Morgan put the first shot through the Range Rover’s windshield, saw it hit, and then the passenger door was open, DeWayne moving fast. Morgan steadied the Beretta with both hands, tracked him, fired three times. The first shot blew out the door window, the second went high, and the third caught him in the hip, spun him but didn’t drop him. Morgan heard him grunt in pain, and then he was away from the Range Rover and gone in the fog.
Morgan moved out of the headlights, put two shots through the grille, steam hissing out. The engine coughed and died. He looked into the fog-shrouded woods, waiting for DeWayne to show himself. Then the Range Rover’s left rear door opened, and someone spilled out. He swiveled to take aim, saw it was the woman deputy. She hit the ground and came up fast, using the door for cover, a gun in her hand.
He backed away into the fog.
Sara moved to the rear of the Range Rover, trying to get it between her and whoever else was out there. It had come to rest at an angle, front tires in the right lane, rear still on the shoulder. She crouched, listening. To her right, where DeWayne had gone, a solid wall of fog, the phantom shapes of trees. She heard something move there, a dragging footstep.
She raised up, but the tint on the rear windows was too dark to see through. To see ahead she’d have to look around the corner of the Range Rover, expose herself. She thought of her cell phone, left on the Blazer’s dashboard. How stupid was that?
More noises from the trees. She’d heard DeWayne cry out, guessed he was hit, but had no idea how bad. The driver had taken a head shot. He was out of the play. But where was the other shooter?
Stay calm. Watch, listen, and think. Survive this.
“Yo, Morgan,” DeWayne called. “You hear me, man?”
The voice off to her right, hard to tell how far. Then more dragging footsteps, closer to the Range Rover. He was being smart, moving away from where he’d called out.
No answer from the fog.
“Cops be here any minute,” DeWayne said. “It don’t have to play out like this. Just be on your way.” More movement.
She gripped the Glock with both hands, looked around the left rear corner, saw the taillights ahead in the fog. The shooter’s car. She pulled back.
You’ve got cover. Stay there. Don’t take any chances. Think about Danny.
A slight thump against the right side of the Range Rover. DeWayne using it for cover.
No sound. The fog seemed to close in around her.
“Yo, Morgan, we know where the money at, man. Let’s talk this out.”
If DeWayne was moving toward the back of the Range Rover, he’d find her. Or worse, she’d end up in the field of fire between him and the other shooter, wherever he was.
“Police!” she called out. “Drop your weapons! Both of you!”
Silence.
“Sheriff’s Office! Units are on their way. Put your weapons down.”
A faint sound to her left. DeWayne’s breathing, low but labored. Closer now, maybe four feet away. She could wait for him to find her, or she could swing around, get her weapon on him, hope she was faster.
She thought of Danny, sleeping soundly, trusting her to be there when he woke up. To tell him everything was okay.
The breathing inched closer. She gripped the Glock tighter, finger on the trigger. Now was the time.
Danny, forgive me.
She turned the corner, gun out, arms extended, yelled, “Police!” and DeWayne was right there, closer than she’d thought, and he caught the barrel of the Glock and wrenched it to the side, his own gun at her face. She threw herself to the left, saw the muzzle flash, felt the heat, knew he’d missed. He hammered a shoulder into her, his weight behind it, and as she hit the side of the Range Rover he twisted the Glock out of her hands. She lunged for it, missed, caught a knee that knocked her back onto the blacktop.
He stepped back, tossed the Glock away, pointed his gun down at her. She saw his finger tighten on the trigger, heard the crack of the shot and then pink mist filled the air. He fell away from her, onto his side, and lay still.
A figure came out of the fog behind him. A tall black man, gray hair, wearing a dark windbreaker, pointing an automatic at her.
She rolled onto her knees, struggling to breathe. She saw where the Glock lay a few feet away on the shoulder, knew she’d never reach it.
“I’m a sheriff’s deputy,” she said.
“I know.”
She looked up at him. Got one foot under her, then another. She rose shakily, her back to the Range Rover, breathing heavy. If he was going to shoot her, he’d have to do it like this, standing. Not on her knees.
The muzzle of the gun followed her up, steadied, maybe three feet from her forehead. Gloved finger on the trigger.
Danny.
“I don’t have the money,” she said. Her chest rose and fell.
“I know.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“Doesn’t matter now.”
She closed her eyes, wondered if she’d hear the shot.
“I have a little boy,” she said.
“I know.”
She looked at him then, met his eyes.
He lowered the gun.
As she watched, he stepped back, picked up her Glock, and tossed it into the woods. He looked at her for a moment, then turned and walked away into the fog.
She knelt by DeWayne, trying not to look at what was left of his face. Felt beneath him until her fingers touched metal. With a heave, she rolled him off the chromed automatic, picked it up, slick with his blood. She worked the slide to make sure a round was chambered, moved fast to the front of the Range Rover. The man was only a silhouette in the fog now, walking toward his car. She aimed.
“Stop right there!”
He did.
“Turn around slow and drop your weapon.”
He didn’t move.
“You going to shoot me in the back?” he said.
The gun was unsteady in her hands. She tightened her grip, set the front sight on him. “Just put your weapon down.”
After a moment, he said, “I didn’t think so,” and walked on, the fog closing in around him.
She watched him go, her finger slackening on the trigger.
Whoever he is, he just saved your life.
She heard a car door shut, the hiss of tires. Watched the glow of the taillights fade.
She listened until she couldn’t hear anything else, then lowered the gun. She stood alone in the fog and silence.
Morgan kept it to thirty-five on the drive back to the motel, watching the rearview, the still-warm Beretta on his lap.
He doubted she’d gotten a good look at the car or plates. DeWayne had used his name, but it wouldn’t do her much good. One more day here and he was gone.
He’d get the money from Flynn, do whatever it took to make that happen. But he couldn’t go back to Newark now. He’d call Cassandra from someplace safe, have her and the boy meet him. He’d have to find a way to get to the bank, empty his safe deposit. Then head west maybe, keep driving.
He thought about the woman deputy. Remembered her carrying her little boy in the park, hitched up on her shoulders. Tonight she’d gone head-to-head with DeWayne rather than run and hide in the fog. Had stood and looked Morgan in the eye as he held the Beretta on her, his finger on the trigger. He’d seen the fear there, but something else beyond it. Something that was stronger.
The fog was starting to break up, the road clearing in his headlights. He turned the stereo back on, pushed the tape in. Sam Cooke wishing someone would come and ease his troublin’ mind.
One more day and gone.
TWENTY-FIVE
Four A.M., and the Sheriff’s Office was abuzz. Off-duty deputies had shown up as the news got out. Sara sat slumped in the chair facing the sheriff’s desk, her right ear still echoing with the shot DeWayne had fired. She ached all over, and the adrenaline aftershock was starting to fade, a stonelike fatigue taking its place.