I tear after him, slipping on blood, falling to my hands and knees but holding onto my weapon. I crawl forward, my feet scrambling for purchase through the slickness, and then I'm opening the door, scanning the parking lot left and right.
He's standing ten feet away, aiming his Beretta at me.
I throw myself backward and feel the wind of the shots pass my face.
“Jack!” Herb, from the front of the restaurant.
“He went out the back!”
My hands, slippery with blood and sweat, are shaking like dying birds. I force myself to do a slow count to five, force my bunched muscles to relax, then nudge open the back door.
He's waiting for me.
He fires again, the bullet tugging at my shoulder pad, stinging like I've been whacked with a cane. I scoot backward on my ass, turn over, and crawl for the counter, more shots zinging over me before the back door closes under its own weight, having to climb over the girl he just killed, the scent of blood and death running up my nostrils and down the back of my throat.
I lean against the counter, pull back my jacket, feeling the burn, glancing at my wound and judging it superficial.
A soft voice, muffled, to my right.
“Hey!”
I see the green duffle bag that the perp dropped.
“Hello? Are you there, Jacqueline?”
The voice is coming from the bag. I go to it, tug back the zipper.
Gun. Another Beretta. Loose bullets, more than a hundred. And a walkie-talkie.
“Jack,” the walkie barks.
How the hell does he know my name?
“Can you hear me, Jacqueline?”
I look around, find some napkins on a table, pick up the radio and hit the talk button.
“Who is this?”
“I'm doing this for you, Jacqueline. This is all for you. Do you remember Washington?”
Thoughts rush at me. Seven dead so far. He knows me. The perp has over a hundred bullets left. I don't know this guy. I've never been to Washington, the state or the capitol. He knows me. Someone I arrested before? Who is he?
I press talk. “If it's me you want, come and get me.”
“I can't right now,” the walkie says. “I'm late for class.”
I race for the front doors. When I step onto the sidewalk, I see the perp darting through traffic and running full sprint down the sidewalk.
Heading for Thomas Jefferson Middle School.
I don't hear any sirens. Too soon. Look left and right, and don't see Herb.
I rush back into the restaurant, drop the radio into the perp's bag, grab the handle and run after him.
Three steps into the street I'm clipped by a bike messenger.
He spins me around, and I land on my knees, watching as he skids down the tarmac on his helmet, a spray of loose bullets from the gunman's bag jingling after him like dropped change. A car honks. There's a screech of tires. I manage to make it to my feet, still holding the bag, still holding my gun, too distracted to sense if I'm hurt or not.
The school.
I cross the rest of the street, realize I've somehow lost a shoe, my bare right foot slapping against the cold concrete, pedestrians jumping out of my path.
An alarm up ahead, so piercing I feel it in my teeth. The metal detector at the school entrance. It's followed by two more gunshots.
“Jack!”
Herb, from across the street.
“Cars in the parking lot!” I yell, hoping he'll understand. Guy in a football helmet and ammo belts didn't walk in off the street. Must have driven.
The school rushes up at me. I push through the glass doors, the metal detector screaming, a hall monitor slumped dead in her chair, blood pooling black on the rubber mat.
I drop the bag, pocket the Beretta and a handful of brass, hit talk on the radio.
“Where are you?”
Static. Then, coming through the speaker, children's screams.
Followed by gunshots.
I run, trying to follow the echo, trying to pinpoint the cries for help, passing door after door, rushing up a staircase, hearing more gunshots, seeing the muzzle flashes coming from a classroom, going in low and fast.
“Drop the gun,” he says.
His Beretta is aimed at the head of a seven-year-old girl.
A sob gets caught in my throat, but I refuse to cry because tears will cloud my vision.
I can't watch anyone else die.
I drop my gun.
The perp begins to twitch, his face wet behind the football helmet.
“Do you have children, Jack?”
I'm not able to talk, so I just shake my head.
“Neither do I,” he says. “Isn't...isn't it a shame?”
He pats the girl on the head, crouches down to whisper.
“You did good, sweetheart. I don't need you anymore.”
I scream my soul raw when he pulls the trigger.
The little girl drops away, her pink dress now a shocking red, and I launch myself at him just as he turns his weapon on the children cowering in the corner of the room and opens fire.
One.
Two.
Three.
He manages four shots before I body-tackle him, both hands locking on his gun arm, pushing it up and away from the innocents, my head filled with frightened cries that might be from the children but might also be mine.
I grip his wrist and tug hard, locking his elbow, dropping down and forcing him to release the gun. It clatters to the ground.
His free hand tangles itself in my hair and pulls so hard my vision ignites like a flashbulb. I lose my grip and fall to my knees, and he jerks me in the other direction, white hot pain lacing across my scalp as a patch of hair rips free.
I drive an uppercut between his legs, my knuckles bouncing off a plastic supporter, then I'm being pushed away and he's leaping for the door.
My jacket is twisted up, and I can't find my pocket even though I feel the weight of the gun, and finally my hand slips in and I tug a Beretta free and bury three shots into his legs as he runs into the hallway.
I chance a quick look at the children, see several have been hit, see blood on the wall covering two dozen construction paper jack-o-lantern pictures, then I crawl after the perp with the gun raised.
He's waiting for me in the hall, sitting against the wall, bleeding from both knees. I hear him sobbing.
“You weren't supposed to drop your gun,” he says.
My breath is coming quick, and I blow it out through my mouth. I'm shaking so bad I can't even keep a bead on him. I blink away tears and repeat over and over, “he's-unarmed-don't-shoot-he's-unarmed-don't shoot-he's- unarmed-don't shoot...”
Movement to my left.
Herb, barreling down the hall. He stops and aims.
“You okay?” Herb asks.
