Shoot the Woman First by Wallace Stroby Page B

and fatigue setting in. She looked back toward the street. If the car came around the corner now, they’d both be outlined against the fence, easy targets.
    Halfway up, he stopped, hung there with both hands. She hooked a hand into his armpit, then got her forearm under him to take some of his weight.
    â€œAlmost there,” she said.
    He grimaced with pain, kept climbing. She had his belt now, could hold him steady as he climbed past her. He reached the top, got his right leg across the jacket, teetered there for a moment and almost fell. Then he righted himself, swung his left leg over and began to climb down the other side. Three feet from the ground, he lost his grip, fell, grunted when he hit the dirt.
    Headlights shining through the trees. She went over the top fast, started down, pulling the jacket after her. It snagged on a barb, then tore free. She let it go, dropped the last few feet, landed hard on her side in weeds. He started to get up, and she grabbed his jacket, hissed, “Stay down.” He flattened himself beside her. Thunder echoed in the distance.
    The car had stopped around the corner and parked at an angle, headlight beams cutting through the trees. They’d have the windows down, watching and listening. The high beams switched on, threw shadows against the side of the garage. She laid her cheek on wet ground.
    Would they get out, search the corner lot on foot? Thunder rumbled again, and the rain came harder, slanting down out of the gray sky. The car backed away, straightened, drove on.
    A window of time now, maybe a minute before the car rounded the corner, came down past the front gate. She looked at the garage, the bay doors, most of the glass panels missing. The right-hand door wasn’t closed completely. There was a foot-high gap between the bottom of the door and the bay floor.
    She pointed at it, and he nodded. She grabbed her jacket, moved in a crouch toward the door, dragging the duffel behind her. She bent beside the door, pushed the duffel and jacket through the gap, then waved for him to follow her. Headlights out front now. She wedged a shoulder under the door, forced it up another few inches, the mechanism rusty.
    He sprinted toward the garage, slipped and fell, then got up again. At the bay door, he dropped to his stomach and crawled through. She pulled him in the rest of the way, then rolled clear of the door.
    They lay on concrete, panting in the darkness. Water dripped from the ceiling. In the shadows around her, she could see discarded tires, empty oil cans.
    â€œStay down,” she said. “I’m going to take a look.”
    â€œCareful.” He dragged himself along the floor, got his back against a wall. He sat up, pulled the duffel into his lap, breathing heavy. “Christ, it’s cold.”
    She rose slowly, her knees aching, stood in profile, and looked through one of the broken panes. The car had pulled up to the gate, headlights lighting up the front of the garage, wipers swishing. It was the Lexus.
    â€œThat them?” Larry said.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œThey see us?”
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    The driver’s door opened, and Cordell got out. He had a gun in one hand, a flashlight in the other. She pulled back from the glass but kept him in sight. Larry’s breathing seemed to fill the room.
    Cordell played the flashlight along the gate, then tucked the light under one arm, rattled the chain that held the gate shut.
    â€œThis lock’s old,” he said. “Ain’t nobody in here.”
    The passenger door opened. A black man about Cordell’s age got out. He wore a dark hoodie, had one hand pressed against the left side of his stomach. The other hand held a gun down by his side. He leaned on the hood of the car for support. At least one of her rounds had found its mark, but hadn’t done enough damage to stop him.
    She looked around, hoping for a tire iron, a chain, a length of pipe, anything she