And when they'd gone about thirty feet, Jason heard a distant crack. His mind classified it, medium-caliber rifle fire, single shot, and then Martinez said, "Oh."
Just that, "Oh," no scream or cry or curse, and then blood began to pulse from his neck, a thick, ropey flow, not spraying like an arterial hit but pouring fast, the top of his desert camos staining dark, no, no, Martinez, the nicest guy you'd ever meet, blood everywhere, Martinez with his hands at his throat like he could hold it back, his whole life pulsing through clenched fingers.
Christ save him, Jason's first thought was relief that it wasn't him. And the Worm had been born in his chest, filthy greasy contemptible cowardly pansy useless outsider waste that he was.
"A sniper shot one of my men," Jason said, and stared at the pattern of divots in the Formica table. Traced shapes with a rough fingertip. "I haven't talked about it with anyone since I came home, not even Michael." He scratched at his forehead, closed his eyes, able to see Martinez passing around pictures of Scarlett Johansson and claiming she was his fiancée, Martinez crying with laughter as he pummeled Jones with a chair in their X-Box wrestling game, Martinez who died before they could even get him in the Humvee, who coughed and clutched at Jason's arm and left fingerprints black and ragged. Just a boy. "I don't know why I'm telling you."
Cruz reached across the table and took his hand. The move surprised him, brought him back to the moment, to the simple pleasure of human contact, a living woman touching him. He looked up, met her eyes, watched her bite her lip like she was picking her words carefully.
Then she said, "I slept with another cop. A married one."
"What?" Confused.
"That's why no one trusts me. He was a superior, a friend, and one time things got out of hand. Just one stupid time. But after it got out, everybody figured it was how I'd earned my place in the unit." Fire in her eyes on that, angry pressure on his hand. "So now no one trusts me, no one believes I have what it takes. And no matter how hard I work or how many cases I close, I can't go back and undo it."
He didn't know what to say, just looked at her, felt her fingers warm and soft in his.
"I know it's nothing like what happened to you," Cruz said. "I'm not comparing it, my problems at work to your war. I just… I don't know, wanted to tell you something. Tell you the thing that I didn't tell other people, the way you hadn't talked about what happened in Iraq." She stopped, started again, stopped. Looked at him. "Does that make any sense?"
"Yes," Jason said. For a moment he let himself just meet her eyes and pretend that they were two normal people sharing secrets amidst the clatter of silverware and the burnt smell of coffee, like this was the morning after a date that left the world ripe with possibility. Then he sighed and took his hand from hers.
"It's time."
The street was wide and lined with trees in summer bloom. A gentle breeze set branches rustling, their shadows shifting liquid. Cars were parked along both sides, and well-dressed women with expensive hair drifted among the small shops. The fresh smell of bread rose from a bakery.
"Looks clear," Cruz said.
He nodded. "Hurry."
They moved north on the sidewalk with the fastest walk that wouldn't draw attention. A car rounded the corner from Lincoln, and Jason tensed. "I wish we had a gun."
Cruz didn't reply. Her apartment tower was born of the seventies, a plain, blocky structure with broad windows bouncing sunlight. From the lobby an elderly doorman smiled at her and touched a button on his desk, and the entry unlocked with a buzz.
"Mr. Thomas," she said. "How are you?"
"Fine, Ms. Cruz." The man nodded as they walked past. "You have a good day now."
A hallway led off the lobby to the elevator bays, four shining doors. Cruz thumbed the call button while he rocked on his heels. His shoulder itched and his neck was sore from tackling the guy last night. Behind him, he heard the buzzer sound again, but couldn't see the lobby door from this angle.
An elevator arrived with a soft ding, the doors opening as it settled. They stepped in and she hit the button for fourteen. The floor was soft carpet, and a polished brass rail ran along the back wall. Not showy, but definitely nice.
"This isn't where I'd have pictured you living." Talking to fill the silence.
"Whiter than you expected?"
"No, just more, I don't know, poodle-owning."
Cruz laughed. "It's not what my mother pictures either." The doors opened on a decorated waiting area, a side table with fake flowers and a mirror above it, like people were often choosing to hang out by the elevators instead of in their apartments. "Police have to live in the city. There's a joke, neighborhoods like Beverly and Garfield Ridge are called 'My Blue Heaven' because of the number of cops that live there. Nice enough, but it never appealed."
"Why does this?"
She shrugged. "Maybe because my mother can't picture it." They reached her apartment, a door at the end of the hallway beside the stairwell. She dug in her pocket for the keys. From down the hall came a chime, another elevator arriving at her floor. Cruz slid a key into the top deadbolt. "It's not that I'm not close to my mom, it's just that it's better when she's far away."
Jason started to reply, then it hit. Another elevator.
He spun, looked down the hall. The space was narrow and constrained, a long row of staggered doors with the elevator lounge halfway down and around a corner. Nowhere to hide.
A male voice drifted down the hallway, the sound muffled. "Which way's her place?"
"Over here."
Cruz froze, her key in the deadbolt, her eyes mirroring his panic.
He tried the door opposite hers. Locked. Glanced around.
The stairwell.
Jason pulled her after him, key ripping out of the lock. He fought the urge to throw open the door, stepped through quickly, then spun as she passed and caught the handle to ease the door closed so the spring-hinges didn't slam it.
Bright sterile light, cigarette butts and gum stains. There was a small window in the door, and Jason flattened himself along the wall, Cruz close enough he could smell her perfume. Maybe he was wrong. Could be a neighbor. Hell, could be a pizza delivery guy.
"-can't believe this shit." The gruff voice grew closer through the door.
"Don't surprise me at all. You got the key from the doorman?"
"Here." Metal tickled metal, and then the clean snapping sound of a deadbolt opening. "Ready?"
"Go."
Jason tensed, then heard a door slam open, the one to her apartment. He heard the men rush in, shouting Freeze!, their voices growing muffled by the walls of her apartment. Only cops yelled like that.
He pointed down the stairs. She nodded, moved on the ball of her feet, lithe, one step at a time but quick as an aerobics routine. He followed, wanting to glance back up at the door but not daring, knowing if the police stepped into the hallway, the gesture could give them away.
More dirty cops. Cold fingers closed on his heart.
His fingers traced the chipped metal railing. Taking three steps at a stride, more jumping than running. The sounds of their footfalls echoed up the shafts. He watched the numbers drop on the fire doors, eleven, ten, nine. His breath came harder, not the effort but the suddenness of it, dead stop to mad hustle. Six, five, four. Cruz spun around a landing, and he focused on her, watched her body move, spare and economical. On the third floor, he stopped, said her name. "Finish up slow. Can't burst out panting."