Finally, I hear the whine of sirens, barely audible over the senator catching his breath.
“Stay back.” I peek around the corner, reach for my gun, and take aim, hoping I won’t need to shoot.
If I do, it’ll be a fucking shit show in court. Sure, they ran us off the road but try to explain life and death to a bunch of civilians in a jury box.
The four of them fan out. The two from the Ford head toward the back of the building with pistols drawn.
The sirens get louder.
C’mon, c’mon, c’mon…Mentally, I will them forward into the well-lit parking lot of the Seven-Eleven.
When footsteps crunch on the gravel I’m in the zone and everything happens in slow motion. A hand holding a pistol pokes around the corner and I kick with my boot, breaking bones. Simultaneously, the second guy fires, his bullet whizzing over my right ear, my flesh stinging like a mother-fucker.
I shoot, he goes down, and liquid flows over my right eye as I point my pistol at the guy with the broken fingers
“Drop it.” He drops the gun, now in his left hand as I prepare for the other two. Sure as hell, they heard the shot.
I glance at the guy on the ground. “Joe, grab his gun and shoot to kill if he even blinks.”
The two from the Escalade, fire rounds at us, chipping away at the cement blocks. I just have to keep them occupied long enough for the police to arrive.
Apparently, they hear the noise too and one of the guys makes a mad dash for a dumpster. If he gets there, me and Joe are toast. I take aim, fire, and he goes down.
My head doesn’t hurt all that bad but by the pool of red at my feet, I’m pretty sure it’s a nasty wound. I pull my jacket off and press the fabric tightly above my ear.
I’m thinking the hole is pretty impressive as I let Slate in on the scorecard. “Three down, one to go. The senator is secure.”
“Are the cops there yet?”
“Coming into the parking lot now. You probably should send a few ambulances. Tell Blakely I love her.”
“Jack, you okay?” Slate sounds concerned.
“Police! Put down your weapon!” Shots are fired at the front of the building.
When they stop, I yell out, “I’m Jack Taylor. I have Senator McAlister with me. Are you clear?”
“Clear.”
“We’re coming out.” I place my gun into my holster, raise my one hand not holding in my brains, and walk with Joe to the front of the convenience store.
“What the hell took you so long?” McAlister checks his watch, his face red, gray brows furrowed.
Here it comes… Wait for it…
“I called over fifteen minutes ago. What’re your badge numbers? You idiots almost got me killed.”
I almost feel sorry for the college age cop who stands there, stunned.
“Officers? Meet Senator Joe McAlister. I’m his driver and bodyguard, Jack Taylor. You might want to call me an ambulance.” I fall back onto my ass and stare up at the sky as the cop rushes over and applies pressure to my head.
Not a bad idea.
“What happened here, Senator?” An older cop with a buzz cut, probably in his mid-forties, takes out a small pad and braves the senator’s temper.
“Happened? Nothing happened, son. Someone tried to kill us. You blind or just plain stupid?”
I let Joe finish his explanation because I’m busy watching the stars twinkle and thinking of Blakely, tucked safely into her apartment in New York. I know she’ll hear about this on the morning news and I should send her a text.
