“I can’t do this!”
“I disagree.”
He gave her a shove and she tumbled off the sill with a high-pitched yelp. But she held on, legs kicking the air, as he eased the sheet over the edge. Suddenly her weight released. He looked out the window and saw her sprawled on the ground—she’d let go a little sooner than she had to, but she waved up at him, indicating she was okay.
Jack climbed out and crouched, facing the window with his feet on the sill. He slammed the inside sash down onto the sheet, leaving the knot inside. He looked toward the front and then the back as he prepared to rappel down the wall. Spotted a man with a gun come around the rear corner. Must have heard Weezy’s yelp. When he saw her he raised his weapon. His attention was fully on Weezy and he seemed unaware of Jack. And the way he was taking his time, he must have been sure she was unarmed.
But Jack wasn’t. Freeing a hand he pulled his Glock and fired two quick shots. The second scored, dropping the guy to his knees as he grabbed his shoulder.
Jack slid the rest of the way down the wall in a controlled fall and hit the ground running, pulling Weezy toward the fallen man. He saw them coming and raised his pistol. Jack shot him in the face; his head snapped back as he slammed onto his back.
“Ohmygod!” Weezy cried and dug in her heels.
Keeping his pistol raised ahead of him, Jack virtually lifted her off her feet and yanked her around the corner into the backyard. A quick scan showed it empty, but for how long? The guys out front must have heard the shots.
He used a high-capacity magazine for his Glock 19—fifteen rounds. He’d expended four at the hospital and three more just now. Hadn’t brought a spare mag—a fire fight was the last thing he’d expected today—so that left eight in his main carry. Had eleven rounds in the little Kel-Tec P11 strapped to his ankle. Nineteen rounds should carry him through, but you never knew. Wished he’d thought to bring the Tokarev. He could go back and grab the fallen man’s pistol—probably another Tokarev—but didn’t want to risk it.
Crouching, he peeked back around the corner—no one coming their way along the south side . . . yet. But they could sneak along the north flank if they chose. Had to get Weezy out of the backyard.
The fire had reached the rear of the first floor; its light flickered through the windows. At the far end of the overgrown yard Jack made out the stockade fence. He’d seen it earlier in the day and remembered it looking old and weathered, gray wood tinged with green patches of moss. Must have been put up by Weezy’s neighbor because the posts and crosspieces faced this way.
Had to risk it.
“Follow me,” he whispered and charged the fence.
When he closed within a few feet he launched himself at it, aiming his shoulder at a centerpoint between two posts and the upper and lower crosspieces spanning them. The impact hurt like hell but the old wood gave way with a satisfying crack! Jack kicked some of the uprights free until he had a decent-size opening, then pushed Weezy through. His first instinct was to follow her but he didn’t want any pursuit.
“Find someplace to hide.”
“But what about you?”
“Be right back.”
He hurried back to the house, found a bush near the foundation, and huddled at its base. He knew the first-floor windows were ready to explode into the yard and he didn’t want to be here when they did, but he’d give the guys out front one minute. If they didn’t show by then, they probably wouldn’t show at all, and he’d join Weezy. If they did, he knew exactly what they’d do.
He rubbed his sore shoulder as he stared at the broken opening in the fence, clearly visible in the firelight from the windows. Yeah, that was where they’d go.
He began counting. He’d just passed forty-five seconds when they charged into the backyard, one to his left, one to his right, both in a running crouch. They did a quick look-see around the yard but the hole in the fence captured their attention. Both made a beeline for it.
Jack jumped up and followed, checking to see how they held their weapons. Both right-handed. That meant the one to his left would have to pivot almost ninety degrees before getting off a shot, while the one to his right could fire cross-body in a fraction of the time.
So he shot the one on the right first, then caught the one on the left in mid-turn. Both center-of-mass hits. He pumped another into each as they tumbled to the ground.
Fifteen rounds left.
As he dove through the break in the fence, the first-floor windows exploded, belching flame and smoke and bathing the backyard in fierce yellow light.
“Weezy! It’s me! Let’s go!”
She emerged from the shadows. “Ohmygod, Jack! Ohmygod!”
He wished she’d stop saying that. Lights were coming on in the surrounding houses and people were starting to lean out windows.
He turned her and propelled her ahead of him, saying, “Get to the street.”
They ran along the side of the neighboring house. When they reached the sidewalk he turned her toward Roosevelt and laid an arm across her shoulders.
“Put your arm around my back.”
She complied. “But—?”
“Pretend we’re a tipsy couple coming back from a party or something.”
She leaned against him. “But Jack, I saw you . . . you shot those two men in the back.”
“Well, that was the part of their bodies toward me.”
“But . . .”
“But what? That’s not right, that’s not fair?”
“Well, I guess.”
“You really believe you play by rules when someone’s out to kill you? Think about that, Weezy. If you lose, you’re dead. It’s not a game. There’s no reset button. No rules, no ref to toss a flag and call a foul, no ‘fair’ or ‘unfair,’ just live or die.”
“When you put it that way, I guess—”
“You guess? They firebombed your house and were waiting outside to make sure you didn’t escape. Should I have yelled ‘Hey!’ to give them a chance to turn around and get off a couple of shots?”
“No, but—”
“No buts in this situation. As a guy once told me, ‘If you find yourself in a fair fight, you didn’t plan properly.’ It’s some of the best advice I’ve ever had.”
“Okay. Let’s drop it. I feel dumb.”
“You’re not dumb. Violence gets romanticized and ritualized—boxing, football, jousting knights, whatever. But the truth is it’s ugly and nasty and comes down to survival by whatever means necessary.”
Weezy sobbed as sirens began to howl. “My house!”
Jack had wondered when the realization would hit. She’d been running for her life. Now reality was setting in. He tightened his arm around her shoulders.
“At least you made it out alive.”
“But all my papers, all my proof, everything I own in this whole world . . . it’s gone! All gone! It took me years to assemble all that hard evidence. Now it’s ash . . . smoke.”
“But you’re backed up, right?”
She nodded. “Multiple backups. But I scanned only a fraction of the collection, and I’ll never be able to reassemble it.”
“So . . . they’ve won?”
“No.” Her voice took on a hard edge. “No, they haven’t.”
“Good. Hold that anger. Nurture it.”
They walked on in silence.
Finally Weezy said, “How did they find me?”
Jack had been thinking about that and didn’t like the answer.
“The van. I think I saw it out front.”
“But you left it miles away.”
“Right. But they may have had a GPS tracker in it.”
“But why? They couldn’t know you’d take it.”
“Lots of people track their employees. GPS doodads are cheap and let you know if your man is where he’s supposed to be when he’s supposed to be there. Someone could have been tailing us from a mile back. And when we stopped at your house so I could check it out, they could have driven by and seen us. Damn. Never guessed. Sorry.”