Shoot the Woman First by Wallace Stroby Page A

breathing hard, his face pale.
    â€œThat little prick,” he said. “I should have known.”
    â€œWe need to keep moving.”
    â€œYou hit anybody back there?”
    â€œI don’t know. But we’re not going to wait around to find out.”
    He rolled onto his knees and winced with pain. It was then she saw the smear of blood on the back of his jacket.
    â€œYou’re hit,” she said.
    â€œCaught one back there. Maybe two. I don’t know.”
    They were on a corner lot, no house here, just unbroken trees, open street on two sides. To their left was a chain-link fence, beyond it a long low garage, some sort of municipal facility. Against the side wall of the garage were a half-dozen black plastic fifty-five-gallon drums. Gang tags on the walls, broken windows. The building empty and dark.
    She peered over the top of the wall, back at the house. No movement. No noise. But Cordell and his partner would come looking for them soon.
    She nodded at the chain-link fence. “Can you climb that?”
    â€œMaybe. I doubt it.”
    â€œWe have to,” she said. “We can’t be out in the open like this. They’ll find us.”
    â€œI can try.”
    She helped him to his feet, and they moved in a crouch toward the fence. He dragged the duffel behind him. The back of his jacket was dark with blood now. She could see the hole in the material, just above his right hip, where the bullet had gone in.
    He saw her looking, said, “I’m okay. It doesn’t hurt. Not yet. I didn’t see what happened to Charlie. Did you?”
    â€œYes,” she said, and left it at that.
    The fence was about eight feet high, with two strands of barbed wire across the top. No razor wire, at least. The front gate of the fenced lot was chained and padlocked. Once inside, they might be safe.
    â€œWhat do you think?” she said.
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œWe have to try.”
    â€œLeave me. Take the money.”
    â€œNo.”
    Faint noises from back at the house. Car doors shutting, an engine starting.
    â€œWe don’t have much time,” she said. “We can make it if we do it together. It’s not that high.”
    â€œLooks pretty fucking high to me.”
    â€œWe have to move.”
    She took off the windbreaker, tied the sleeves around her waist. She backed up a few feet, got a running start, leaped, and caught the fence about halfway up, the chain-link rattling and swaying under her. She locked gloved fingers through metal diamonds, got the toe of her boot into another, pulled herself up, and began to climb. The pain in her back was gone now, along with the numbness in her leg. There was nothing but the fence, the yard beyond.
    Near the top, she clung with one hand, untied the sleeves of the jacket with the other. Just the two strands of rusty barbed wire, no Y-bar to keep someone from climbing over. But the wire could catch her just as easily, hang her up there, draw blood.
    She swung the windbreaker over her head. It took two tries to get it draped across the wire, lining side up.
    She looked down at Larry, reached. “Come on, I’ll help you.”
    â€œI don’t think I can do it.”
    Headlights coming down the street now, slow.
    â€œClimb,” she said.
    He bent to pick up the duffel, fell to one knee.
    â€œForget the money,” she said. “Come on.”
    He shook his head, stood, hoisted the bag with both hands, unsteady, pushed it up toward her.
    There was no time to argue. When the bag was high enough, she hooked fingers in the strap, got the duffel up and onto the barbed wire, then tipped it over. It landed in weeds on the other side.
    She looked back down, and he was already climbing, the fence moving under him. He lost his grip on the wet chain-link, slid down, then started up again. She reached for him, caught his jacket, pulled up. He was gasping for air, moving slow, the adrenaline wearing off, the pain