dispensing tray.
The customer turned away from the machine and from them, as if he might
walk off and leave his Lexus. He seemed to be shaking with anger, but
it was mostly the blustery wind shivering the loosely fitted suit.
'What's wrong here?' Luther asked, heading toward the guy as thunder
tolled across the lowering sky and the palms in the south planter
thrashed against a backdrop of black clouds.
Jack started to follow Luther before he saw the suit jacket billow out
behind the blond, flapping like bat wings. Except the coat had been
buttoned a moment ago. Double-breasted, buttoned twice.
The angry man faced away from them still, shoulders hunched, head
lowered.
Because of the loose and billowing fabric of his suit, he seemed less
than human, like a hunchbacked troll. The guy began to turn, and Jack
would not have been surprised to see the deformed muzzle of a beast,
but it was the same tan and cleanshaven face as before.
Why had the son of a bitch unbuttoned the coat unless there was
something under it that he needed, and what might an irrational and
angry man need that he kept under his jacket, his loose-fitting suit
jacket, his roomy goddamned jacket?
Jack called a warning to Luther.
But Luther sensed trouble too. His right hand moved toward the gun
holstered on his hip.
The perp had the advantage because he was the initiator. No one knew
violence was at hand until he unleashed it, so he swung all the way
around to face them, holding a weapon in both hands, before Luther and
Jack had even touched their revolvers.
Automatic gunfire hammered the day. Bullets pounded Luther's chest,
knocked the big man off his feet, hurled him backward, and Hassam
Arkadian spun from the impact of one-two-three hits, went down hard,
screaming in agony.
Jack threw himself against the glass door to the office. He almost
made it to cover before taking a hit to the left leg. He felt as if
he'd been clubbed across the thigh with a tire iron, but it was a
bullet, not a blow.
He dropped facedown on the office floor. The door swung shut behind
him, gunfire shattered it, and gummy chunks of tempered glass cascaded
across his back.
Hot pain boiled sweat from him.
A radio was playing. Golden oldies. Dionne Warwick. Singing about
the world needing love, sweet love.
Outside, Arkadian was still screaming, but there wasn't a sound from
Luther Bryson.
Luther was dead. Jack couldn't think about that. Dead. Didn't dare
think about it. Dead. Wouldn't think about it.
The chatter of more gunfire.
Someone else screamed. Probably the attendant at the Lexus. It wasn't
a lasting scream. Brief, quickly choked off.
Outside, Arkadian wasn't screaming anymore, either. He was sobbing and
