Needles was well aware of the importance of frisking bank managers — having uncovered several concealed weapons himself that way. When he was in charge of a job he was meticulous about such matters, but he wasn't in charge on this job — he wasn't even there. Diggs was.
Souther drew a deep breath in through his nose and released it slowly out his mouth. With Diggs looking at life in prison, and all his other men either doing time or dead, Needles and Beeks were all he had. He looked at them sadly, then pulled two more glasses out of his desk and poured them both a drink.
Aaron trembled, terrified, unable to believe what he'd just overheard. He slipped out of the maintenance room and took a few cautious steps toward the stairs. But in the dim light he tripped over a pile of loose steel pipes and tumbled to the floor — making a huge racket.
Souther stood and drew his. 45 automatic.
Aaron lay still, holding his breath, his heart bouncing off his ribs like a boxer's speed-bag. He pictured his epitaph, carved in granite:
Here Lies Young Aaron Quinn
A Clumsy Fool Until The End
Souther picked up a large black flashlight, clicked it on, then eased the office door open with his foot and stepped slowly out onto the walkway, sighting down the powerful beam with his pistol. Needles and Beeks drew their guns and followed him.
The men worked their way slowly down the long balcony, checking behind stacks of boxes and under piles of junk, moving closer to Aaron with each step.
Icy fingers gripped Aaron's heart as Souther's flashlight sliced through the darkness like a great saber.
Willy rounded the corner in front of the cannery, pedaling his beach cruiser at full speed. He jumped the curb under the mercury-vapor streetlamp and stomped his coaster brake, laying a long black patch of rubber across the wide, concrete sidewalk.
Two vans were parked at the curb — one white, one black. Willy glanced at them curiously. Then, whistling a simple tune, he pulled open the secret panel and pushed his beach cruiser inside.
– Willy paused to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, then leaned his bike against Aaron's and worked his way through the junk maze to the back staircase.
He jumped as a bright beam of light swept across the balcony railing above him, but he assumed it was Aaron and started up the stairs.
– The three men were practically on top of Aaron.
'If you find the fucker, waste him,' Souther said.
Willy heard the strange voice and stopped, then backed slowly down the steps and ducked behind a piece of machinery.
Aaron tried to crawl away, but the loose pipes were everywhere. Souther hit him with the flashlight beam and fired. The concussion nearly burst Aaron's left eardrum, and he cried out as the bullet splintered wood next to his ear.
Willy screamed, but he caught it with his hand and shoved it back into his mouth.
'Don't shoot!' Aaron cried, throwing his hands high in surrender. 'I give up!' Tears streamed down his cheeks as he got to his knees. 'I'm here! Please, God… don't shoot.'
Willy was horrified, confused, and powerless to help his friend. He said a quick prayer, then closed his eyes tightly and listened, shivering in a state of shock.
Souther kicked a wooden crate to one side and stabbed his light into the eyes of the trembling boy kneeling before him.
'Stand up,' he commanded.
Shaking in every limb, Aaron could barely keep his hands raised. He got to his feet and faced his captor. The man towered over him, eyes dark and cold. Deep lines ran down the sides of his face, and Aaron had a stomach lurching sense of the depth of the man's evil.
He didn't see the punch coming; it impacted his face with such force that he was sure it had caved in. His vision and balance left him and he fell sprawling to the floor.
Beeks was shocked. 'What was that for?' he said.
Aaron opened his eyes and touched a hand to his face; his fingers came back with blood. He looked up just in time to see Johnny Souther take aim at him with his pistol. Instinctively he held up an arm and turned his head, preparing to die.
Needles grabbed Souther's wrist.
Souther jerked his arm free and turned the gun on him.
Needles stumbled back a step, swallowing his breath. A drop of sweat dripped off the end of his nose, one inch from the gun barrel. 'The boy hasn't done anything,' he said.
'He's seen our faces, you idiot,' Souther said.
A bolt of pure instinct pierced Aaron's spine, triggering a desperate dash for the stairs. Souther fired. The bullet whizzed past Aaron's head, and with no hesitation he leaped over the second-floor railing and piled into a stack of cardboard boxes fifteen feet below. Souther ran to the railing and looked over, trying to track him with the flashlight.
Aaron quickly found his feet and sprinted across the cannery, passing mere feet from Willy. Souther fired two more shots that ricocheted off the loose siding panel just as Aaron dove through and disappeared into the night.
– 'Find him,' Souther said, fixing Needles with a look of utter contempt. 'And don't come back till you do. I'll be damned if I'm going to let some punk roam the city crying about my line of work.'
'He won't get far,' Needles said, praying that was true.
– Willy was frozen in place, his thoughts and heart rate a dizzying blur. Dusty air moved quickly in and out of his lungs as he strained to hear what was happening above him. He watched terrified as Needles and Beeks descended the stairs. Then, as the thugs exited the cannery, he waited, until at last the third pair of leather soled shoes moved away down the balcony toward the office.
He sent a quick text message to Aaron:
Bloody hell! Are you okay? Where are you?
Souther stopped abruptly, then turned and walked back toward the stair landing. Willy tucked his phone away and held his breath.
Aaron's phone lay on the walkway directly above Willy's position. The text message glowed brightly on the small screen.
Souther reached down, picked the phone up off the floor, and read the message. Then he stepped to the railing and sprayed his flashlight beam down into the warehouse. Willy covered his mouth with his hand and made himself smaller as the hot patch of white light swept past his toes.
Souther paused, listening, then clicked off the flashlight and walked back to his office and closed the door.
Willy waited a few moments for his heart to slow, then crawled out from his hiding place, tip toed over to his beach cruiser, and slipped quietly out of the cannery.
Chapter 7
Michael St. John sat hunched over his computer, notes, papers, and books stacked high around him. His writing studio (defined by large bookcases stuffed with research materials) occupied one small corner of an enormous, luxury loft apartment that consumed the entire 4,000 sq ft top floor of a converted four-story Brownstone. After writing his first short story at the age of six, he discovered that he not only loved writing, but according to his first-grade teacher he had a talent for it as well. Now, thirty years later, he was considered a very
