Asshole.
Only one asshole. That was my chance. Malloy thought there was only one of us.
I ran around the side of one pile, then crouched down, holding the gun in front of me. I tried to listen for footsteps, but heard nothing. Then more gunfire sounded, aimed at Curt’s hiding spot. It was a matter of seconds before he got close enough to get a good shot.
I rounded the pile, gun outstretched, and saw two boot heels pass me. Rex Malloy. He was closing in on Sheffield.
As he passed, I stepped out behind him and raised my gun to his chest level. As Malloy raised his gun to fire, I could see the side of Curt’s face. And if I could see it,
Malloy could hit it. One shot. That’s all I had.
So I pulled the trigger.
The force of the gunshot drove my hands upward, but
I didn’t stumble. Rex Malloy grunted as he fell forward, his rifle clattering to the floor as he fell. And then he lay there, still.
“Oh my God,” I said, stepping over the body. “Oh my
God. Curt? You there?”
Sheffield came out from behind the beam. “Nice shooting, Tex.”
I looked at him, then felt like I was going to vomit.
Then something stirred, and I felt something crack the side of my head.
I fell down, shook it off, and turned to see Rex Malloy standing up. There was no blood, nothing. Then I saw the hole in his vest. He rapped it once with his knuckle.
“Was a nice shot,” he said. Then as he raised the rifle toward me, a gunshot rang out and Malloy fell to one knee, blood spurting from his leg. Curt ran up to us, aimed at Malloy’s head, but the man struck out lightning quick and knocked the gun from Curt’s hand. Then he punched Curt in the throat.
Sheffield, wheezing, tried to catch his breath, but
Malloy was on top of him. He wrapped his hands around
Curt’s throat and began to squeeze. My head throbbing,
I picked up Malloy’s dropped rifle, ran over, and drilled the butt into Malloy’s head. He went down, but was simply shaken.
As he tried to get up, Curt stomped on Malloy’s hand, a sickening crunch as his fingers broke. Malloy cried out.
Curt placed his knee on Malloy’s left shoulder, pinning him. I ran over and grabbed his other arm, trying to neutralize the man’s strength. Then Curt reached over and grabbed a handful of the black gravel and shoved it into
Malloy’s throat.
The former Special Forces operative hacked and coughed, but Curt drove him backward with a vicious head butt, and I could hear Malloy swallow the rocks.
Then Curt raised his fist and brought it right onto Malloy’s windpipe. Once, twice, until there was another sickening crack as his windpipe broke.
Malloy tried to claw at his throat, but we held him fast. Finally the man stopped struggling, his eyes glazing over. Curt felt the man’s pulse, looked at me, nodded. We were both breathing hard, and the side of my head felt wet.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said.
“Good plan. Come on.”
We ran back to the stairwell and up one flight, bursting through the door into the late-morning sun. The sudden glare caused us to cover our eyes, but when we opened them we saw a phalanx of cops outside the warehouse, guns trained on us.
“Don’t shoot!” a voice yelled. “He’s a cop!”
“And he’s a reporter!” yelled another.
Jack. I laughed, never happier to hear the old man’s voice.
Three cops ran over to us, guns trained, and led us back to the group. We were dirty, bleeding, but didn’t feel any of it.
The shooting had stopped. All guns were still trained on the warehouse, but the area had gone silent. The calm after the storm.
Then I felt a pair of arms squeezing me to death, and
I looked up to see Jack O’Donnell.
“Jesus Christ, kid, what are you, a method journalist?
You don’t need to kill yourself to get the story.”
I laughed, hugged the man right back. “You followed us,” I said.
“Damn right. I have to admit it was a little selfish.
Didn’t want you and your cop buddy learning the truth without me.”
A man came over to us. He said, “Louis Carruthers,
Chief of Department. Who’s left in there?”
“I don’t know. At least three are dead. Leonard Reeves, another gunman and Rex Malloy.”
“We’ve taken out another three, but we don’t know how many there were to begin with. Are there any other innocents? Do we need to go back in?”
“Back in? Why would you do that?”
“Look,” Jack said.
I turned around to see orange flames licking at the windows of the warehouse, thick black smoke pouring from inside.
“How’d it catch on fire?” I said.
“Don’t know,” Carruthers said. “But that smoke isn’t from fire.”
“The Darkness,” I said. “Somebody’s burning the place down from inside.”
Before I could speak again, I heard a single gunshot report. Then there was something wet and sticky on my chest. Then I looked into Jack’s eyes and knew what had just happened.
“Henry,” Jack said, “what…”
Then the old man was flung backward, a red rose blooming on his white shirt.
“Jack?” I said.
He looked at me as he fell, his eyes wide and fearful.
Then another gunshot sounded out, this one hitting the adjacent car, less than six inches from where I stood. We ducked for cover, waiting for the firing to end. I stared at
Jack, then quickly looked up to see who was shooting at us.
Eve Ramos was standing at the doorway, gun out, her face covered in blood and ash.
And then a barrage of gunfire like I’d never imagined tore the air apart, ripping Ramos apart in a hail of bullets and blood. Her body was flung through the air like a puppet, her gun firing wildly into the air, before she fell, lifeless, next to the burning building that housed her life’s work.
I knelt down next to Jack, a knot in my throat as I hovered over him. A thin trickle of blood was streaming from his mouth.
“We need an ambulance!” I shouted as loud as I could.
“Somebody help us!”
Two cops ran over, one of them carrying an orange kit.
He placed it beside Jack, opening it, and began to work on my friend. My mentor. The man who was responsible for the person I’d become.
“You’re gonna be fine, Jack,” I said, holding his hand, praying for one squeeze.
Jack’s eyes were open, and to my surprise he was actually smiling. That’s when I felt that squeeze, the old, cracked palm in mine. The blood on my shirt from a man who’d lived a life that had seen more than I could ever hope to.
“It’s okay, Henry,” he said, his voice weak, raspy. “I’ve told my story.”
“No,” I said, tears welling, as I squeezed his hand harder. “You can’t. This is our story. You and me.”
Jack smiled. Then he said, “I know. Butch and Sundance, Henry. Thank you for saving my life.”
Then Jack O’Donnell closed his eyes for the last time.
Epilogue
Amanda held my hand through the entire funeral. I didn’t cry once, and when the service was over, when the church had emptied, I hated myself for that. But then I realized that Jack had ended his life the way he wanted to, chasing that one big story, his name once again where it belonged. His final story.
Through the Darkness Comes the Dawn by Jack O’Donnell and Henry Parker
Rex Malloy was dead. Eve Ramos was dead. Sevag
Makhoulian was found less than an hour after Jack’s death, hiding in a gas station in Queens. He was under indictment for enough crimes to keep him in prison until the rapture.
No less than a dozen people, ranging from accountants who handled the 718 assets to the mayor himself, were under investigation. And I had no doubt that what they would find would end perhaps the largest drug conspiracy the city had ever seen.
And by investigators’ estimates, nearly ten tons worth of narcotics had gone up in flames in that warehouse.