Ghost Hero

presumably call a cop if I screamed—or suddenly went silent—must not have worried him. He was quiet and quick, and as I turned my head to look at a house number I found him at my elbow.

I took a sharp leap backward, said breathlessly, “You really should learn to knock.” I dropped the phone in my pocket, still on. I thought he might overlook that while he focused on the .25 now in my hand. I checked him out: a big, broadshouldered Asian man, not handsome, not hideous. Sportcoat, white shirt, no tie. In his hand, a gun also, and bigger than mine.

“I can shoot faster,” I said. “Also, I have more incentive.”

He smiled quizzically. “Incentive? For shoot me? You don’t even know me.” His intonations rang of Mandarin.

“That’s the point. You’ve been following me. You could’ve shot me already but you didn’t. So you don’t want me dead, you want something from me. I, on the other hand, don’t like to be followed, don’t know you, and don’t want anything from you. Why shouldn’t I shoot you?”

“But you don’t shoot. Just stand there.”

“Who are you?”

“Oh, now you want something?”

Yes, I wanted to know where the hell Bill was.

“Why are you following me?”

“You want two thing! I only want one. Want to talk to you.”

“Who sent you?”

“Boss. Have couple questions, say, Go ask.”

“You work for the government like everybody else?”

He looked surprised at the question, then laughed. “Government? Can’t make no money, work for government.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“Got some questions about guy you work for. Also, advice. Come now, dark street dangerous place for lady. I drive you home.”

“I don’t think so.”

But his driver did. He stomped the gas and in three seconds had swerved up the block and onto the sidewalk behind me. His door blew open and I was thinking, Damn, I am going to have to shoot one of these guys when the big guy yelped and spun around, staring wildly into the dark. I didn’t know what was up, but whatever it was, it gave me a chance to spin, too. I slammed my gun up under the chin of the driver, off-balance as he left the car. His head snapped back. I kicked him in the belly and when he folded I smashed him on top of the head. That should hold him. I ducked in case the big guy had solved his problem and decided it was time to shoot me. In fact, I wondered why he hadn’t already. But he wasn’t even looking at me. He was shouting and cursing in the other direction, half-turned, one arm up to ward off a stone flying at his head. It bounced off his shoulder and so did the one after it. He waved his gun around, looking for his target. Another stone came soaring out of the dark and smacked his knee, and when his hand dropped there, he got clonked on the temple.

With a howl he took off after the thrower. He ran into a hailstorm of pebbles. Another big stone hit him square in the face. He fired into the dark, the gunshot thundering. In answer, a stone clipped his ear. He cursed again; when another skipped off his skull he turned back, racing for his car. I stepped to block his way but he plowed into me, then grabbed my jacket to drag me with him. Stumbling, I tried to break his hold. Whether I could have, I don’t know, but it didn’t matter: A rock walloped his back, making him stagger and slacken his grip. I pulled loose and stuck my leg out to trip him. He did a little jig but kept his footing, screaming to his driver as he reached the car door. The driver, still dazed, lurched in behind the wheel. He started the car as the big guy dove into the back under a rain of rocks. The car screeched into reverse, bounced off the curb, and roared away.

I peered after it. It swerved around the corner and vanished. I turned to look in the other direction. A lanky figure was sauntering out of the dark, hands in his pockets.

“That,” I said, “was pretty impressive.”

“Little League all-star,” said Jack. “Middle school travel team. High school all-state. College varsity.”

“Starter?”

“And relief both. Kid Iron, they called me. My high school senior season’s still the Wisconsin state record.”

“So all this whining about flying bullets—”

“I said I couldn’t shoot a gun. I didn’t say I was helpless. As long as there’s a gravel driveway and a little landscaping, I’m good. You think maybe we should keep walking?” He nodded at the houses around us, where lights had come on. One front door was open, a figure silhouetted in it, but no one was saying anything. “One of these citizens might have called the cops.”

“Over some cursing, a few squealing tires, and a single gunshot? They probably all think the neighbors have their TVs on too loud.” But I fell in nonchalantly beside him, a couple enjoying a peaceful stroll, not a care in the world.

Headlights swept around the corner and we both tensed up. “Oh.” I relaxed. “It’s Bill.” He slammed his brakes and threw his door open while I demanded, “Where have you been?”

“Got here as fast as I could. Wasn’t more than two minutes.” He climbed out. “I heard a shot. What the hell happened?”

“A couple of Chinese guys wanted to take me away from all this, but it turns out Jack’s a stone sniper.”

Bill turned to Jack. “Aren’t you the guy who’s been saying all day you don’t know anything about guns?”

“Not ‘stone’ metaphorically,” I said. “Stone, literally. He brained ’em with somebody’s rock garden.”