Stewart walked through smoke to a wheezing Hess, who was leaving a slug’s trail of blood as he back-crabbed convulsively on the marble tiles, still gripping both.38s. He stopped moving and his crossed eyes pinwheeled beneath the mask as he struggled to fix them on his friend. He voided his bowels. He arched his back and fought for breath.
“Shorty,” said Stewart, looking down at Hess. “We gonna get you out of here, son. You gonna be all right.”
Hess died as the words came from Stewart’s mouth.
Stewart looked through the plate-glass window at the Nova, still idling out front. He had heard sirens. He could not see the squad car out in front of the supermarket or the unmarked that had joined it. He could not see the uniformed patrolman, Troy Peters, edging his way along the storefronts toward the bank.
Stewart harnessed the shotgun inside his raincoat. He bent down, drew the security guard’s.45 from Hess’s waistband, released the magazine, palmed it back in the grip, and thumbed off the safety.
“Bring me them bags,” said Stewart dully, talking to the tellers who were still standing.
Stewart jacked a round into the chamber of the Colt. He blinked against the smell of gunsmoke, excrement, and blood.
One of the young men came from behind the tellers’ cages and handed Stewart three cloth bags heavy with cash. Stewart bunched them in his left hand, his right gripping the Colt. He walked slowly to the front door.
VAUGHN AND STRANGE watched Peters move along the drugstore and then the dry cleaners, signaling the occupants of those stores to step back and stay where they were as he kept one eye on the bank, his gun at his side.
Another squad car had come into the lot and blocked the exit. Vaughn had drawn his weapon. He stood with his gun arm on the roof of the Ford, aiming at the bank. Strange’s arm was fixed the same way, his gun sighted on the Nova. They were waiting for a white shirt with a bullhorn from the Sixth, along with more backup and an ambulance. The siren of the ambulance could be heard as it approached.
“What’d you hear?” said Vaughn.
“Gunshots and a shotgun,” said Strange.
“What
“Two gunshots, evenly spaced. A shotgun blast right after that, and then another, ten, fifteen seconds later.”
“Sounds like we got some dead.”
“Shouldn’t we rush the place?”
“Hell, no,” said Vaughn. “The thing to do is save the ones still alive. You don’t want them killin’ hostages. Wait for Stewart and Hess to come out. Don’t let ’em get in that car.”
“What about Martini?” said Strange, one eye shut, sighting him down the barrel of the.38.
“We don’t have to take him now,” said Vaughn.
“Okay,” said Strange.
“Can you hit his tires from here?”
“I can try.”
“Because you gotta disable that car. I’m gonna be busy with Stewart and Hess.”
“I’ll try.”
“Look at your partner,” said Vaughn, admiration in his voice. “That’s a smart young man right there.”
“Troy Peters,” said Strange.
“You both did good.”
Strange blinked sweat from his eye. He steadied his hand.
MARTINI, HIS EYES on the sideview mirror, had witnessed the violence inside the bank. He’d seen Buzz standing over the body of Shorty. He’d seen Buzz take the gun off Shorty’s body and take the cloth bags in his hand. And now Buzz was coming for the door. Buzz had heard the sirens, most likely, and knew that the police had arrived. He didn’t know that the big homicide cop, the one who got his gas at the station, had his gun trained on the front of the bank. He didn’t know that Strange, the black cop Martini had known as a kid, had his gun on the Nova. He didn’t know that the blond policeman was edging his way along the fronts of stores toward the bank.
Martini had not touched the gun resting between his legs. He wasn’t going to touch it. He’d never told Buzz that he would. Buzz had ordered him to wait, and that’s what he was doing. That’s all he would do. He wasn’t going to shoot at these men in uniform, who served like he’d served, like his friends had served, in the war.
Dominic Martini depressed the clutch and put the Hurst in gear. He thought of the men in uniform and found another gear. He revved the gas against the clutch. The needle swerved toward the red line on the tach.
Buzz Stewart pushed on the front door, opened it, and walked quickly out onto the sidewalk, directly behind the Nova. He heard a cop shouting from his right and, without turning, blind-fired his gun.
STRANGE HEARD TROY Peters’s command and saw his hesitation as the big man shot blind. He saw Peters take a bullet, drop his weapon to the side, and fall.
Vaughn fired at the big man and hit him high. Strange, as he had been ordered to do, shot at the tires of the Nova, hitting the grille and fender instead. The big man fired back at them, sending him and Vaughn down for cover as the rounds took a beacon light out and some paint off the roof of the squad car.
“We gonna go up together, young man,” said Vaughn to Strange with calm and assurance. “Now.”
Strange stood with Vaughn, ready to fire. They cleared the roof with their gun arms. They saw the Nova’s tires screaming on the asphalt, and the big man standing behind the car.
STEWART CHARGED OUT of the bank and saw two cops leaning over the roof of a squad car, pointing their guns at him. From his right he heard a man shout, “Police, drop your weapon!” and Stewart fired the automatic in that direction without turning his head. In his side vision he saw the cop go down. Stewart heard shouts from the lot and turned his gun that way and saw smoke and felt a slug hit him like a sharp punch. He stumbled back, firing wildly at the squad car, seeing a cherry light pulverized and rounds spark off the roof and the cops dropping behind its far side. He stood behind the Nova, hearing the clutch pop off the gas, seeing smoke pouring out from under the rear tires as they sought purchase, thinking, Those wheels are turning the wrong way.
The Nova caught asphalt and roared toward him. It jumped the sidewalk and lifted him up off his feet, taking him back through the window of the bank. Glass exploded sonically around him.
His legs were pinned between the rear bumper of the Nova and the edge of the marble wall that fronted the bank. A.38 slug had shattered his clavicle, tumbled, and lodged in his deltoid. He felt little pain.
Stewart’s torso hung backward over the lip of the wall. He had dropped the bags of money. He had dropped the.45. The shotgun was harnessed, and he did not have the strength to pull it free. He heard men shouting and their footsteps as they ran toward him.
