Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [140]
Boomer took off his windbreaker and covered her. He reached over, picked up her .38 Special, and jammed it inside the front of his pants. He undid the Velcro of his vest and tossed it over his shoulder.
Then Boomer stood and walked away from one more fallen Apache.
• • •
DEAD-EYE WAS CORNERED, bullets coming at him from four sides, ripping through the closet door he stood behind. He was low on ammo and couldn’t lift his right arm, which had taken two hits from a .44 caliber. There were six shooters closing in, two working pump-action shotguns. He had enough ammo and one good hand left to take out at least two. He took a deep breath and decided to make a rush at the gunmen.
If Dead-Eye was going to go down, it wasn’t going to be hiding behind an empty second-floor coat closet.
He jumped from the door, left hand out, gun held at an angle, firing off as many clips as it carried. He hit one of the shotguns in the chest, sending him over a railing. He swirled and took out a suit rushing from behind, and then took a hit himself in the right leg, bringing him down to one knee.
The four moved in closer, prepared to end a battle and a life. Dead-Eye looked at them and grunted.
“Wouldn’t have any bullets you could spare?” he asked.
“Just two,” the shotgun shouted back. “Both of them going into your fucking head.”
“Thanks anyway,” Dead-Eye said.
• • •
REV. JIM CAME up the back steps, two .44 semis crisscrossed in his hands. He pumped three rounds into the back of the shotgun, sending him face down next to Dead-Eye. The other three sprang for cover.
Dead-Eye grabbed the shotgun, pulled the trigger, and took out part of a wall and one shooter. Rev. Jim walked past, dropped a handgun in his lap, and chased the other two down a corner hall, smoke and flames coming out the barrels of his guns. The last two bullets in the chambers left the men down and dead.
“I don’t want to hurt your feelings,” Rev. Jim said, standing over Dead-Eye. “But you don’t look so good.”
“It’s the heat,” Dead-Eye said. “I hate the heat.”
“Can you walk?”
“Not far,” Dead-Eye said.
“Can you shoot?” Rev. Jim asked.
“Just with my left hand,” Dead-Eye said. “Right one’s gone. At least for today.”
“Your one hand is still better than my two,” Rev. Jim said.
“You loaded?” Dead-Eye asked.
“Got enough rounds left where we won’t embarrass ourselves.”
“You’ll move faster without me,” Dead-Eye said. “Just leave me a gun and go.”
“Nobody gets rid of me that easy.” Rev. Jim put a loaded semi in Dead-Eye’s left hand, a .38 in his waistband, and a .44 bulldog in his right.
“I told you my right arm’s no good,” Dead-Eye said, forcing himself to his feet. “Can’t feel it.”
“Your trigger finger numb?” Rev. Jim asked, tossing Dead-Eye’s left arm around his shoulders and holding his waist with his right hand.
“No,” Dead-Eye said.
“Then why waste it?” Rev. Jim asked.
Dead-Eye and Rev. Jim made their way slowly down the hall, arms linked together, four guns in their hands, spraying bullets in all directions, leaving a line of blood behind them as their trail.
• • •
BOOMER STOOD IN the doorway of the second-floor master bedroom, watching Lucia Carney rummage through the center drawer of a bureau, her back to him.
“Nice place you had here,” he said.
She turned. From her demeanor, they might have been at a formal dance instead of the middle of a firestorm. “You must be Boomer,” she said. “Please come in.”
“I am in.” Boomer held Mrs. Columbo’s .38 in his hand.
“I expected to see a larger man.” Lucia stepped away from the bureau.
“Firemen are tall,” Boomer said. “Cops are short. That’s how you can tell us apart.”
“You’ve cost me considerable amounts of time and money, Boomer.”
“And you cost me three friends. Somehow it doesn’t even out.”
“I learned very early on that there’s a price for everything in life,” Lucia said. “And everyone I’ve met has one. I just haven’t figured out yours yet.”
“That’s an easy one,” he said.