the driver and pointed along the block where Mulcahy had headed. âSaid he was gettinâ ice.â
He had a gun in his hand, an unsilenced Glock. It was a three-man team after all.
Mulcahy resighted on Carlosâs chest just as his eyes swung around and spotted him. The Glock rose fast but not fast enough. Mulcahy squeezed off two rounds and Carlos twitched twice and spiraled to the ground.
The driver spun around, swinging the long barrel of his pistol to where the shots had come from. Mulcahy hit him with two shots in the chest that knocked him backward into the room, leaving him half in and half out of the door.
Mulcahy was already moving forward, firing as he went, spreading his shots left, right, level and low, hoping to clip Tyson with at least one of them, or keep him pinned down until he was in the room. He passed through the doorway, stepping over the driver, and opened his eyes wide to adjust for the dark interior.
Javier was lying dead in the far corner, a smear of blood on thewall behind him. No sign of Tyson. Mulcahy dropped down to the side, behind the bed, making use of its limited cover. He kept his gun and eyes on the bathroom door.
The TV cast a flickering light into the dark of the room and the modulated tones of the news report filled the silence. Mulcahy listened through it for breathing, or the snick of a gun being reloaded. He thought about shooting out the TV so he could hear better but he had already used ten rounds and his Beretta held only eleven. He needed to reload but Tyson might know that and be waiting in the bathroom, listening out for the snick of a magazine release, ready to capitalize on the few seconds Mulcahy would be unarmed.
He glanced at the two men sprawled in the doorway: Carlos on his back, his eyes open and staring up at the water-stained ceiling; the driver lying across him, legs sticking out the door where anyone could see them. He needed to get him inside and out of sight but wouldnât risk it until Tyson was dealt with. He reached for the spare magazine and switched his attention back to the far end of the room.
There was no blood around the bathroom door or on the white tiles of the kitchenette, and if heâd clipped him there should be. He would expect to hear something too, the labored breathing of someone fighting pain and going into shock. There was always the chance he had killed him outright and the impact had spun him into the bathroom, but he didnât believe in luck and he knew better than to rely on it. Heâd seen too many people lying dead with looks of surprise on their faces.
He held the spare magazine up in front of him and sighted on a spot by the bathroom door, four feet up and a foot away from the wall. He took a deep breath to steady his breathing, blew it out slowly, then moved his thumb across to the magazine release button and pressed it.
The magazine slid cleanly out with a distinctive snicking sound,a blur of movement appeared in his sights, and Mulcahy fired his last bullet. He dropped down, rolled onto his side, jammed the fresh magazine into the empty slot then flicked the safety off and peered through the gap between the base of the bed and the floor. Through the twisted condom wrappers and dust bunnies he could make out a dark shape over by the bathroom door, dragging itself across the floor toward a gun lying on the tiles a few feet away.
Mulcahy sprang up, swinging the Beretta around as he cleared the top of the mattress. He fired two rounds. The first caught Tyson between his shoulders in a puff of white padding and pink mist. The second hit him in the back of the head and sent a small section of his skull spinning across the tile to the far wall. Mulcahy waited until it stopped spinning then moved to the center of the room. He grabbed the remote from the bed and muted the sound on the TV so he could hear sirens or anything else heading his way. He tossed his gun on the bed and hauled Carlos inside first, dumping
He had a gun in his hand, an unsilenced Glock. It was a three-man team after all.
Mulcahy resighted on Carlosâs chest just as his eyes swung around and spotted him. The Glock rose fast but not fast enough. Mulcahy squeezed off two rounds and Carlos twitched twice and spiraled to the ground.
The driver spun around, swinging the long barrel of his pistol to where the shots had come from. Mulcahy hit him with two shots in the chest that knocked him backward into the room, leaving him half in and half out of the door.
Mulcahy was already moving forward, firing as he went, spreading his shots left, right, level and low, hoping to clip Tyson with at least one of them, or keep him pinned down until he was in the room. He passed through the doorway, stepping over the driver, and opened his eyes wide to adjust for the dark interior.
Javier was lying dead in the far corner, a smear of blood on thewall behind him. No sign of Tyson. Mulcahy dropped down to the side, behind the bed, making use of its limited cover. He kept his gun and eyes on the bathroom door.
The TV cast a flickering light into the dark of the room and the modulated tones of the news report filled the silence. Mulcahy listened through it for breathing, or the snick of a gun being reloaded. He thought about shooting out the TV so he could hear better but he had already used ten rounds and his Beretta held only eleven. He needed to reload but Tyson might know that and be waiting in the bathroom, listening out for the snick of a magazine release, ready to capitalize on the few seconds Mulcahy would be unarmed.
He glanced at the two men sprawled in the doorway: Carlos on his back, his eyes open and staring up at the water-stained ceiling; the driver lying across him, legs sticking out the door where anyone could see them. He needed to get him inside and out of sight but wouldnât risk it until Tyson was dealt with. He reached for the spare magazine and switched his attention back to the far end of the room.
There was no blood around the bathroom door or on the white tiles of the kitchenette, and if heâd clipped him there should be. He would expect to hear something too, the labored breathing of someone fighting pain and going into shock. There was always the chance he had killed him outright and the impact had spun him into the bathroom, but he didnât believe in luck and he knew better than to rely on it. Heâd seen too many people lying dead with looks of surprise on their faces.
He held the spare magazine up in front of him and sighted on a spot by the bathroom door, four feet up and a foot away from the wall. He took a deep breath to steady his breathing, blew it out slowly, then moved his thumb across to the magazine release button and pressed it.
The magazine slid cleanly out with a distinctive snicking sound,a blur of movement appeared in his sights, and Mulcahy fired his last bullet. He dropped down, rolled onto his side, jammed the fresh magazine into the empty slot then flicked the safety off and peered through the gap between the base of the bed and the floor. Through the twisted condom wrappers and dust bunnies he could make out a dark shape over by the bathroom door, dragging itself across the floor toward a gun lying on the tiles a few feet away.
Mulcahy sprang up, swinging the Beretta around as he cleared the top of the mattress. He fired two rounds. The first caught Tyson between his shoulders in a puff of white padding and pink mist. The second hit him in the back of the head and sent a small section of his skull spinning across the tile to the far wall. Mulcahy waited until it stopped spinning then moved to the center of the room. He grabbed the remote from the bed and muted the sound on the TV so he could hear sirens or anything else heading his way. He tossed his gun on the bed and hauled Carlos inside first, dumping
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