The Night Stalker_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [78]
I drew my Colt. “I’ll go first.”
“It’s all yours,” Whitley said.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The stairwell was poorly lit. With each step, I heard the sickening sound of glass crack pipes crunching beneath my shoes. Reaching the landing, I peered down a hallway strewn with empty pizza boxes.
“What a hellhole,” Burrell whispered.
Buster was the brave one, and led us to the hallway’s end. I stuck my ear to the door of number forty, and heard a TV playing Telemundo inside. Grabbing a pizza box off the floor, I held it against my chest so my Colt was hidden. With my shoe, I knocked.
“Pizza for number forty,” I announced.
Burrell and Whitley pressed their bodies against the wall. The door opened, and a skinny Hispanic missing his two front teeth stuck his head out. He was about thirty, and wore striped boxer shorts and nothing else. It was Pepe.
“What you want?” he asked, smothering a yawn.
“You order a pizza?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“Damn. It’s going cold. You want it? I’ll sell it to you for five bucks. It’s got extra cheese.”
“I’ll give you four.”
“You’ve got a deal.”
Pepe pulled out a roll of bills, and peeled off four dollars. He took the box out of my hands, and I showed him my Colt.
“Shit,” he said.
Whitley swept into the room, throwing Pepe against the wall. I followed and did a visual sweep. The room had a single bed with a night table, and a closed door leading to a bathroom. Lying on the bed were boxes of children’s cereal and candy.
“Where’s the kid?” I asked.
“In the closet,” Pepe replied.
My heart was pounding as I opened the closet door. Filling the space was a dog crate holding a terrified African-American girl with cornrows in her hair and wearing a yellow dress. She looked about five, and held up her hands to block the light.
Buster pressed his nose against the bars, his tail wagging furiously. She lowered her hands, and touched my dog through the bars. I knelt down.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Tyra,” she said fearfully.
“Do you know a little boy named Sampson?”
“Yeah.”
“Where is he?”
“Oscar took him away.”
Something hard dropped in the pit of my stomach. I untied the piece of twine on the crate door while looking over my shoulder at Pepe standing with his hands pressed against the wall. “Why is she here?” I asked.
“Collateral for a drug deal,” Pepe said.
“Why did your partner take Sampson away?”
“Kid kept trying to escape. We couldn’t handle him.”
“Who hired you?”
“Dunno.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oscar dealt with the guy.”
Before I could ask him where Oscar was, a toilet flushed, and Oscar emerged from the bathroom. Also shirtless, his most distinguishing feature was the automatic pistol tucked down the front of his pants. Seeing us, he drew his weapon.
Whitley was in Oscar’s line of fire. Without hesitation, the FBI agent pumped three bullets into Oscar’s chest. The bullets went clean through Oscar’s body, killing him instantly, while also penetrating the plaster wall behind him. In the room next door, someone let out a blood-curdling scream.
“Get on the floor!” Whitley shouted.
I continued to untie the crate door.
“Do it!” Whitley said.
A bullet came through the wall and whistled past my head. It was quickly followed by another. Then I understood. Next door was shooting back.
I hit the floor while Whitley returned the fire. Tyra was huddled in the corner of the crate, crying her eyes out. I hugged the bars, and prayed that no bullets hit her.
Gunfire does something to your nervous system that’s hard to explain. I saw my life flash by several times, and found myself regretting all the things I’d yet to do.
The shooting stopped, and the room fell deathly still.
The fog of gunpowder made it difficult to breathe. Whitley put a fresh clip into his gun, and hurried into the hallway. Pepe had taken a slug in the chest, and was sitting with his back to the wall, his eyes blinking rapidly. Burrell checked his pulse, then shook her head.
“We need to get Tyra out of here.” I opened the crate