Into the Fire(58)



Roughly a half second had elapsed since he’d un-assed from the platform.

He took an instant for the pavement to stop spinning from the sudden exertion. The headache expanded, a pressure at the temples.

Finish it, he thought. Then you can rest all you want.

Despite the steel shanks, warmth rose through the soles of his Original S.W.A.T.s. His hands gleamed white from the latex gloves he’d worn beneath the aviators.

As part of his prep, he’d sliced and restitched his sand-tan combat shirt and cargo pants to make them tearaway, and he ripped them off now, a quick snap of his fists that left the fabric pooled on the ground. Beneath he wore a gray V-neck and jeans.

No passersby. No rubberneckers in the cars drifting past. The few people across the street remained distracted by the commotion over at the Three Monkeys Café.

Evan dug a Baggie out of the front pocket of his jeans. A wad of moist baby wipes waited inside. He freed a few and swiped at his face, brisk scrubs that cleared the cammy paint.

As he stepped off the curb, crossing the street to the restaurant, he looked like an ordinary pedestrian. His gait was unsteady, so he took great care to even it out.

He entered the side door to the kitchen. After the gunfire it had been abandoned hastily. Plates of lavash basked on the counters beneath heating lamps. Pans remained on the burners, hissing garlic steam. A pot boiled over, sizzling on orange coils. He felt the glare of the overheads in his spinal cord.

As Evan passed through, he turned the oven knobs off.

He emerged onto the main floor. Chairs knocked over, tables shoved clear, a high heel on its side.

Through the French doors, he could see the heap of bodies he’d left. The remains of Petro’s men.

Evan unholstered his ARES and stepped into the courtyard. The air felt humid, trapped sweat and spilled blood heated by the midday sun. The nausea swelled. His stomach thought about lurching, but he did not allow it.

Petro faced away, still clawing at the flagstones, trying to pull himself out from beneath the last of his fallen bodyguards. Given the destruction of his right arm, he was making little headway. One of his buffed fingernails had snapped off and lay shimmering on the ground, an ivory curl.

He was moaning repetitively. A fine mist of blood speckled the side of that glorious silver hair.

In Terzian the Terror, Max had thought he was facing one problem. It had led to a second problem in Petro.

Soon there would be no problems.

Evan was close enough now to offset the effects of the concussion. He raised the 1911, thumbed off the safety.

At the click Petro froze.

Then he rolled onto his side, regarding Evan over his shoulder. None of that well-cultivated confidence was on display, not anymore. Above Petro’s biceps tattered cashmere fluttered at the edges of the wound. A pair of reading glasses had spilled from his breast pocket and lay shattered on the ground beside him. The bent wire frames lent a small touch of humanity to the gruesome tableau.

At the end Petro was just a man, like so many Evan had walked past on the street or ridden next to on the subway or put in the earth.

The wail of sirens reached him now, still miles out. They both knew that help would not arrive in time.

Petro’s face trembled. “Who is Max Merriweather to you?” His voice held something more than fear. Something like outrage.

Evan said, “Someone who needed my help.”

Petro stared at him, his forehead twisted in disbelief. Spilled espresso snaked between the flagstones, joining a rivulet of crimson. The dead air smelled of dark roast and iron.

“Who are you to him?” Petro asked.

Evan said, “Nobody.”

Petro’s dark beard bristled around a wavering mouth. No words emerged.

Evan said, “But now it’s over for him.”

Petro coughed, and blood speckled his lips. He smiled a wobbly smile that put a twist in Evan’s gut.

The sirens notched up, ever louder, ever closer.

Evan sighted on his forehead.

A final round ended the mission.





31



The Whole Story





Evan found Max in the swampy backyard of the Lincoln Heights house, staring at his reflection in a brown puddle. His shoes were muddy, as were his arms up to the elbows. He held a wrench cloaked with slime.

When Evan stepped through the cracked sliding-glass door, Max started and grabbed his chest. “Jesus. Why didn’t you knock?”

“I did.”

“Oh. I guess I zoned out … I don’t know, contemplating the human condition.”

“In a mud puddle?”

He shrugged. “Where better?”

Evan frowned, conceding the point. His eyes snagged on the wrench. Max followed his gaze to the dripping tool in his hands.

“I figured there was a broken connection down there. Usually the T-joint stubbing up to a sprinkler head.”

“But there are no sprinkler heads.”

“There used to be,” Max said. “See how the ground’s mounded up there?” He pointed with the wrench, but Evan saw only mud and more mud. “So I went in and fixed it.”

“For who?”

Max shrugged again. “I figured for once it might be nice to leave a place better than it was when I got there.” He looked at his hands, the dirt now cracking across the knuckles. “I don’t have a lot of ways to say thanks anymore.”

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