narrow, maybe three feet, and by the time he’d hit it, she was rounding the corner. He leaned into his run. There was a rattle of wood and metal, and he burst into a back patio just in time to see her drop to the other side of a wooden privacy fence. He charged it dead-on, planted a foot and let the momentum carry him enough to grab the top one-handed, then rocked over and down to the concrete of an alley. He raised the Remington, but she was already spinning down another path, heading back the way they’d come.

A mistake. As long as she’d zigzagged and used the cover, he would have had to run her down. But now she was heading back toward the street. Jack had said she was the smart one, but the silly cooze wasn’t thinking, because the street was wide and clear, and a magnum slug was accurate to a hundred yards.

Marshall took the corner with his left hand against the edge to keep his velocity, and then poured it on for the length of the path.

Rehearsed the moves in his head: break clear, stop, spread his feet, seat the shotgun properly.

Anna Reed had maybe ten seconds to live.

A FIST HIT HIM AGAIN, this time in the cheek, and Tom’s head snapped sideways. The world was wobbly and wet.