Outside, people scattered in opposite directions; one woman was bleeding. A lull in Little Kale’s barrage gave Hannah a chance to return the love. She went prone and leaned out of the shop, searching for a clean shot. She found it and returned fire, but Little Kale exposed little of his body other than his head and shooting arm. Her first shot grazed his arm, but the other missed.
Little Kale’s muzzle flashed again, and her whole world went black.
39
Ruby’s tattooed duo spotted Chris following them, pulled out their guns, and pointed them sideways at him, gangster style. He already had his pistol out and dropped the first Tattoo. The other continued to fire rapidly, making a lot of noise and hitting nothing but some clothes and a mannequin. Chris laid him out next to his homey.
Ruby ducked out of sight, so Chris had to peek around the corner to see her. She groped on the ground for one of her men’s pistols. “Freeze!” Chris yelled, but it made no difference. Ruby picked up one of the pistols. Chris fired at her but missed and hit the tattooed body lying in front of her. Tattoo cried out in pain. The woman sent her first bullet Chris’s way, and it grazed the side of his head. He tapped one between her eyes before she got off a second shot. All three of them lay motionless.
A pudgy clerk lay on the ground nearby, shaking. She stared at him like he was an alien that had just beamed down from a UFO. The woman gestured, pointing to her ear and then the floor next to Chris. At first, he didn’t understand, but after searching the area where she pointed, he noticed his prosthetic ear on the floor. Ruby’s shot must’ve knocked it off. He picked it up and examined it. Other than a little dirt, it seemed fine. He brushed it off before putting it back on his head. The magnet in his ear affixed firmly to the metal plate in his head. The clerk stared as if he were beaming back up to his UFO.
A commotion above the commotion arose in the mall behind him. He was so absorbed in his own gunfight that he’d totally lost track of everything else.
Hannah.
He rushed out of Bloomingdale’s and into the main area of the mall. He followed the noise, trying to locate the source. It was coming from the second floor rather than the first. Hannah was probably in the thick of it with Little Kale and Cool Tango.
Please be okay.
He could backtrack into Bloomingdale’s and take the escalator up, losing time and distance. Or he could race ahead to Macy’s and block any chance of Little Kale’s escape — catching the terrorist between Hannah’s gun and his.
What goes up must come down.
He tore through the mall. Frightened people crammed into shops, many on their cell phones, giving him a clear path. When he reached the food court, he hung a left and kept running until he got to Macy’s. Frightened shoppers gawked at him. Frantically, he scanned the area for an escalator until he spotted it. He found it, also noting an elevator and three exits to the parking lot.
It was also possible Little Kale wouldn’t exit Macy’s at all. If I were Little Kale, I’d exit one of the other shops in case someone like me was waiting to spring an ambush.
Chris holstered his pistol and exited the mall with a mob of shoppers pushing each other, desperate to get away. Cars almost collided as they hurried out of the parking lot. Though sirens squalled in the distance, the police and other emergency responders hadn’t appeared yet. He ran to the middle of the parking lot, stood behind a parked truck, and turned around to observe the mall exits and his surroundings. No one suspicious left the mall.
But someone approached from the parking lot to the northwest — Little Kale — fifty meters away. Chris kept a low profile, but a shiny black Mercedes pulled out from the parking lot where he stood and rolled in Little Kale’s direction. It may have been a coincidence, but if it wasn’t, he was already too late to catch up. He sprinted through the parking lot to reach Little Kale before he rendezvoused with the vehicle, but Little Kale spotted Chris and walked faster. Then he broke from a hurry into a run.
Chris pumped his thighs harder and harder, sucking in quick shots of oxygen. Someone opened a door in Chris’s path, and he just barely dodged the obstacle. Twenty-five meters away from Chris, Little Kale neared the Mercedes. Chris drew his pistol and fired. A miss. Little Kale jumped in the back-seat of the Mercedes, and it sped away.
Chris couldn’t outrun it, of course, and the situation seemed impossible, but he didn’t lose sight of the mission, pumping his legs madly. When a truck pulled out, the Mercedes bumped into it. Little Kale’s driver tried to push the truck out of the way, but no luck. The driver shifted into reverse, speeding backward in Chris’s direction. Chris planted his feet, aimed through the back at the driver, and squeezed. Once. Twice. As the vehicle passed within a few meters of Chris, he fired one round at the driver through the passenger side, but the vehicle kept going. Tracking, Chris shot repeatedly through the front windshield at the driver, but it still didn’t slow — and it didn’t turn. It kept running in reverse, off the parking lot, across a grassy island and into the crowded intersection of International Drive and Chain Bridge Road. A semi truck hit its brakes with a hydraulic groan and rubber squeal, ramming into the passenger side of the car, knocking it into the opposite lane. A small car swerved to avoid it, but the next car behind clipped the spinning tail, finally bringing Little Kale’s vehicle to a stop.
Chris’s lungs seared as he ran toward the accident. Cars in both lanes of Chain Bridge Road came to a squealing halt as drivers pounded on their horns. When the light on International Drive turned green, the intersection was so jammed up cars couldn’t proceed. Chris ran so hard that he puked. He spit the funk out of his mouth and ran onward until he reached the intersection.
Much of the passenger side of Little Kale’s car was crushed. Chris grabbed the door behind the driver and pulled it, metal screeching, partway open, but it became stuck. He gave it some muscle, and the opening extended farther. The stink of gasoline burned his nostrils, and the floor was wet. The car dashboard and seat sandwiched the driver like a piece of sagging lunchmeat. In the back seat, Little Kale’s arm hung like it was dislocated; his legs were bent at impossible angles, one of them pinned under the seat in front of him. One side of his face was puffy and bloody. His eyes were dazed, and he breathed in shallow, rapid grunts.
Chris ignored the danger and crawled in and sat next to him.
“So,” Little Kale said slowly in Arabic, as if he were fighting off a deep sleep, “you must be … the one.”
Chris spoke in Arabic, too. “The one?”
“The one … I keep hearing about.”
“From who?” Chris asked.
“Are you afraid? Of death?” Little Kale’s voice was strained, as if each word sapped more energy out of him.
“Not too afraid,” Chris said. “Not physical death.”
“What other death is there?”
“You’ve been drinking it your whole adult life, Little Kale.”
“There’s nothing little about me.”
“You used to be big, but now you’re small.”
Little Kale’s face flushed red. “I don’t know who you are. But you’re a dead man.”
Chris reached for Little Kale’s pocket to search it. Little Kale tried to stop him, but Chris took hold of his hand and twisted it around until his wrist snapped with a horrible crack. Little Kale squawked like a wounded bird. Chris pulled a plasticuff from his pocket and secured Little Kale’s broken wrist to the dead driver’s. With another plasticuff, he tied the driver’s opposite hand to the misshapen steering wheel. Then he emptied Little Kale’s pockets: cell phone, wallet, and keys. Little Kale tried to pull his leg out from under the seat in front of him, but it was locked tight and he cried in pain. He attempted to pull his hands loose from Chris’s cuffs, but Chris punched him into submission.