The Fury - Jason Pinter [104]
mouth.
I threw another punch, but Scotty was able to block
it, twisting sideways. I still hadn't recovered from his
punch, so I was thrown off balance and fell off him. I
managed to keep my hand on his shoulder, pulling him
back down as he tried to get up.
Scotty was crawling for something; I couldn't see
what. My face was still close to the ground, and I could
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smell the concrete. Then I heard a clang as something
toppled over, and that was followed by a whoosh of air
as he swung what appeared to be the lid of a garbage
can at my head.
I managed to roll away, catching a glancing piece of
the aluminum on my jaw. It stunned me and I fell back.
Scotty stood up, limping, clutching his knee. The sirens
were growing louder. Not long ago the police had been
after me, and I'd managed to escape. At least for a
while. Scotty had lived here for years, knew every inch
of the city. He had friends who would protect him. If
Helen Gaines, a frail junkie, could find a safe house, no
doubt a dealer with innumerable contacts could as well.
I couldn't let him get away.
As Scotty began to run, I got to my feet, dived
forward and tackled him from behind. His legs gave out,
and Scotty screamed again as his knee slammed down
on the ground. By this point I could see several pedes
trians watching us, hands over their mouths in shock and
terror. A few were on their cell phones, no doubt calling
911.
A little late, but I appreciated the gesture.
Scotty was still writhing, and I managed to turn him
over, placing my knees in the crook of his elbows. Just
like I had to the guy who tried to jump me at the apart
ment. Scotty's head was bleeding from where I'd
punched him. There was a ragged hole in his pants by
his right knee. There was a nasty cut that was bleeding
pretty heavily. I could feel the slow, hot trickle of blood
running down my neck, where he'd clipped me with the
lid.
I raised my fist, ready to exhaust all the rage and fury
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of the last few days. To get payback for my brother's
murder, for my father's incarceration.
This man, this killer, this hired dealer. The world
would be better off without him.
Yet as I stared at my own fist, poised and ready to
strike the helpless murderer, suddenly my hand went
slack. My fingers uncurled. I couldn't do it. Justice
wasn't about taking an eye for an eye. I was above that.
I had to be.
So I sat there, knees on his arms, the man below me
in terrible pain, tears streaming down his face.
"Please," Scotty blubbered, "let me go. You don't
know what you're doing..."
"I know exactly what I'm doing," I said. "I'm giving
you the chance you never gave Stephen. I'm going to
let you live."
The sirens grew closer. I could see the red and blue
flashing off the windows on the street. The air was hot,
swirling around us as I waited, my breathing heavy,
angry.
"Get the hell off of him."
I didn't recognize the voice. The sirens screamed all
around us. I hadn't heard a car pull up. It wasn't a cop
talking. The voice did sound familiar, though....
Turning my head, from the corner of my eye I saw Kyle
Evans standing two feet from our sprawled bodies. He was
holding a gun in his hand. It was pointed right at my head.
I heard more screams, and anyone who had been on
the street watching had run off when the gun was pulled.
It was just the three of us.
I took my knees off Scotty, who scooted backward.
He clutched his knee, biting his lip.
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I stood up. Air was coming back to my lungs, but I
was still doubled over slightly.
"He's a killer," I said, the words coming out in
bursts. "He's--"
And then I saw it. And whatever breath had found
its way back into my lungs vanished.
Kyle was holding a black pistol. And attached to the
end of it was a thin metal tube. And I remembered what
Leon Binks had said to me the night I identified Stephen
Gaines's body in the medical examiner's office.
"The killer was using a silenced weapon. Now, very
few guns have those kinds of