Over his shoulder, Peter said, “It’s clear. Let’s go.” He held the door, then led them across the concrete walkway toward the trees, heading into the park between the baseball fields and a playground. He was glad of the girl’s boots, although he wished she had a raincoat. None of the other girls had coats, either. Fashion required sacrifice.
He turned to check on them and realized that her hoodie was already too wet. He stopped under a big pine, its lower branches offering a little shelter. “Hold on.” He shucked his Carhartt and held it out. “Put this on, it’ll keep you dry.”
Ellie gave him a look. Then turned her back and allowed him to help her put it on as though he was her date for the spring formal. It was big and heavy with water and hung almost to her knees. She wrinkled her nose. “Dude, this kinda smells.”
“Sorry.” Peter looked behind them, then left and right, and started walking again. “There’s a big dog who likes to sleep on it.”
The girl followed in his wake. “You have a dog? What kind?”
“A mutt named Mingus. He’s badly behaved, but fiercely loyal to people he likes.”
“Would he like me?”
“Depends on your attitude,” Peter said. “Just like with people.”
After a few minutes, near the middle of the park, they came to the end of the trees. Peter checked the perimeter and saw only more students trickling out into the neighborhood. He gathered KT and Ellie and pointed toward the next baseball diamond and the trees past the outfield fence. Beyond it was the sidewalk and street where he’d seenthe gray hatchback. “That’s where we’re going. Walk fast, but don’t run. We want to look like everyone else trying to get out of the weather. My truck’s on the next block. It’s green with a big wooden box on the back. Ready?”
They set out into the open along the waist-high chain-link. There was little wind, and the rain fell straight down. Small drops, close together. Peter’s T-shirt was wet under the fleece, but he was too amped up to feel the cold. He had his pistol in his hand now. The girl saw it and sucked in a breath but didn’t say anything.
They walked the fence line, Peter’s eyes scanning through the points of the compass. He saw middle-schoolers, parents with strollers, dog-walkers. He was hoping for blue and red light bars flashing, but there were still no cops. Well behind him, more cars rolled into the pickup line, but the gunman wouldn’t do that. He’d already scouted the block. Maybe he’d scouted it days ago. And now he was circling like a shark. That’s what Peter would have done.
His Chevy was a liability. With the big mahogany cargo box on the back, it was too identifiable, and nowhere near as maneuverable as her little Honda. But the heavy Detroit steel would make short work of that little gray hatchback, if it came to that.
They made it to the sidewalk and turned left and kept walking past well-maintained Craftsman-style houses packed into narrow lots with garages and alleys behind. On the other side of the street, a pair of coatless boys goofed in the rain on their way home. A luxury SUV passed, then an electric sedan. No gray hatchback. No solo pedestrians in tape-wrapped sneakers.
They came to the corner and crossed the street. They were on Third Avenue West. Ahead, he could see a couple more kids walking home, backs bent under huge book bags, then the parked pickup’s cargo box rising above the cab. Maybe they’d made it.
At the truck, he walked past the front bumper to step into the road.On the other side of the street, there was a long gap with no parked cars. He saw a woman on the far sidewalk with a double stroller and a little dog on a leash, talking on her phone. He had his door open and his foot on the sill when he heard an engine wind up high. He turned and saw a little gray car flying up the street toward him.
He felt a surge in his blood as the adrenaline hit. His vision tunneled down and he tasted copper in his mouth. The car kept coming. Was it a hatchback? Somehow he closed his door and stepped back to stand between the hood and the next car, shouting over his shoulder, “Get down, get down.”
The pistol rose in a two-handed grip, his feet apart and set. He could see it was a hatchback now. The man glaring through the windshield wasn’t wearing the mask, but he’d kept the Red Sox hat. His face was unshaven, eyes red and raw. Peter didn’t want to fire because of the woman with the baby stroller, the kids walking home, the houses across the street. You never knew where a ricochet might go. But he didn’t want to get shot, either.
The hatchback slowed, tires slurping on wet asphalt. Before Peter pulled the trigger, he needed to see the guy’s weapon coming up. He needed to know the woman with the baby stroller was out of the line of fire. The other guy would be wired on adrenaline, too. He was an amateur. His aim would be shit. Peter was betting his life on it.
Then the hatchback was there,BANG BANG BANG, the guy firing early through his side window. Peter threw up an arm to shield his eyes from the flying glass as he felt a hard blow to the sternum, like getting hit with a framing hammer. He stumbled back with the wind knocked out of him and his heart racketing in his chest, but managed to scramble around the front corner of his truck behind the shield of the engine block, hand to the armor covering his upper torso, wondering if he was dying.
THUNK THUNK. THUNK THUNK THUNK. The sound ofrounds penetrating sheet metal. Now Peter was pissed. Totally not cool to shoot a man’s truck. He still had his pistol. Okay, Marine, time to take this asshole out. He looked over his shoulder and saw KT and Ellie crouched by the mahogany cargo box, staring at him, eyes wide.
“Run,” he said. They didn’t move. “Run!” he said again. They still didn’t move. Beyond them, the two coatless boys stood staring.
Through the ringing in his ears, he heard a car door close. He found his knees and got his feet under him in a crouch. He heard a clatter and peeked around the front bumper. A pair of tape-wrapped sneakers stood in a growing pool of radiator fluid beside a spent pistol magazine. Then came the hard clack of the new magazine being socketed in place. And under it all, a woman screaming from across the street. The double stroller.
He turned in a crouch and scrambled toward Ellie and KT, shoving his pistol into his waistband and grabbing an arm in each big hand and pulling them upright and away. Down the sidewalk he ran, towing them behind him, his instincts screaming to pull his pistol, to turn and fire, but he didn’t. He’d caused enough collateral damage in his military career, he wasn’t about to open fire after school in a family neighborhood.
“Hey, buddy!” a cracked voice called out behind him. “Who’s the little bitch now?”
Peter didn’t slow or look back. Ellie and KT were moving under their own power now. He pulled them to the right between two parked cars and across the street, angling to keep the truck between them and the shooter’s line of sight. The woman with the stroller had stopped screaming and was crouched low beside a blue Tesla with her children in her arms. The houses on this side were up on a low hill, their front walks beginning with a short flight of concrete steps. He picked one with a lot of tall plantings that would help hide their movement. “Up there,” he said. “Go go go.”
These houses all had narrow side yards with a path to the back and the garage and the alley beyond. The shooter would likely see where they were going, but if Peter could get them far enough ahead of the guy, they’d have options. He could find a place to wait, then step out and put him down without endangering any innocent people.
Although he probably shouldn’t kill the guy, Peter thought. Because he wanted to ask some questions. But he might not have a choice.
6
The house was pale blue with white trim and a big front porch. On both sides were low gates, one cedar and one chain-link. Peter chose the cedar, knowing he could kick it open if it was padlocked, but it wasn’t even latched. “This way.”
Down on the street, he heard shouting, a man’s voice coming closer. KT was slowing. He pushed her ahead of him, hoping Ellie would help keep her mother moving, then slipped through the gate, closed and latched it, and followed after them, looking over his shoulder. Under the armor, his chest hurt like hell every time he breathed, but it was a lot better than the alternative.
