Liars & Thieves by Stephen Coonts

went into the building with both hands on the piece and the safety off.
    The stairs were at the very back of the dark hallway. As I went tiptoeing along with the pistol at the ready, I regretted not shooting the guy out front. He wasn’t on his way to the airport to take a six-month sabbatical. What if he came charging upstairs while I was in the middle of delicate negotiations? Or did a knife job on me next week? Of course, the law generally frowned on people who took it upon themselves to waste assholes; there were so many, and where would it stop?
    The stairwell had an old-building mustiness to it, a delicate aromatic mixture of stale tobacco, marijuana, and beer vomit. Willie lived in the flat on the left at the head of the stairs. There was a window at the end of the upstairs hallway that faced the street; the only light in the hall came through that glass. I seemed to recall a fixture up here, so I looked. Right at the top of the stairs, a naked bulb on the ceiling. I could just reach it.
    The bulb was loose in the fixture. Some thoughtful soul had screwed it out far enough to extinguish it. I left it that way.
    I put my ear to the door. I could hear muffled voices but couldn’t distinguish words.
    The shortest and quickest way into that apartment was through that door. If it was locked, I wasn’t going in. The door was a security door—wooden panels over steel—and wore four locks, including a new Cooper. It would take me a half hour to pick them all, and everyone inside would hear me do it.
    I got a firm grip on the gun, then grasped the doorknob and applied pressure. It refused to turn.
    The only other way in was the fire escape.
    There was no help for it—I eased down the stairs and headed for the door. Just in time I remembered the jackrabbit that had been behind the wheel. He was nowhere in sight.
    The alley was a home for garbage cans. There must have been a dozen in there.
    The bottom of the fire escape consisted of a ladder with a weight on the bottom, but it appeared to be chained up, no doubt to discourage overweight burglars. I hoped it would hold me . . . and the noise wouldn’t inspire someone in Willie’s to lean out the window and shoot my sorry old self.
    With a pistol in each hip pocket, I ran and jumped as high as I could reach. Got one hand on the rusty metal, then the other. The whole contraption creaked, but it held.
    I did a chin-up, then hooked a leg and squirmed my way up. On the next flight I came to Willie’s living room window. Gun in hand again, I inched my head around . . . and I saw Willie. They had him naked with a plastic tie on his wrist, sitting in a chair from the kitchen. They were working on him with a knife.
    How many of them were there?
    I could see two.
    White guys.
    Two deep breaths, then I squared myself in front of the window and drilled the nearer guy in the back, which drove him to the floor. My second shot spun the knife holder halfway around, so I shot him again. He was a big fucker: He stayed up, spun toward the window, released the knife, and tried to get a pistol out of a belt holster. I gave him two more bullets, the second one in the face. That one snapped his head back, and he toppled.
    I kicked out the rest of the glass and stepped through the window. A man rushing from the kitchen snapped off a shot that stung my arm. He had started running when he heard the shots and entered the room before he knew my location, which proved to be a fatal mistake. I nailed him dead center before he could shoot again. He lost his weapon and his legs folded and he somersaulted forward onto his face.
    Willie was still conscious. The sadist with the knife hadn’t gotten to his crotch yet. His girlfriend was gonna thank me someday.
    I got the little .38 out, and with a pistol in each hand I checked the rest of the apartment. No one else there.
    I cut Willie loose with a kitchen knife and used a towel to clean him up some. There was blood everywhere. Then I half carried, half