“4Sale” sign in the window, or Luther’s ride, an ancient Saturn. Max chose the Saturn. It wouldn’t attract attention like Sam P.’s car would. He’d come out through the kitchen door, which opened out onto a carport with four bays separated by spindly posts. Across the carport, he heard a washing machine running inside the storage room attached on the opposite side. The Saturn was closest to the storeroom. He stood by the driver’s side, sorting keys.
That was when he heard a car engine. Loud, muscular—Corey’s Chevelle SS.
Max crouched down behind the hood of the Saturn, close to the back wall of the carport. He pulled the 9 mm from behind his back and checked it. Just in case.
The muscle car pulled into the bay closest to the kitchen door on the opposite side, engine reverberating. Max duckwalked around to the Saturn’s passenger side, keeping low. He expected Corey to get out and go into the house through the kitchen door. When Corey was inside, he’d take off in the Saturn.
Corey let the Chevelle roar one more time before shutting down. Max eased up and peered through the windows of the Saturn as Corey’s driver’s side opened.
After that, it all went to hell.
Corey must have caught sight of him through the car windows, because he whirled and stared across the roofs of the Chevelle and Saturn. For a second Max froze (his mind screaming, move-move-move!) but everything stood still, and although he had the gun leveled across the roof in a two-handed grip, he could barely feel the trigger guard. He might have yelled “Freeze!” but he wasn’t sure because his throat felt locked up and there didn’t seem to be any sound. But his finger must have moved of its own volition—he realized he’d fired over the roof of the Saturn—and everything abruptly exploded in dust and noise. With the gun’s kick, adrenaline took over, cascading down through his chest. He kept his finger on the trigger and shot half the magazine.
Corey ducked, then popped up and shot across the car so quickly that Max felt the bullet zip by his ear before he heard the sound. His reflexes were slower—it took him almost a second to get down, the sting to his ear a shock. He clapped his hand to his head. No blood. Still amazed at how quickly Corey reacted—was still reacting, because suddenly a hole blasted through the passenger window of the Saturn above him, glass flying.
Choices: get into the storeroom and close the door, crawl under the car, or shoot back through the window. He shot through the window. Indiscriminately.
Blind.
Corey screamed.
Max heard a bang and a thump.
Max didn’t wait to see if Corey was hit or faking. He was running on pure instinct now, and that instinct was screaming for him to get away. He threw himself headfirst into the storage room and scrambled behind the wood frame. And that was when his brain hit the slow-motion button. He flashed on a hot afternoon eating Sonoran hot dogs in a Tucson eatery with a cop who had worked with him on a picture, the cop saying that if you were in a firefight you looked for three things: cover, concealment, and an escape route. The flimsy plywood of the storeroom would offer no such cover, but it would conceal him.
Close enough.
He crouched by the edge of the door. The cop had also told him always to stay low when hiding. Most people emptied their weapons at the face or the upper body.
The last thing the cop had told him: shoot first, and shoot to kill. Max followed that advice, shooting at the cars, a good three or four shots. Had to resist emptying the weapon from pure adrenaline overload.
Then he got down again.
Nothing.
Nothing since the scream.
Had he killed Corey? Was Corey lying out there dead, or injured? Max remained in place. It was unbearable in here. The washing machine ground on. Wished he could stop it, wished he could listen to the silence. For the sound of movement. But with the washing machine he could hear nothing.
Wait. Tried to get
That was when he heard a car engine. Loud, muscular—Corey’s Chevelle SS.
Max crouched down behind the hood of the Saturn, close to the back wall of the carport. He pulled the 9 mm from behind his back and checked it. Just in case.
The muscle car pulled into the bay closest to the kitchen door on the opposite side, engine reverberating. Max duckwalked around to the Saturn’s passenger side, keeping low. He expected Corey to get out and go into the house through the kitchen door. When Corey was inside, he’d take off in the Saturn.
Corey let the Chevelle roar one more time before shutting down. Max eased up and peered through the windows of the Saturn as Corey’s driver’s side opened.
After that, it all went to hell.
Corey must have caught sight of him through the car windows, because he whirled and stared across the roofs of the Chevelle and Saturn. For a second Max froze (his mind screaming, move-move-move!) but everything stood still, and although he had the gun leveled across the roof in a two-handed grip, he could barely feel the trigger guard. He might have yelled “Freeze!” but he wasn’t sure because his throat felt locked up and there didn’t seem to be any sound. But his finger must have moved of its own volition—he realized he’d fired over the roof of the Saturn—and everything abruptly exploded in dust and noise. With the gun’s kick, adrenaline took over, cascading down through his chest. He kept his finger on the trigger and shot half the magazine.
Corey ducked, then popped up and shot across the car so quickly that Max felt the bullet zip by his ear before he heard the sound. His reflexes were slower—it took him almost a second to get down, the sting to his ear a shock. He clapped his hand to his head. No blood. Still amazed at how quickly Corey reacted—was still reacting, because suddenly a hole blasted through the passenger window of the Saturn above him, glass flying.
Choices: get into the storeroom and close the door, crawl under the car, or shoot back through the window. He shot through the window. Indiscriminately.
Blind.
Corey screamed.
Max heard a bang and a thump.
Max didn’t wait to see if Corey was hit or faking. He was running on pure instinct now, and that instinct was screaming for him to get away. He threw himself headfirst into the storage room and scrambled behind the wood frame. And that was when his brain hit the slow-motion button. He flashed on a hot afternoon eating Sonoran hot dogs in a Tucson eatery with a cop who had worked with him on a picture, the cop saying that if you were in a firefight you looked for three things: cover, concealment, and an escape route. The flimsy plywood of the storeroom would offer no such cover, but it would conceal him.
Close enough.
He crouched by the edge of the door. The cop had also told him always to stay low when hiding. Most people emptied their weapons at the face or the upper body.
The last thing the cop had told him: shoot first, and shoot to kill. Max followed that advice, shooting at the cars, a good three or four shots. Had to resist emptying the weapon from pure adrenaline overload.
Then he got down again.
Nothing.
Nothing since the scream.
Had he killed Corey? Was Corey lying out there dead, or injured? Max remained in place. It was unbearable in here. The washing machine ground on. Wished he could stop it, wished he could listen to the silence. For the sound of movement. But with the washing machine he could hear nothing.
Wait. Tried to get
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