Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3) by J. Mark Bertrand Page B

calm, storing every detail away in my head. Not the sound of a trigger pull, not the explosion, the stench of blood, the darkness, the death and the nothing.
    Live to fight another day. Live to fight another—
    “Keep your hands on the wall. Don’t try to follow us.”
    I hear them backing into the hallway.
    “Leave my guns,” I say.
    “Yeah, right. You’re keeping your life. Be content with that.”
    Footsteps in the hall. I turn my head. They’re gone. With effort I take my hands from the wall. The front door of the office slams shut.
    I let out a breath. I crouch down, hands on knees. Gotta get myself under control. Gotta do something. I stare at the carpet between my shoes. The pant leg rucked up over my empty holster.
    The switch flips. I go cold.
    I poke my head into the hallway to be sure it’s clear. Then I race into the next office to the open gun safe. I torque the banana mag out of the Krinkov and grab a box of ammo. I start jamming rounds past the mag’s sharp metal lips. My hands are scraped, torn, but I keep loading. When the box is empty, I fit the mag into the little AK and pull the charging handle. The folding stock is already in place.
    Running now, confident, invincible, with the assault rifle’s butt in the pocket of my shoulder, I push through the office door, scanning left and right with the muzzle. They’re already downstairs, disappearing into the corridor at the end of the atrium.
    Adrenaline pumps through me, dispelling all pain. I glide ahead, descending the stairs in twos, sprinting past the fountain and into the corridor, with no thought but catching up to them, no thought but making them stop.
    I reach the entry. I can see the parking lot outside. The bright sun.
    Gunshots ring out.
    I throw myself into a crouch, slamming into a wall of mailboxes. But there’s no shattered glass. No one’s firing at me. I get up and take a few steps forward. Through the glass I see them outside. One of them, the muscled shotgunner, disappears behind an open car door on the far side of the lot. The one with the skull ring is just standing closer, between my own vehicle and the one next to it. His mask is hiked up over his eyebrows, his right arm extended toward the pavement.
    Outside, I advance in a crouch, my finger alongside the Krinkov’s trigger. His back is to me. Looking over the cars, I can only see his head and upper torso. As I hook around the back of my car, I see him clearly. My Kahr shines in his hand, the muzzle pointing downward. On the ground between his feet, lying in a tangle with his gun in one hand and a Five Guys bag in the other, Jerry Lorenz spits blood and glares upward at the coup de grace .
    “Police!” I scream.
    Skull Ring turns. We’re maybe four feet away from each other. I mash down on the Krinkov’s trigger.
    His gray T-shirt erupts in a pink haze, his body jerking wildly. He staggers backward, rolling, and I advance. The thump of the gunstock against my shoulder feels good and right. The man falls. The gun goes silent. It’s empty and smoking.
    A car screeches past us and I glance up in time to see the driver. Through the window I can see the outline of his unmasked face framed by a curly mane of hair.
    “March.”
    I throw the Krinkov down. Get on my knees beside Jerry.
    His chest.
    Two—no, three wounds. Thick, bright blood coming out in tidal surges, soaking his shirt. A line of blood down the side of his mouth.
    “Don’t talk,” I say.
    I put pressure on the wounds as best I can. I call for help. Trafficraces past on Westheimer, oblivious to what’s happening.
    Underneath me, Jerry’s gone pale. His eyes have an unnatural brightness. He’s going. I scream for help again, afraid to take my hands off of him, afraid he’ll slip away if I do.
    “Come on, Jerry, don’t do this. Don’t leave me. You’re gonna be okay.”
    He tilts his head and spits, trying to clear his mouth.
    “Don’t talk. You don’t have to say anything.”
    He looks up at me.