Redemption (Amos Decker #5)(52)

“Which is why we’re not waiting. Stay behind me.”

“You don’t have to be my human shield, Decker.”

“You’re a running back, Melvin. I’m a blocker. But if he takes me out, do not let me die in vain.”

They moved down the alley, intently listening for any sound of footsteps, breathing, or, more ominously, a trigger being cocked.

Decker held up a hand. He had heard something.

“What?” hissed Mars.

Decker put a finger to his lips.

Now Mars could hear it too. Heavy breathing, like someone had been running but had stopped.

As the sirens drew closer, Decker started to pick up his pace. Mars stayed right with him. They reached a spot about midway down the alley when Decker halted once more. The spot was brightly lit by overhead lights. The sound of breathing had grown stronger.

Decker pointed his gun straight ahead and then hustled forward.

The man was lying on the asphalt, his head on top of what looked to be a rolled-up bunch of rags. Next to him was a bag full of items. He was dressed in filthy clothing. The heavy breathing that they had heard was his snoring, apparently.

“Decker,” whispered Mars. “Is that a gun?”

Lying on the ground next to the man and within reach of his outstretched hand was a rifle with a scope. Decker stepped forward and used his foot to slowly move the gun away from the man.

The next moment he was slammed against the brick wall. His face hit the rough brick and he felt several cuts opening on his face. His pistol smashed into the brick and he felt something snap. The collision had been so sudden that he felt sick to his stomach.

He turned, eyed the man still lying on the ground, dead asleep. The attack had not come from there.

“Decker!”

Decker regained his equilibrium, cleared his head, and looked back.

Mars was dodging out of the way of a knife strike, as the man who had clocked Decker moved in for the kill. He was small but wiry, and his movements were laser quick and precise.

Decker hurtled forward, and when the man turned the knife on him, he pointed his gun and fired at his leg.

Absolutely nothing happened. The impact with the wall must have damaged the weapon.

The next instant the man kicked the gun out of Decker’s hand, then drove his fist into Decker’s gut, doubling him over.

Decker staggered back at the same moment that Mars hit the man from behind so hard that he was lifted off his feet, flew forward, and slammed into the wall. He was up in an instant, though, and whirled around, the blade in his hand.

He charged after Mars and slashed him on the arm. Mars fell back and the man was about to cut him again when Decker launched forward and wrapped his big arms around the assailant, pinning his arms and the knife to his sides. Under the illumination of the lights attached to the buildings, he could see that, despite the cold, the man’s muscled forearms were exposed, and covered in tats—words and symbols.

A few seconds of struggle later, the man slammed the back of his head against Decker’s face. Blood flew out of Decker’s nose and mouth. Then the man was able to point the knife downward and jam it into Decker’s thigh. Decker cried out and released the man, who hit the ground running and soon disappeared from sight as the sirens grew closer. Decker put a hand over his leg wound.

Mars ran forward, took off his windbreaker, and wrapped it around Decker’s thigh.

Decker said, “Are you okay?”

“He didn’t get me bad. Who the hell was that guy?”

“He’s the one who shot Sally Brimmer.”

“You have any idea why?”

“The only idea I have is that he was trying to shoot me. And she just got in the way.”





Chapter 32



THE MORGUE AGAIN.

Decker had been in far too many of them.

And the electric blue light sensation was bombarding him almost like the night he had found his family. It was as if a strobe was attached to the ceiling of the room and was blasting the unsettling light into every pore of the place.

He touched his leg where underneath his pants a large butterfly bandage had been applied. The emergency room doctor had told him he’d been lucky. Another couple inches to the left and his femoral artery would have been nicked. And he might have bled out right there in that alley.

He next touched his face, which was covered in Band-Aids and bandages. He was stiff and sore and felt like he’d just played in an NFL game. Mars was next to him, his injured arm in a sling. But at least they were still alive. Lying in front of them was Sally Brimmer’s pale body with a sheet pulled up to her neck.

The homeless man in the alley had turned out to be what he looked like—homeless. And strung out on so much crap that it had taken the EMTs an hour to wake him up. The gun had no usable prints, and Decker knew why. The shooter had been wearing gloves. He had probably flung the murder weapon next to the homeless man to simply get rid of it. He had attacked Decker and Mars because they had gotten to him before he reached the other end of the alley. Lying in wait, he had tried to add two more lives to the one he’d already taken. Unfortunately, he had managed to elude the police and get away.

The ME was in the room, washing a few of his instruments in the sink. There was only one overhead fluorescent light on, throwing the room into shadows and making an already disconcerting sensation worse.