Robin Cook - Marker

"I'm off duty," Jazz sneered. "I'm going home."

Jazz turned and put a foot up into her SUV, with the obvious intention of swinging herself up behind the steering wheel. Jack caught her right arm just above the elbow and gripped it hard enough to keep her where she was.

"It's important you talk with these people," Jack said. He started to say something else about coming with him, but he never got it out. With totally unexpected swiftness, Jazz used a karate-like blow to free her arm and practically simultaneously kneed Jack in the groin. Jack doubled over, clutching his genitals while an involuntary groan escaped from his lips. The next thing he knew, the cold barrel of a gun was pressed against the back of his neck.

"Stand up, asshole," Jazz scoffed loud enough to be heard. "And get in the damn car."

Jack raised his head. He was squinting with pain and wasn't entirely sure he could walk.

"This gun's going to go off if you don't get the hell in there," Jazz hissed.

Jack moved forward as Jazz backed up a step. Still supporting his genitals with his right hand, he used his left to help him get up behind the steering wheel. The pain was like nothing else he'd ever experienced. It made him feel weak, as though he were made out of rubber.

"Climb over into the passenger seat," Jazz ordered as she took a quick glimpse around to see if anyone had noticed what had happened. With all the confusion and noise in the garage, no one paid the slightest heed. "Come on!" Jazz snapped. As an added incentive, she poked the side of Jack's head with the tip of the gun's suppressor.

With the vehicle's gear box in the way, Jack wasn't sure he could physically do what Jazz was ordering, but he felt as if he had no choice but to try. He sagged over the median console into the passenger seat, rotated onto his back, and with his knees bent, brought his feet over. He was now in a tight ball, more or less on his back.

Jazz quickly climbed in behind the steering wheel and pulled the driver's-side door shut, eliminating most of the garage's noise. She kept her gun pointed at Jack's face, just inches from his forehead. "And what do these people want to talk to me about?" Jazz demanded with obvious derision.

Jack started to answer, but Jazz cut him off. "Don't bother answering, because it doesn't matter. What matters is that you've managed to get yourself killed."

The sound of the gun going off despite its suppressor was loud enough within the confines of the vehicle's cab to cause ears to ring. Jack's eyes, which had reflexly blinked closed at the noise, popped open in time to see Jazz's head sag forward and bump against the steering wheel. A rivulet of blood appeared and ran down the nape of her neck. To add to his confusion, Jazz's gun fell onto his chest.

"Excuse me," a male voice said from the dark depths of the backseat. "Would you mind handing Miss Rakoczi's Glock back to me? I prefer that you do it by holding on to the suppressor, not the butt."

Jack picked up the gun as he was directed, and then, by wiggling himself backward, he was able to partially right himself so that he could raise his head high enough to see over the back of the passenger seat. The view was limited because of the heavily tinted windows. All Jack could see was the mere outline of a figure sitting in the backseat directly behind the driver's seat. There was a heavy smell of cordite in the air.

"I'm waiting for the gun," the shadowy man said. "If you don't do as I say, there will be dire consequences. I would think you would be eager to help, since I obviously saved your life."

Bewildered at these unexpected and shocking developments, Jack was in no condition to question the man's request, and he started to extend the gun through the separation between the two front seats. It was at that instance that the driver's-side door was yanked open, and Jazz's limp body tumbled out onto the concrete. Surprised anew, Jack caught sight of an equally surprised Lou. "In the backseat!" Jack yelled. "Watch out!"

Lou disappeared at the same instant the shadowy backseat figure discharged his pistol yet again, followed by the noise of shattering glass. Without thinking, Jack flipped the gun he was holding around so that his index finger slipped into the trigger guard. Still crouching behind the back of the passenger seat, he raised the gun, and aiming blindly in the direction of the shadowy person, pulled off three shots in rapid succession. To Jack, the sound of the weapon was a loud hissing thud like a combination of a fist hitting a punching bag and air being let out of a tire. The expended shell casings clanked down between the front seats. Although his ears were ringing, silence returned. Again, the smell of cordite permeated the vehicle's cab.

Jack's heart was pounding. As he huddled against the back of his seat, he heard a gurgling sound from the rear seat. He was afraid to move and half expected the man in the back to loom up and shoot him like he had shot Rakoczi.

"Lou?" Jack called. He was afraid to move, and he was afraid Lou might have gotten shot.

"Yeah!" Lou's voice sounded from someplace outside the car.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Who fired those last three shots?"

"I did. I shot blindly."

"Who is it you shot at?"

"I haven't the slightest idea."

"Is this the nurse you were talking about on the phone lying next to me on the pavement out here?"

"It is," Jack said. He switched positions. His back was killing him the way it was pressed up against the passenger-side door.

"I thought you promised you weren't going to be a hero," Lou complained. "Did you shoot her, too, or what?"

"I didn't shoot her," Jack exclaimed. "It was the guy in the backseat."

"Whoever the guy is shot at me," Lou said. "I don't like that."

In addition to the gurgling, Jack now heard definite wheezing. At that moment, he caught sight of Lou's eyes between the open driver's side door and the doorframe. He was now squatting next to the driver's-side front wheel, holding his pistol up alongside his head.

Jack managed to get his legs down where they belonged under the dash so that he could move his head and cautiously look into the backseat between the front seats. In the dim light and limited view he could see a flaccid hand lying on the backseat with its index finger still within the trigger guard of a pistol. At that point, Jack heard stertorous breathing.

Gaining courage, Jack raised his head and peered over the top of the front seat. He could just make out a man sitting upright but with his head back and arms splayed out to the sides. With his head back, Jack could see that he was wearing a ski mask. His breathing was labored.

"I guess I shot him," Jack said.

Lou stood up, walked along the side of the car, and stuck his pistol through the back window that had been blown out. He was holding his gun in both hands and pointing it at the stricken individual. "Can you hit the lights?" Lou asked.

Jack spun around and briefly searched for the interior lights. When he found them, he switched them on. He looked into the backseat at the man. An expanding stain of blood was on the man's chest.

"Can you reach his gun?" Lou asked. He kept his gun trained on the apparently unconscious stranger.

Jack extended his hand warily toward the gun as if the man would suddenly wake up like in a thriller movie for one more desperate struggle.

"Just touch the barrel, not the butt," Lou directed. "And put it on the front seat."

Jack did as he was told, then quickly got out the passenger-side door. He opened up the back door and leaned in to get a closer look at the man. Up close it was more apparent how labored the individual's breathing was. Jack pulled off the ski mask in hopes it would help the man breathe. Lou opened the door on the man's other side.