was clean-shaven, and he wore a bright orange Under Armour sleeveless T-shirt.
The Beretta’s sights were lined up on the shirt’s insignia, and as Vincenzo’s finger found the trigger. Holy fuck. I’ve got to shoot this guy.
Something sharp and loud roared, and people screamed. For a second, Vincenzo thought he’d fired, but the 92 was still locked on target. He hadn’t pulled the trigger. The man he had drawn on ducked and looked over his shoulder, his small pistol drifting to one side.
Vincenzo held the pistol on him regardless.
Shoot him shoot him shoot him—
An ATV roared through the crowd, followed by two more. Three or four dirt bikes blazed behind them, staying in a single file formation as they let the bigger ATVs open a path through the throng. All the riders were crouched low on their bikes, running full out. As the first ATV barreled toward them, Bobby and Mark grabbed the stroller and shoved it out of the way, right into Vincenzo, knocking his pistol off target. It didn’t matter. The thugs had spun toward the oncoming machines. The rider in the lead was bleeding from a deep gash in his right arm, and crimson droplets had splattered across his jeans.
“Get the rides!” the big black man shouted, pulling a pistol from his pants pocket. He opened up on the first ATV, holding the weapon sideways like those thugs in movies from the early ’90s. That ridiculous stance that might have looked cool, but it didn’t do shit for accuracy. Even though the rider took a hit, jerking sideways on his ATV, people on the other side fell too as bullets tore through them. The rest of the crew opened up, hammering the riders as they rolled up on them.
“Move!” Ken shouted as Carla screamed, running after her kids. “ Move !”
Carla lurched into Vincenzo, and he lost his balance and fell. He managed to keep a hold on his pistol as people surged toward him, howling in panic. One of the ATVs banked away at almost forty miles an hour and plowed right through the crowd, its rider barely hanging on and jerking as bullets slapped into him. Vincenzo heard Ken calling his name, and he struggled to his feet just as the first wave of panic-stricken New Yorkers rolled into him like some unstoppable tide, carrying him away as he fought to find his footing. Plastic bottles and discarded bags crunched beneath his heavy boots. From the corner of his eye, he saw the big black man still hammering at the riders, hooting and hollering, consumed by some primal urge to kill and destroy, to use the power of his gun to its utmost. He wished Ken had just killed the guy when he had the chance, wished he had done it himself.
Then, one of the cops went down.
“Shit’s gonna get real.” He pushed off the people around him, trying to make it past the brewing shit storm before he was completely caught up in it, but it was too late.
The NYPD opened up, and unlike the hoods fleeing Harlem, they knew how to do it. The big black man danced and spun like a marionette being manipulated by a drunken puppet master as pistol rounds tore through him. His arms flapped as if he could somehow take flight. But the bullets didn’t stop there. A woman immediately to Vincenzo’s right went down as the left side of her skull exploded. She died without a scream, and for an instant, Vincenzo’s legs were caught up in hers. He stumbled and almost fell again, but he managed to grab onto a man in front of him and used his shoulders to stay on his feet. The man twisted and spun, lashing out at him, but he missed by a mile.
Vincenzo still had the Berretta in his right hand, finger inside the trigger guard. He indexed the weapon immediately as he had been taught in his old firearms class, suddenly mindful of the press of sweating humanity around him. He spotted Ken and his family—they were all alive—and the cop-turned-lawyer met his eyes. Ken called Vincenzo’s name and waved him over, but the current of the mob carried Vincenzo toward the tall cement
The Beretta’s sights were lined up on the shirt’s insignia, and as Vincenzo’s finger found the trigger. Holy fuck. I’ve got to shoot this guy.
Something sharp and loud roared, and people screamed. For a second, Vincenzo thought he’d fired, but the 92 was still locked on target. He hadn’t pulled the trigger. The man he had drawn on ducked and looked over his shoulder, his small pistol drifting to one side.
Vincenzo held the pistol on him regardless.
Shoot him shoot him shoot him—
An ATV roared through the crowd, followed by two more. Three or four dirt bikes blazed behind them, staying in a single file formation as they let the bigger ATVs open a path through the throng. All the riders were crouched low on their bikes, running full out. As the first ATV barreled toward them, Bobby and Mark grabbed the stroller and shoved it out of the way, right into Vincenzo, knocking his pistol off target. It didn’t matter. The thugs had spun toward the oncoming machines. The rider in the lead was bleeding from a deep gash in his right arm, and crimson droplets had splattered across his jeans.
“Get the rides!” the big black man shouted, pulling a pistol from his pants pocket. He opened up on the first ATV, holding the weapon sideways like those thugs in movies from the early ’90s. That ridiculous stance that might have looked cool, but it didn’t do shit for accuracy. Even though the rider took a hit, jerking sideways on his ATV, people on the other side fell too as bullets tore through them. The rest of the crew opened up, hammering the riders as they rolled up on them.
“Move!” Ken shouted as Carla screamed, running after her kids. “ Move !”
Carla lurched into Vincenzo, and he lost his balance and fell. He managed to keep a hold on his pistol as people surged toward him, howling in panic. One of the ATVs banked away at almost forty miles an hour and plowed right through the crowd, its rider barely hanging on and jerking as bullets slapped into him. Vincenzo heard Ken calling his name, and he struggled to his feet just as the first wave of panic-stricken New Yorkers rolled into him like some unstoppable tide, carrying him away as he fought to find his footing. Plastic bottles and discarded bags crunched beneath his heavy boots. From the corner of his eye, he saw the big black man still hammering at the riders, hooting and hollering, consumed by some primal urge to kill and destroy, to use the power of his gun to its utmost. He wished Ken had just killed the guy when he had the chance, wished he had done it himself.
Then, one of the cops went down.
“Shit’s gonna get real.” He pushed off the people around him, trying to make it past the brewing shit storm before he was completely caught up in it, but it was too late.
The NYPD opened up, and unlike the hoods fleeing Harlem, they knew how to do it. The big black man danced and spun like a marionette being manipulated by a drunken puppet master as pistol rounds tore through him. His arms flapped as if he could somehow take flight. But the bullets didn’t stop there. A woman immediately to Vincenzo’s right went down as the left side of her skull exploded. She died without a scream, and for an instant, Vincenzo’s legs were caught up in hers. He stumbled and almost fell again, but he managed to grab onto a man in front of him and used his shoulders to stay on his feet. The man twisted and spun, lashing out at him, but he missed by a mile.
Vincenzo still had the Berretta in his right hand, finger inside the trigger guard. He indexed the weapon immediately as he had been taught in his old firearms class, suddenly mindful of the press of sweating humanity around him. He spotted Ken and his family—they were all alive—and the cop-turned-lawyer met his eyes. Ken called Vincenzo’s name and waved him over, but the current of the mob carried Vincenzo toward the tall cement
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