Faintly, from outside: “
“In here!” yelled Andy. “I’m in here!”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Serge hit the brakes and ran back a few doors.
Coleman crashed into him. “Is this the room?”
“Don’t know… Andy! You in there?”
“Serge! Quick!”
Serge threw his shoulder into the door.
Ramirez involuntarily glanced toward the sound.
It was a microsecond, but all the time Guillermo needed. He fired, hitting Ramirez in the stomach. The agent shot back, but he was off balance from the gut wound, and the bullet went wide, splintering through the door.
Serge grabbed his ear and looked at his hand. Blood.
Guillermo’s second shot hit Ramirez’s shooting hand. The gun ricocheted off a wall. Guillermo marched forward, continuing to fire at the defenseless agent.
Ramirez’s mind attained clarity. This was why he was born. Anyone else would have gone down long ago, but with whatever strength the agent had left, he willed himself to remain an upright human shield for the two boys.
More shooting, now from two directions: Guillermo riddling Ramirez, and outside the room, where Serge blew the doorknob off.
Guillermo’s next shot struck Ramirez in the forehead, dropping him like an anvil.
No place for Andy and Melvin to hide.
Guillermo pulled the trigger.
“Shit.” He replaced the clip.
Another shot from the hall blew the deadbolt halfway across the room.
Guillermo aimed between Andy’s eyes.
Serge kicked the door open and fired.
The bullet struck Guillermo’s arm from behind, spinning him. He returned fire as Serge ducked out of the doorway.
Serge hit the ground in the hall and poked his gun around the door frame, aiming at an upward angle so if he missed Guillermo, stray lead wouldn’t hit the kids.
He didn’t miss. The second shot hit Guillermo in the same arm. It pissed him off. He switched the gun to his left hand.
There are two distinct types of firefights: police and military.
Police take up defensive positions behind squad car doors and trees. Military strategy is to overrun the enemy. Guillermo favored the latter. He ran for the hall, firing on the way.
Serge retreated, shooting behind him without aim. He turned the corner and joined Coleman, who’d already ducked down another corridor. They pressed themselves hard against the wall. Plaster exploded past their heads.
Back in the room, Andy was paralyzed, staring at a side view of Guillermo in the hall, framed by the open door. Blasting away toward Serge and Coleman.
Andy surprised himself with what he did next. Almost like an out-of-body experience, looking down from the ceiling observing someone else. He dove for the bed, grabbed Ramirez’s nine-millimeter Glock and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
He turned the gun over and back in confusion. TV cop shows ran through his head. “Don’t they pull some kind of slide thing to load a bullet?”
Guillermo emptied his gun again. The ejected clip bounced on the carpet as another magazine slammed home.
Andy watched out the door as Guillermo pulled a slide thing. He looked down at his own gun and followed the example.
“He’s changing out clips,” Serge told Coleman. “Now’s our chance!” Serge reached around the corner. A bullet whistled by before he could get off a round. He jumped back. “Faster than I thought.”
Guillermo heard sirens coming up A1A. Then he heard something slam into the wall behind his neck. He looked at the bullet hole, then turned quickly to trace the line of fire to its source: an open-mouthed Andy, stunned that the gun in his hand had actually gone off.
He raised his pistol toward the boy. A bullet ripped into Guiller-mo’s thigh from Serge’s direction.
“Son of a bitch!”
“Is he still up?” asked Coleman.
“Guy’s like a Frankenstein.”
Andy fired again, but Guillermo had disappeared from the doorway, racing toward Serge’s position.
Serge peeked around the corner. “Shit. Run!”
They took off down the second corridor, Serge again shooting wildly behind them.
Guillermo reached the corner in full psychopathic bloom. He fired over and over at the retreating pair, but handgun accuracy delivers rapidly diminishing returns over distance. A hail of bullets from both directions passed each other in the middle of the hall and hit nothing but walls and fire extinguishers.
At the other end of the hall a man in a fedora rounded the corner. One of Guillermo’s last bullets found a target. Mahoney went down, grabbing his calf.
Serge heard the gunfire end. “Why’s he stopping?”
Guillermo turned in the middle of the hall and reversed field.
“He’s going back for the boys!” Serge crouched for a steady shot.
“I’m out!”
“Serge!”
He turned.
“Mahoney, what are you doing down there?”
“Catch!”
Serge grabbed a.38 police special out of the air and sprinted back toward the room, where Andy was slapping the side of his gun. Jammed. Actually he’d just accidentally hit the safety. He heard something in the hall and looked up. Guillermo grinned wickedly and took aim. “Good night.” He pulled the trigger.
A ceiling lamp shattered. Andy covered his head as glass rained. Guillermo continued twirling in the hall from Serge’s well-timed slug in his unwounded arm, which had sent Guillermo’s last shot high into the lighting fixture.
“Motherfuck!”
Louder sirens. Then they stopped. Which meant they were here.
Guillermo had never taken such a beating before. He emptied his gun in Serge’s direction and limped away for the fire escape.
“Coleman! He left!” Serge ran to the doorway. “Let’s go, kids.”
They all fled through the corridor where Mahoney had been hit.
“You going to be okay?” asked Serge.
“Don’t move,” said Mahoney.
“What are you doing?”
“Guillermo’s gone now, and the kids are safe.” Mahoney aimed his backup piece. “You’re under arrest.”
“That’s fair. I know our rules, but…”-he gestured with an upturned palm at two peach-faced students-“… They’re
