critically wounded, was no longer in command of his faculties. His shooting was dangerous and erratic; he seemed to have no special target in mind. Blood, in systolic rhythm, spurted out from a wound at the base of his neck. And when he opened his mouth, almost as if to say something, blood crested up from his throat and dribbled down his chin.
His tall black companion looked simply appalled at the way things were working out. Whatever the plans he and his dying partner had contrived, obviously didn’t include this kind of shit. He was, just like Patel and Harry, ducking, crawling along the floor, doing his utmost to save his ass, swearing up and down that should he emerge whole from this melee he would be happy to serve God, country, and the Man, in whichever order was necessary. “God help me!” he kept screaming. “Somebody help me! Don’t have to be God!”
Patel risked stretching his head out into the doorway to see if he could capture a better glimpse of the madman who refused to be shut down. He nearly got his scalp singed by a passing bullet for his trouble. Like a turtle disappointed with what it sees, he retracted his head immediately.
Harry crept way around, crossing Fifth, taking no notice of the terrified pedestrians who, having scattered at the sound of the first shot, were now peering out from doorways and windows.
It was clear that the white had another weapon, maybe a couple more to supplement the Luger. No way of telling. But he kept on firing. Weak as he was, he wouldn’t stop shooting. And with the pawnbroker out of the running, he had apparently settled on taking random potshots at the street.
Harry, taking refuge behind a parked car, rose above the hood just enough to get the crazed dying bastard in sight. Carefully aiming his .44, he fired.
The white man gave out a shriek that might have awakened the dead he was shortly to have as company, then he seemed to levitate for a moment before collapsing backward, thrown by the force of the bullet that had entered his belly and sprung out in back, taking sizable chunks of vital organs in its passage.
“Oh shit, oh fuck! This is some crazy shit!” the black was muttering, his hands over his head in a supplicant gesture, his gun tossed aside.
Patel meanwhile was having a hard time understanding what had happened, why this intense little engagement he’d had going had come to such an abrupt end.
He was unable to see Harry because Harry had gone down behind the car, uncertain that the danger was over. Nor with the darkness in the shop could he see that the dead man’s partner was ready to surrender.
When it was evident that the firing had ceased, Harry stood up again, but by that time Patel had gone charging into the pawnshop, his 9mm Browning ready to speed whomever had survived into the next world.
Harry, convinced neither of Patel’s competence nor of his sense of mercy, hastened across the street, right behind him.
Patel was under the impression no one was watching him; he figured he had a few moments to earn a medal without a witness to say that maybe he didn’t deserve it. If he wondered about who had fired the bullet that took the white out he didn’t seem to let it stop him from putting his gun to the survivor’s head.
He wanted to kill him, to prove he had achieved some kind of victory here, little realizing that it was his gun that had succeeded in killing the man he was supposed to be protecting. True, he hadn’t intended to but it would be a bit of an embarrassment for him.
“Oh man, don’t! Oh shit, man, please! My gun ain’t even loaded. Check it out.”
Patel had his finger on the trigger, in no mood for such excuses.
Harry was sure Patel would have fired if he hadn’t interrupted.
“Party’s over, Sandy.”
Patel glanced up; irritation showed in his face but he left it out of his voice.
“I should have guessed. You were the one who got him then?” He gestured towards the fallen man whose body was still
His tall black companion looked simply appalled at the way things were working out. Whatever the plans he and his dying partner had contrived, obviously didn’t include this kind of shit. He was, just like Patel and Harry, ducking, crawling along the floor, doing his utmost to save his ass, swearing up and down that should he emerge whole from this melee he would be happy to serve God, country, and the Man, in whichever order was necessary. “God help me!” he kept screaming. “Somebody help me! Don’t have to be God!”
Patel risked stretching his head out into the doorway to see if he could capture a better glimpse of the madman who refused to be shut down. He nearly got his scalp singed by a passing bullet for his trouble. Like a turtle disappointed with what it sees, he retracted his head immediately.
Harry crept way around, crossing Fifth, taking no notice of the terrified pedestrians who, having scattered at the sound of the first shot, were now peering out from doorways and windows.
It was clear that the white had another weapon, maybe a couple more to supplement the Luger. No way of telling. But he kept on firing. Weak as he was, he wouldn’t stop shooting. And with the pawnbroker out of the running, he had apparently settled on taking random potshots at the street.
Harry, taking refuge behind a parked car, rose above the hood just enough to get the crazed dying bastard in sight. Carefully aiming his .44, he fired.
The white man gave out a shriek that might have awakened the dead he was shortly to have as company, then he seemed to levitate for a moment before collapsing backward, thrown by the force of the bullet that had entered his belly and sprung out in back, taking sizable chunks of vital organs in its passage.
“Oh shit, oh fuck! This is some crazy shit!” the black was muttering, his hands over his head in a supplicant gesture, his gun tossed aside.
Patel meanwhile was having a hard time understanding what had happened, why this intense little engagement he’d had going had come to such an abrupt end.
He was unable to see Harry because Harry had gone down behind the car, uncertain that the danger was over. Nor with the darkness in the shop could he see that the dead man’s partner was ready to surrender.
When it was evident that the firing had ceased, Harry stood up again, but by that time Patel had gone charging into the pawnshop, his 9mm Browning ready to speed whomever had survived into the next world.
Harry, convinced neither of Patel’s competence nor of his sense of mercy, hastened across the street, right behind him.
Patel was under the impression no one was watching him; he figured he had a few moments to earn a medal without a witness to say that maybe he didn’t deserve it. If he wondered about who had fired the bullet that took the white out he didn’t seem to let it stop him from putting his gun to the survivor’s head.
He wanted to kill him, to prove he had achieved some kind of victory here, little realizing that it was his gun that had succeeded in killing the man he was supposed to be protecting. True, he hadn’t intended to but it would be a bit of an embarrassment for him.
“Oh man, don’t! Oh shit, man, please! My gun ain’t even loaded. Check it out.”
Patel had his finger on the trigger, in no mood for such excuses.
Harry was sure Patel would have fired if he hadn’t interrupted.
“Party’s over, Sandy.”
Patel glanced up; irritation showed in his face but he left it out of his voice.
“I should have guessed. You were the one who got him then?” He gestured towards the fallen man whose body was still
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