He turned and began to jog up the sidewalk toward the idling hatchback, his legs feeling strong and sure. Maybe the shooter would follow him down the alley and around the corner. Maybe he’d think it was a lost cause and retrace his steps. But either way, with KT and Ellie gone, the guy would almost certainly return to his car. And find Peter, waiting.
At the hatchback, he took out the knife he kept clipped to his front pocket, thumbed it open, and bent to the front tire. With a single quick slash, he cut the valve stem and the rubber went flat.
Neither of them was going anywhere until this was over.
—
As Peter straightened up, he saw the guy return through the side gate of the same house and spot him in the street. It was thirty yards, a shot Peter could make.
But in the picture window to the shooter’s left was a little girl in a yellow shirt, standing on the couch with her hands on the glass, looking out.
Peter lowered his pistol. “Come on down, buddy. Let’s talk.” Hoping he could still end this without a bullet. Or at least get this guy down on the street with the hill behind him, so nobody else would get hurt.
The guy raised his own gun toward Peter and fired too quickly,BANGBANGBANG.
Thirty yards was a long way when you’d been running and your pulse was jacked up and you were burning with adrenaline. Two of the three rounds cracked into the hatchback behind Peter, nowhere close to hitting him. The third was higher and he heard the whisper as it passed a foot from his ear.
Then he was in motion toward cover behind the hatchback’s hood, fast but unhurried, in that slow-motion zone where the world is smooth and fluid and nothing can harm you. Peter was well aware that zone was a chemical lie cooked up inside his brain, but he was addicted to the rush of it, the feeling of being acutely alive. Otherwise he’d have stayed in the Audi and kept driving away from gunfire like any normal person would do.
But Peter was not a normal person. He was a Recon Marine, with more combat deployments than he cared to remember. Those eight years in the Corps had rewired him, turned him into a man with the war inside him like a sleeping dragon, waiting for a chance to wake up and feed.
The dragon was awake now. Peter smiled at the guy, beckoned with the gun barrel. “Come a little closer, maybe next time you’ll actually hit me.”
The shooter walked across the yard toward the concrete steps. The little girl in the yellow T-shirt still watched through the window, directly behind him.
Peter heard sirens now, distant and filtered by the rain. Maybe he wouldn’t have to kill this guy. Although the cops might.
The shooter was coming down the steps, the pistol fully extended. “You didn’t have to get in the way,” he said. “All I wanted to do was keep my promise.”
“Your promise? What promise?”
“Kill the lady,” he said. “She was supposed to stop, but she didn’t.”
“Who did you promise?” Peter kept his voice calm. “Who told you to kill her?”
“I got a special message, just for me.” With his free hand, he swiped off his Red Sox cap and ran his arm across his forehead. His eyes were wet and red with sagging bags beneath them like puddles of melted wax. “I was going to be a hero. But I failed. And it’s all your fault. So now I have to kill you instead.”
This guy was obviously a few tacos short of a combination plate. Peter kept his pistol barrel down and away. “Buddy, you don’t have to kill anyone,” he said. “Everything’s okay. Put the gun down, let’s talk. You can tell me all about it.”
The sirens were louder now, a rising wail. The gunman kept descending the steps until he reached the sidewalk, walking toward Peter with nothing but concrete behind him. If Peter was going to pull the trigger with the least amount of risk to others, now was the time.
The duct tape on the guy’s sneaker had come unwrapped in the rain. The loose sole flapped with every step. He was crying now. “It’snotokay.Nothingis okay. Ipromised, and Ifailed.”
Peter thought back to a hostage negotiation course the Marines had sent him to, years ago. “Hey, buddy, what’s your name? My name’s Peter. I can help if you let me. Just please put the gun down.”
A dark blue police cruiser flew around the corner to Peter’s right, siren screaming, another car immediately behind it. They must have seen the hatchback blocking the street because both skidded to a stop, lights flashing. On Peter’s left, a black unmarked SUV with flashers in the grille came up the next block and eased through the intersection.
Peter said, “Put the gun down, buddy. Please. Hey, do you like ice cream? Let’s get some ice cream.”
The gunman looked at the cruisers. Officers were out of their vehicles now, crouched behind their doors, weapons out. Some pointing at the guy, some at Peter.
“Jeez, I think we should both put our guns down, don’t you?” Moving slowly and carefully, Peter laid his pistol down on the hood of the hatchback and held his hands out to his sides. He knew the cops would rather he threw it away from him, but he wanted to be able to snatch it up again if the guy started shooting. “C’mon, buddy. Put your gun down and let’s get some ice cream. Or coffee. Or whatever you want. A nice cold beer?” That last one sounded pretty good to Peter right now.
The shooter’s arms slowly lowered to his sides, the pistol in his right hand. His face calm now, resolute.
A distorted voice came through a police loud-hailer. “Drop the gun and step away. Get down on your knees with your hands behind your head.”
The shooter didn’t move.
