The sound of crashing glass jolted Tony Zello. He realized he must have been unconscious. Confused, he looked around and saw that he was lying on the floor.
Where am I?
Then it hit him. He was in Ray Shane’s apartment.
As Tony crawled to his feet, the pain hit him, like someone jamming a red-hot poker into his scrotum. He screamed and collapsed back onto the floor. Joey turned away from the window and rushed to help him. Lumbering across the small room, the big goof looked excited as he pointed back at the window, yelling, but running his words together. “Hesgettingaway!”
Tony looked where the useless muscle head pointed and saw a pair of legs draped over the bottom of the window. That had to be Rocco, his other tough guy. Just outside the shattered glass he caught sight of something moving. It rose above the windowsill into his line of sight. Shane was outside on the roof.
Tony grabbed hold of Joey and started to haul himself up. He saw his. 38 on the floor. He let go of Joey with one hand and scooped up his gun. When he got to his feet, Tony had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. He tasted blood. Using Joey’s massive bulk to steady himself, Tony raised his gun and fired.
Ray Shane was on his hands and knees facing the window. At the sound of the shot, he dropped to his belly and slid away. Tony fired again. His aim was wide and he heard the bullet bounce off the tin roof.
At the edge of the roof, Shane peered down into the water and hesitated for just a second, giving Tony time to line up the sights on Ray’s ass and squeeze off another shot. It seemed like it all happened at once: Tony jerking the trigger, the. 38 barking, and Ray falling from the boathouse roof. All so close together Tony couldn’t tell if he had hit the no-good ex-cop bastard or not.
So he let go of Joey and hobbled to the window to see for himself. He climbed over the bleeding Rocco, who clawed at him and begged for help. Tony ignored him and half crawled, half slid down the sloping roof until he reached the edge. Looking down, he saw only the black water of the marina, and directly below him, a foaming mass of bubbles centered in a series of radiating ripples.
Shane was gone. Had the shot hit him or had it missed? Tony Zello imagined the ex-cop lying on the muddy bottom of the harbor, blood flowing from the bullet hole in his ass and water pouring into his lungs as his mouth opened and closed, looking like a fish lying on a dock. The image almost made him smile, but not quite. Tony wasn’t going to smile about Shane until he was standing over his corpse, until he saw him dead.
Rage poured through Tony and helped dull his pain as he thought about Ray Shane getting away from him. Nearly a minute ticked by as Tony stared over the edge of the roof, looking down at the water as it settled back to inky smoothness.
Behind him, Rocco moaned. Tony turned and saw Joey trying to lift Rocco off the glass spikes on the windowsill. Tony would have to call the old alcoholic doctor they used. More time wasted.
“Fuck you, Shane!” he screamed as he fired his last two shots, blowing holes in the black water.
There was no air in Ray’s lungs. The twenty-foot belly flop from the top of the boat shed had knocked all the wind out of him. Then there was the cold, like a thousand needles stabbing into his skin at the same time, an acupuncturist gone mad. With empty lungs, he sank like a stone. The water pressure built against his eardrums as he went down.
Ray’s shoes bumped the muddy bottom. The marina was only eight feet deep, just enough to accommodate the pleasure cruisers, sportfishermen, and sailboats operating out of the New Orleans Yacht Club. Plenty deep enough to drown.
Although his eyes were open, the only thing Ray could see was a faint glow above him that contrasted with the pitch black below. The sharp reports of two more gunshots echoed through the water and Ray felt a pressure wave as the rounds struck the surface.
He let himself sink lower and knelt motionless on the bottom, afraid to move as panic clouded the edges of his mind. He couldn’t stay down, yet he couldn’t go up. Tony was up there, Tony and his gun. If Ray surfaced, with his head bobbing on top of the water as he gasped for air, he would be an easy target. One shot and it would be over. Just another body recovery for the NOPD dive team.
There were only a few seconds left to make a decision. The boathouse was behind him. Tony was probably at the edge of the tin roof, looking down into the water, but he couldn’t see inside the boathouse unless he hung his head over the edge. If he couldn’t see, he couldn’t shoot. Ray’s only safety lay inside the boathouse.
With his lungs burning, Ray fought an almost irresistible urge to inhale as he clawed and kicked his way across the bottom of the marina toward the boathouse. Probably five feet, no more than eight, and he’d be under the protection of the tin roof. He swam as far as he could, swam until his vision began to go dark.
The pressure in his head was unbearable as he angled up toward the surface. He was fighting his way through the water, each movement getting harder, like swimming through syrup. The pressure against his eardrums eased as he neared the surface. He was almost there. As long as he had swum far enough to get under the shed’s roof, he had a chance.
Then Ray’s head collided with something, and the darkness closed in around him. He had hit the bottom of the boat. The thirty-eight-foot Rampage docked in the shed pressed down on him and held him under. Terror seized him. Blind terror. He was thirty feet from shore. No more than five feet from the dock. He looked left and right, up, then down. He was disoriented. Which way was the surface?
Follow the hull!
With one hand touching the boat, Ray kicked and clawed at the water. His lips peeled back as animal instinct, more powerful than willpower, forced his mouth open. He couldn’t stop it any more than he could stop his eyes from blinking, but with his last shred of concentration he delayed drawing a breath for just a second and kept his lungs from filling with the dark water. And that second was long enough.
His hand broke the surface and he felt cold air on his fingers. One last kick, then his head was out of the water. He sucked in air-sweet, life-sustaining air-as overhead he heard Tony stomping his way across the tin roof back to the apartment. Common sense urged Ray to duck back under the water in case Tony looked into the boathouse, but he couldn’t do it. If he was going to die, then it was going to be a bullet that killed him, not water.
Ray heard muffled shouts inside the apartment, then more feet pounding across the floor, the sounds echoing off the boathouse walls.
His apartment door banged shut. Feet clomped down the wooden stairs. More shouting, this time from the parking lot, and still more from farther away, maybe neighbors. He hoped someone would call the cops. Ray kept treading water, still gulping deep breaths of air. Never again would he complain about hunger or thirst. All he needed was air.
He heard a motor crank. Tires squealed. Then the deep roar of a big engine being run hard.
“Where we going?” Joey shouted.
Tony leaned farther back into the seat, both hands gripping his sore balls. “Just drive the fucking car.”
Rocco was laid out on the backseat, bleeding all over it, bleeding all over the genuine Corinthian leather- whatever the hell that was-ruining the upholstery of Tony Zello’s almost brand-new Lincoln Town Car.
Joey was speeding down Pontchartrain Boulevard, stiff-arming the steering wheel and crushing it with his massive hands. He glanced at Tony. “But how do I know where to go?”
“Get us to the doctor.”
“Feelgood’s?”
“You know any other doctor we can go to?”
Joey craned his head back over his shoulder to peek into the backseat at Rocco, who was rolling back and forth, moaning, and slinging blood. “How about the emergency room?” Joey said.
“I don’t have time for that,” Tony yelled. “We’re dropping him off at Dr. Feelgood’s and then we’re going to find that motherfucker.”
“You think he got away?”
“Drive!”
Getting out of the water turned out to be a lot harder than getting into it. The first thing Ray tried to do was reach up and grab the dock that ran along the wall of the boathouse, but it was four feet above the water, and he couldn’t reach it. Next he tried to shinny up one of the pylon foundations, but it was covered with green slime and he couldn’t get a grip on it.
