Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [93]
I shift around until I’m squatting with my left shoulder pressed against the base of the pillar. I flick the safety off the gun, but I keep my finger away from the trigger because I can’t keep it from clenching over and over again. I take a few breaths. I can’t hear anything nearby. I peek out and see Roman’s knee right in front of me and bump my head into the barrel of his gun.
The rain is still pouring and little beads of it run down the barrel of his gun onto my forehead and drip right into my eye. I try not to blink because he told me not to move and I think he really means it. No one else is on the street, the civilians are hiding inside and Roman has the uniforms he ran into working the other streets. He presses the gun a little harder against my head and I know it must be making a little white circle there.
—Do you have the money, Hank?
—No.
He’s standing right over me.
—Do Ed and Paris have the money?
—Yes.
The rain is starting to taste salty, but that’s just because I’m crying. It’s difficult to cry so hard and not move.
—Do you have any way of getting the money at this point?
—No.
Standing over me, looking down at my crouched and curled body.
—The mistake you made, Hank, was in thinking of it as simply money. Four and a half million dollars in cash is not the same as four and a half million in the bank. In fact, you would be hard-pressed to find a bank with resources like those on hand. Four and a half million in cash is more a symbol than actual money. For Ed and Paris, it represents their life’s work. For the Russians, it is an investment, which they can use to expand into markets that only accept cash payment. And for myself, it represents freedom, a chance to regain a life I gave up long ago. Bolo and the rest just saw the money. Like you. And they’re all dead. Do you see the connection I’m making?
Looking down at me. Looking down at me from an angle that keeps him from seeing the gun pointed at his knee.
I pull the trigger. He falls back. His gun goes off. The world explodes and starts ringing. The bullet vibrates my skull as it passes by and I feel the muzzle flash sear and blister my scalp. I lurch upright as Roman tumbles down onto the steps of the church, his gun flying out of his hand.
He sprawls there, the lower half of his right leg semidetached and pumping blood into the rain. He’s reaching inside his coat and, as he pulls out his other gun, I step forward and bring my foot down on his wrist, pinning it to the ground. I point my gun at him.
He opens his mouth and spits out a little rain.
—You . . . you really are making a mistake. You don’t know what it is, but . . . Christ, that hurts. But this is a mistake. Trust me.
I nod.
—I trust you, Roman.
—Well. OK, then.
I shoot him in the chest. He convulses when the round hits the bulletproof vest. He spits out more rain.
—Oh, for chrissake, Hank.
—Sorry, I forgot.
I point the gun at his face and pull the trigger again. He dies this time.
When I was about eleven or twelve, I was over at a friend’s house and we were messing around with his BB gun. We plunked away at cans and little green army men for a while and then we started shooting leaves off trees and stuff and then a bird came along. My friend took a shot at the bird and missed and gave me the gun to take my turn. I aimed very carefully and tried my damnedest to hit that bird, believing deep in my heart that I could never hit it. Bull’s-eye. Knocked it right off the branch. But didn’t kill it. It sat on the ground and kind of flopped around in pain and we watched it, not really knowing what to do, and my friend said we should kill it and put it out of its misery. I couldn’t do it, so he took the gun, pumped it up, put the barrel right next to the bird’s head and killed it for me. Shooting that bird felt pretty fucking bad.
I tuck the gun into the