J. Black - Icon

Corey ducked, then popped up and shot across the car so quickly that Max felt the bullet zip by his ear before he heard the sound. His reflexes were slower—it took him almost a second to get down, the sting to his ear a shock. He clapped his hand to his head. No blood. Still amazed at how quickly Corey reacted—was still reacting, because suddenly a hole blasted through the passenger window of the Saturn above him, glass flying.

Choices: get into the storeroom and close the door, crawl under the car, or shoot back through the window. He shot through the window. Indiscriminately.

Blind.

Corey screamed.

Max heard a bang and a thump.

Max didn’t wait to see if Corey was hit or faking. He was running on pure instinct now, and that instinct was screaming for him to get away. He threw himself headfirst into the storage room and scrambled behind the wood frame. And that was when his brain hit the slow-motion button. He flashed on a hot afternoon eating Sonoran hot dogs in a Tucson eatery with a cop who had worked with him on a picture, the cop saying that if you were in a firefight you looked for three things: cover, concealment, and an escape route. The flimsy plywood of the storeroom would offer no such cover, but it would conceal him.

Close enough.

He crouched by the edge of the door. The cop had also told him always to stay low when hiding. Most people emptied their weapons at the face or the upper body.

The last thing the cop had told him: shoot first, and shoot to kill. Max followed that advice, shooting at the cars, a good three or four shots. Had to resist emptying the weapon from pure adrenaline overload.

Then he got down again.

Nothing.

Nothing since the scream.

Had he killed Corey? Was Corey lying out there dead, or injured? Max remained in place. It was unbearable in here. The washing machine ground on. Wished he could stop it, wished he could listen to the silence. For the sound of movement. But with the washing machine he could hear nothing.

Wait. Tried to get his mind to work, and finally was able to go through the possible scenarios. Corey could be wounded. Or dead. The neighbors could be calling the police even now. He listened for sirens, but heard nothing but the damn washing machine cycling on and on.

Corey could be playing dead, waiting for him. When Max was a kid, they had a cat like that. The cat would sit near a ground squirrel hole. Just sat back and waited. Eventually, the ground squirrel would get curious and pop its head out—and then, snap!

Max didn’t want to be like the ground squirrel. So he waited.

The washing machine finally stopped.

The heat was unbearable.

He was dripping with sweat.

He listened.

Finally, he got down on his stomach and inched along the storeroom floor. Craned his head around the door frame.

Nothing.

The place felt empty.

The only sound was the tick of the Chevelle’s cooling engine. Glass littered the carport’s concrete surface.

If he moved forward, he would crunch on the glass or at least scrape on it and give himself away.

And so he withdrew, back into the storeroom.

Gun in both hands.

Shaking with adrenaline.

A HALF HOUR went by, maybe more. Max was beginning to relax, and he knew that wasn’t good. He’d been around enough cops, taken enough courses to know he shouldn’t take anything for granted. He’d done the Citizen’s Academy, the FBI course, a slew of them, just to get a feel for his character in Gawker —had been around them long enough to know that you had to remain alert and plan for trouble.

Corey might be dead. Or perhaps he’d made it inside the house. Maybe he’d found Luther and Sam and gotten them out of the bomb shelter…

No movement. No sound.

Max could call and get help; he had both Luther’s and Sam P.’s phones. The sheriff’s deputy—she might come. His mind stuttered again, and stuck on the vision of the deputy setting her fingers on the place mat. Something about that small movement got to him. That was the moment he thought about, not her mental gymnastics and encyclopedic memory. Not even the way she’d handled those guys in the limo.

He could call 911.

But what if Corey was dead? Max knew he’d be arrested. Even if it was self-defense, he’d still end up in jail—at least until they sorted it out. He could see the headline now.

Max sat cross-legged on the floor of the storeroom, weapon still in both hands, resting on his lap. Tried to decide. Sometimes his mind just wouldn’t cooperate, and he’d be frozen, unable to do anything at all. Another parting gift from Gordon White Eagle—

The son of a bitch.

Max heard a scrape. He held tight to his gun and peered around the door.

The man in the shower cap and pink sunglasses stood back a couple of paces, close to the Saturn. He grinned. Max noticed he had few teeth. “What do you want?” Max asked him.

The man pointed to the car tires.

Max slithered out a little farther, so he was level with the floor, and stared at the tires. He could see all the way to the kitchen door.

Were those legs? They were legs, attired in jeans and desert boots, stretched out on the ground near the kitchen door. The rest of the body was hidden by the Chevelle’s tires.

Max looked at the man in the shower cap. “Is that Corey? Is he dead?”

The man in the shower cap touched a finger to his lips. Then he stepped carefully into his rowboat, which had magically appeared, hovering a foot off the ground, and rowed down the driveway. He waved back, grinning, his toothless gums catching the light.

Max realized he had to know. If Corey was hurt, he’d have to help him. He made his way as carefully and quietly as he could over to the Chevelle. Trying to avoid the broken glass. Gun at the ready, clasped in both hands, pointed down in front of his body. Everything moving in slow motion—and he was at the center of the storm. His mind clear, his thoughts crystalline.

Corey lay with his head propped against the kitchen wall. There was a bloody hole in the shoulder of his black tee, but not a whole lot of blood had seeped out. Didn’t look like Max had hit an artery, which was fortunate. It looked as if the bullet had gone through flesh and muscle, and very little else. The gun had fallen out of Corey’s hand.

Max thought Corey must have hit his head when he fell. Otherwise, he’d still be conscious.

But Max wasn’t taking any chances.

“Corey!” he shouted, aiming at the man’s chest. “Corey! Look at me!”

No movement.

Was he playing dead? Was he actually dead?

“I have my gun on you. If you move at all, I will shoot you. You got that?”

He moved forward slowly, keeping dead aim on Corey’s chest. He kicked Corey’s gun under the Chevelle and closed the ground between them quickly. Felt for a pulse. There was one.

Corey’s chest moved up and down, but he was out cold. Max went through his pockets, got his keys but left the baggie of pot on Corey’s person. Ducked in through the open window of the Chevelle. On the seat was a bag with the two prepaid mobile phones, still in their boxes. Max ripped one box open, used Luther’s phone to activate the prepaid mobile. It was precharged, which made things a whole hell of a lot easier.

He didn’t want to use Luther’s or Sam’s phones too much, since they could be traced.

Max grabbed hold of Corey’s boots and dragged him into the kitchen. Rested. Pulled him to the door of the pantry. Rested some more. Corey had to weigh 170, all of it dead weight. Each time he dropped Corey, Max checked his pulse. He dragged him along the pantry floor to the outer door to the bomb shelter, and then to the trapdoor. He took the key off the hook, opened the padlock, and pulled the door up. Stood back and aimed his gun into the bunker. Swept it back and forth.