house.
Will fired at Lesko’s back — and missed. And now Lesko crouched on the deck one story above him and shot at Will through the wrought-iron railing.
Will took to the street, then popped out from behind a van and got off six shots. But Lesko returned fire and Randall realized he had to corner this bastard and kill him at close range.
Pedestrians screamed and fled as Will charged toward the stairs, and then tires squealed and voices came from behind him.
“Freeze. Randall, put down your gun. Drop your gun now.”
Will turned his head. He saw cops — cops that he knew. The blond guy with the ponytail — Brady. And the other two. Conklin and Boxer, who had brought him into the Hall.
How had they found him?
They’d been inside the unmarked car on Golden Gate Avenue and had seen him, followed him, that was how.
There was screaming on both sides of the street, Lesko yelling for help, pedestrians freaking, cops shouting, “Drop your gun! Hands in the air!”
Will turned toward the cops, waved his gun, and shouted, “I know what I’m doing. Clear out of here. Don’t make me shoot.”
A cop yelled, “Drop your gun now!”
And then the cops fired at him.
He felt a shot hit his left shoulder and it enraged him. Adrenaline surged. He was right. They were wrong. He had told them to leave.
He fired toward the cops, watched them duck and cover.
Someone shouted, “Officer down. Officer down.”
Cops were down.
It was happening so fast. The blood left Will’s head as he realized, with an almost calming clarity, that he wasn’t going to leave this street alive. But he still had to do what he had come to do.
Lesko was pulling the trigger on his empty gun. He pulled again and again, looked at the gun, swore, then dropped it.
Will took the stairs and advanced on Lesko, the good-looking kid with blood staining his expensive clothes, blood dripping down his pants. He had his hands in the air, was backing up against the side of the house.
Lesko shouted at Will, veins popping in his neck and forehead, “You’ve got the wrong person! I’m Jimmy Lesko. I don’t know you. I don’t know you.”
Will said, “I feel sorry for your father. That’s all.”
He fired two shots into Lesko’s chest, then turned with his gun still in his hand. He felt the blow of a shot to his gut. His legs folded.
Will was on his belly, fading out of consciousness.
Lights flashed. Images swam. Voices swirled around him.
He got Jimmy Lesko.
He was sure. Almost sure. That he’d got him.
Chapter 99
Cindy was at the half-moon table in the corner of the living room, what she liked to call her home office, when the phone rang. She glanced at the clock in the corner of her laptop screen, then snatched up the phone.
“Ms. Thomas? This is Inspector May Hess, from radio communications. I have a message for you from Sergeant Boxer. There’s been a shooting. Go to Metro Hospital now.”
“Oh my God. Is it Richard Conklin? Has he been shot? Tell me it’s not Rich. Please tell me.”
“I just have the message for you.”
“You must know. Is Inspector Conklin — ”
“Ma’am, I’m just supposed to deliver the message. I’ve told you everything I know.”
Cindy’s mind slipped and spun, then she got herself together. She phoned for a cab, put a coat on over her sweatpants and T-shirt, stepped into a pair of loafers, and headed downstairs.
She paced in front of her apartment building, calling Richie’s phone, leaving messages when the call went to voicemail, then calling him again.
The cab came after five minutes that seemed like five hours. Cindy shouted through the cabbie’s window, “Metropolitan Hospital. This is an emergency,” then threw herself back into the seat.
She was trying to remember the last thing she’d said to Richie. Oh God, it was something like Not now, honey, I’m working.
What the hell was wrong with her? What the hell?
Her body was running hot and cold as she thought about Richie, about him being paralyzed or in pain or dying. God, she couldn’t lose him.
Cindy didn’t pray often, but she did now.
Please, God, let Richie be okay.
The cabdriver was quiet and knew his way. He took Judah Street past UCSF Medical Center, made turns through the Castro and across Market, all the way to Valencia.
Cindy was lost in her thoughts, came back to the present only when the cab pulled up to a side entrance of the hospital.
“Faster for you if I drop you here,” the driver said. “Twenty-Second is jammed.”
That’s when Cindy found that she didn’t have her purse, her wallet, had nothing but her phone.
“Tell me your name. I’ll send you a check and a really good tip, I promise that I will.”
“That’s great,” the driver said, meaning the opposite. “No, listen. Forget it. Don’t worry about it. Good luck.”
Cindy had been to this hospital many times before. She walked through the lobby, passed the elevator bank, and headed down the long hallway, past radiology and the cafeteria; she followed the arrows pointing toward the ER.
The waiting room outside the ER was dirty beige and crowded with people with all kinds of injuries. She found Yuki balled up in a chair in the corner of the room. Cindy called out to her, and Yuki stood up and flung herself into Cindy’s open arms.
Yuki was sobbing and Cindy just held on to her, dying inside because she couldn’t make out anything Yuki was saying.
“Yuki, what happened? Is Richie okay? Is he okay? ”
Chapter 100
It had been a night like no other I’d ever experienced. It felt like a military firestorm, gunshots cracking, bullets flying in all directions.
A sixty-year-old shop owner fell at my feet; never said a word, just died.
A drug dealer had been shot dead at point-blank range by an active cop who’d gone completely fucking rogue, and then there were other cops, my friends and my partner, who’d been injured in the line of duty.
I’d fired my gun, shooting to kill.
Maybe I was the one who brought Randall down.
I came out of the ER and found Cindy, Claire, and Yuki huddled together in the small, crowded waiting room. Cindy looked stunned. Yuki had been crying and now seemed distracted, as if she’d turned entirely inward.
Claire had the worn-down look of a person who hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours and had not yet gotten a second wind.
