And keep firing your weapon until you’ve accomplished what you set out to do.
“I guess they got us, Roman,” said Farrow.
“Yeah,” said Otis. “Guess we oughtta just go ahead and surrender.” Otis raised his arms over his head. He rotated his right hand at the wrist as if he was waving good bye. The ID bracelet dropped beneath the cuff of his shirt.
His right hand flashed down to his waist.
Wilson squeezed the trigger of the. 38.
The slug blew through Otis’s armpit and punched out of his back. The force of it spun him around. He drew his. 45 and fired. Wilson felt his cheekbone rip away. He fell back screaming, still firing his weapon, as he took a second bullet in the groin.
Karras fired his gun. The. 45 jumped in his hand and he fired again and the weapon bucked. He saw the blur that was Farrow through the ejecting shells and the gunsmoke that had exploded into the room.
Wilson was falling. He fired and saw blood erupt from Otis’s neck as he drifted back. Wilson’s last shot blew lights from the ceiling as he hit the concrete.
Karras saw flame spit from Farrow’s gun. The roar of the gun was deafening, and Karras kept firing and felt something graze his scalp and it burned. The Colt’s receiver slid open as the final shot was expended, and Karras tumbled over the desk as rounds blew through particle board and bits of pressed wood bit sharply at his face.
He dropped his gun and covered up. A bell sound vibrated in his ears. Through the sound, he heard the door open at the front of the warehouse.
Karras stood and waved smoke from his face. The smell of cordite was heavy in the room. His feet crunched copper casings as he went to Thomas Wilson. He kicked the gun from Otis’s hand and kept on walking for Wilson.
He knelt over Wilson. The left side of Wilson’s face was ruined, a stew of blood and bone. There was blood in his lap and on his thighs and blood had pooled beneath him.
“I’m going to get help,” said Karras. “You’re going to live, Thomas, you hear me?”
Wilson blinked his eyes and squeezed Karras’s hand.
“You came in a car,” said Karras. His eyes felt wild and jittery, and he squinted to make them small. He didn’t want Thomas to be afraid.
Wilson’s eyes shifted in the direction of Otis.
“I’ll be back,” said Karras. “You’re gonna be okay. You did good, Thomas, hear?” His words sounded hollow coming from his mouth.
Karras went to Otis. His white shirt was soaked red and it flapped beneath the left arm. He had taken another bullet in the throat. He was dying. A wheezing noise came from his open mouth.
Karras searched Otis’s pockets and found the keys. Karras stood and sprinted for the warehouse door.
Frank Farrow pulled his fingers away from his stomach, where he had been pressing them at the point of pain. There was a black hole ripped in his shirt, and blood leaked freely from the hole.
Farrow started for the Mustang and realized Roman had the keys. He stumbled toward the alley. He’d get to the main road, hijack a car up there.
He made it to the alley. He heard his name called and turned. The gray-haired man had come from the warehouse. He had yelled his name and now he was walking toward the Mach 1.
Farrow ran into the alley as the Mustang’s ignition cut the night.
Karras fastened his seat belt. He put the transmission in reverse to back out of the spot. The car went back and he pushed down on the brake pedal, but the car did not stop, and he slammed the trans into drive to make it stop. The Mustang caught rubber as he blew across the lot and steered it into the alley.
Farrow was running down the alley, bent forward and holding his stomach, up ahead. There was no protection in the alley, and he was running to get through to the other side.
Karras accelerated. He reached Farrow quickly, and Farrow turned and leaped up onto the hood of the car. Farrow was on the hood and he began to slide down the hood, and Karras could see that he was confused and afraid. Farrow grabbed the inlay of the scoop as he slipped down the hood of the car and Karras gave the Mustang gas. He pinned the accelerator and the car lifted as the speedometer climbed and Farrow’s face through the windshield was all fear. His legs slipped down over the grille and his hands were white, gripping the scoop on the hood.
Past Farrow, Karras saw the Dumpster at the end of the alley, and he pressed down on the brake so he could swing wide of it, but the car did not slow and now they were heading straight for the Dumpster as the alley walls bled off at their sides.
Karras screamed over the screams of Farrow and they hit the Dumpster doing fifty. Karras saw a one-legged torso spin away from his field of vision and everything compressed at once. He met a wash of blood at the windshield and then he was showered in glass and black sleep.
Stefanos and Boyle heard the sonic collision of metal on metal as they entered the industrial park. Stefanos drove quickly, straight into the park, as Wilson had directed. They found the red Mustang, its front end totaled and smoking against the green Dumpster. They saw the body of Farrow, facedown and bled out on the asphalt nearby. One of Farrow’s legs had been amputated at the thigh.
Stefanos skidded to a stop. He and Boyle got out of the Dodge. Stefanos jogged to the Mustang and went around to the driver’s side. He opened the door and cradled Karras in his arms. Karras’s forehead was cut and bleeding, and it had darkened and begun to swell. Stefanos brushed glass off his face.
“He dead?” said Boyle.
“He’s breathing,” said Stefanos.
“Gimme a minute to clean up.”
“Hurry up, man. We’ve got to get him to a hospital.”
The Mustang blocked the alley. Boyle stepped around it.
“Check on Wilson,” yelled Stefanos.
Boyle walked down the alley. As he walked, he fitted his gloves onto his hands.
Thomas Wilson had a dream.
He and Charles were running and playing in Fort Stevens Park. Charles was seven or eight years old, and when Thomas looked down at his own skinny forearms and legs, he realized that he was the same age.
They were playing army, and it was a bright spring day. The park’s flag was popping in the breeze, and Charles was laughing and making shooting sounds with the invisible rifle cradled in his arms.
A white boy and a white man were silhouetted against the sun and standing on the top of the steep hill that semicircled the park. The man waved at Thomas Wilson.
“Come on, Charlie,” said Wilson. “Let’s go talk to that man!”
“All right!”
Wilson and Charles scurried up the hill to see what was on the man’s mind. When they got there, Wilson looked up at the man, who now blocked the sun. The man’s hand was on his boy’s shoulder, and the boy’s head was resting comfortably against his father’s hip.
“What’s up, mister?” said Thomas Wilson.
“Been waiting on you to get here, partner,” said the man, pushing his Orioles cap back on his head.
Thomas Wilson looked around the park with wonder. “Sure is a beautiful day.”
Bernie Walters smiled.
Boyle stood over the corpse of Thomas Wilson. He opened the Baggie and unfolded the snow-seals of a couple of grams of cocaine and sprinkled powder on Wilson’s face and chest. He dropped the snow-seals onto Wilson and left the. 38 in Wilson’s hand.
The one Stefanos had described as Otis was still alive. Bastard was making crazy sounds. Gasping for breath but also trying to sing or something. That’s what it sounded like to Boyle, anyway. Boyle pulled the. 380 from his jacket pocket and walked across the warehouse floor.
Roman Otis had always wondered how he would face death. He was dying now, there wasn’t any doubt about that. He decided to think of good things, let it happen while he was off somewhere else. Die peaceful the way he’d always hoped he would.
He couldn’t breathe too good. And it was hard to take his mind off the pain.
He’d had that Commodores song on his mind all day, couldn’t get it out of his head. He tried to sing a little bit
