The Inner Circle (32 page)

“Stop!” he shouted.
 

I didn’t even get a chance to look back at him. I could see him from the corner of my eye—his gun aimed at me—but that was it. My focus was instead on the Corvette as it swerved into the gas station parking lot. On the two men inside, both wearing sunglasses. On the passenger and the Uzi in his hands.
 

The Corvette screeched to a halt, parallel with the gas station, and both men jumped out, the passenger brandishing the Uzi, the driver a Glock.
 

“Fancy meeting you here,” the driver said.
 

From the corner of my eye I watched the man turn toward the two men from the Corvette. “Stop!” he shouted again.
 

The passenger said, “Who the fuck are you?”
 

“Deputy Ray Porter. Now drop your weapons!”
 

The driver laughed and said to the passenger, “Talk about wrong place, wrong time.”
 

From the corner of my other eye I watched Maya open her door silently, step out, place one foot on the ground.
 

I said, “Deputy Porter and his son aren’t involved here. Let them go.”
 

“That depends,” the driver said, “on how big of a hero he thinks he can be.”
 

“Deputy Porter,” I said, “for the sake of your son, stand down.”
 

“I said drop your weapons!” the deputy shouted.
 

Ahead of me Drew had positioned himself to sight over the SUV’s hood. Jesse, still with one hand on the Abortionist’s arm, withdrew his gun.
 

The Corvette’s passenger said, “Ben, this cop here is making things difficult.”
 

“What do you want?”
 

“For you to surrender—for
all
of you to surrender. You do that, you get to see your friend again.”
 

The boy started crying, hiding behind his father.
 

“For the love of God, Deputy Porter,” I said, “don’t be stupid. Take your boy inside.”
 

Deputy Porter shouted, “This is your last warning! Drop your weapons now!”
 

The woman in the sundress, who’d been methodically fanning herself as she pumped gas, stood frozen by her car. Her eyes were wide as she watched the unfolding drama. I wanted to yell at her, tell her to get in her car and just drive away, but before I could the Corvette’s driver shook his head.
 

“Like I said—wrong place, wrong time.”
 

And he tilted his gun and shot Deputy Ray Porter right in the forehead.
 

His boy screamed. The woman screamed. The Abortionist screamed.
 

I shouted, “Now!”
 

Maya opened up first, striking the Corvette’s passenger in the chest. His Uzi sprayed the front of the gas station, shattering glass. Drew fired at the driver who had already turned away to take cover behind the Corvette, while Jesse and I hurried the Abortionist toward the SUV.
 

I created a mantra in my mind, repeating
let’s go let’s go let’s go
, while bullets zinged everywhere, puncturing metal, shattering more glass.
 

Once I was certain Jesse could handle getting the Abortionist loaded—this was about three seconds since the gunfire had first started—I pushed away and raised my gun, aimed at the passenger who was still standing, still spraying the Uzi.
 

I fired, one two three shots, and still the Corvette’s passenger was on his feet, his finger stuck against the trigger, spewing bullets everywhere. He went down a second later, taking the Uzi with him.
 

Jesse and the Abortionist had taken cover behind the SUV, Jesse shielding the man with his body.
 

I started that way when I realized the gunfire wasn’t over. The driver was still alive.
 

He popped back up behind the car, jumped inside, firing wildly as spun the wheel with one hand and punched the gas.
 

Maya had moved from her position by the Focus and advanced on the Corvette as it squealed out of the parking lot, Maya shooting first at the driver and then at the back of the car, trying for the wheels if possible, trying for anything.
 

Moments later the Corvette had made it back on the main strip, nearly colliding with a pickup heading south, the pickup’s horn blaring.
 

Maya turned back, lowered her gun, started toward the SUV.
 

The Abortionist, sensing the gunfire was over, tried getting back up but Jesse was still shielding him with his body.
 

“Jesse, we’re clear,” I said.
 

Jesse didn’t move.
 

“Jesse?”
 

Still nothing.
 

The tinny music had faded away once again, from Buffalo Springfield to The Doors, Jim Morrison going on about breaking through onto the other side. Just behind this the boy was still screaming, as was the woman.
 

Maya and I hurried forward, but Drew was the closest, only feet away. He leaned down and turned Jesse over.
 

Jesse’s entire front was dark with blood. His eyes were open, blinking slowly. His mouth was open, and he was gurgling blood.
 

I fell to my knees beside him. I touched his forehead, felt for a pulse.
 

It was very weak.
 

“Jesse,” I said, and grabbed for his hand, held it tightly.
 

“B-B-B-Ben,” he said and his voice was frail and as thin as a piece of parchment.
 

“Jesse, it’s okay, it’s okay,” I said, telling him the same words you tell anyone who’s been mortally shot, who’s very close to knocking on heaven’s door.
 

He continued to blink slowly. His eyes rolled around in his head, left and right, up and down, until they found me.
 

“I’m ... c-c-c-cold,” he whispered.
 

And died.

47

I stood up almost immediately. Stared past the SUV toward the main strip.
 

“Ben?”
 

I turned away and started toward the Focus. Paused and turned back. Leaned down and grabbed my gun off the ground and then stood back up.
 

“Ben, what are you doing?”
 

A part of me—the sudden numb part—wanted to continue ignoring Maya. Instead I jabbed my finger at Jesse and the Abortionist and said, “Get those two loaded up and get the fuck out of here.”
 

“But what about you?”
 

“I’ll be fine,” I said, already heading for the Focus. I climbed inside, tossed my gun and the Abortionist’s gun on the passenger seat, fired up the ignition, and then tore out of the parking lot in the same direction the Corvette had been headed less than a minute ago.
 

There wasn’t much traffic on the main street—a few cars and pickup trucks—but still I needed to swerve around them as I pressed the gas pedal to the floor. I knew the Focus couldn’t compete with the Corvette, not when it came to horsepower, but at that moment I didn’t care. Hope Springs was barely a dot on the map. The only way to enter and exit the town was via the main street, which eventually turned into the highway. From there, it was miles of endless asphalt until the next town loomed on the horizon.
 

My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I made no move to answer it. It was either Maya or the Kid, and right now I didn’t want to deal with either of them.
 

Less than a minute later I reached the outskirts of Hope Springs, and the highway opened up. In the distance—maybe a half mile away—was the red Corvette. It was a peculiar choice for Simon’s men, almost too conspicuous, but again, it had massive horsepower. My only hope was that during the shootout something vital had been struck. My fingers were crossed for the fuel line.
 

I pushed my foot down on the gas even more, as if that would make the car go faster. The speedometer was rising—going from ninety to ninety-five, ninety-five to one hundred—but at some point it would reach its breaking point. Still, there was nothing between the Focus and the Corvette but empty highway, and as the seconds ticked by, the distance between us began to shorten.
 

Until, suddenly, the distance vanished almost at once.
 

One moment the Corvette was off in the distance ahead of me, barely even a red speck, and then the next moment I was coming up on it way too fast.
 

It didn’t occur to me until a second later that the Corvette had stopped completely. That was when I saw the oil directly behind it on the highway. That was when I saw the driver climbing out of the Corvette and bringing up his gun and aiming it right at my windshield.
 

I slammed on the brakes just as the driver opened fire. The windshield spider-webbed. I flinched, jerking the wheel. The tires caught in the oil—its fuel line or something had definitely been hit—and then the car started into a spin, its tail end just missing the Corvette. The Focus kept spinning until it slid off the highway completely and then skidded to halt in a cloud of dust.
 

For an instant I didn’t move. I
couldn’t
move. My seatbelt had tightened, making it nearly impossible to breath. The windshield was all fucked up, and the dust was thick outside the windows, so I couldn’t see much. Both guns were now on the floor of the passenger side. I went to reach for mine—I wasn’t about to trust the Abortionist’s Smith & Wesson—but the seatbelt held me in place. I unsnapped the seatbelt, leaned down, grabbed the gun, but didn’t sit back up.
 

I waited.
 

I counted ten seconds in my head, letting the dust settle, then, still staying low on the seat, bent to open the driver’s door. It disengaged, opened just a little bit. I placed my foot against it and count five more seconds before I kicked it open.
 

The shot was almost instantaneous, shattering the window. There was a pause, then another shot. Another pause followed this and I dove out of the car, head first, rolling and then coming back up, my gun aimed on where those first two shots had originated. I fired twice, then waited as the dust settled.
 

The driver wasn’t there.
 

Behind me then, the crunch of shoes against dirt, and the driver said, “Don’t fucking move.”
 

I stayed still for a second, then jerked back, rolling away, and brought up my gun. It was kicked out of my hand. The driver stepped forward, aiming his gun at my face, but I knocked it away just as he fired it near my ear—
BANG!
—and the slide snapped back, the magazine empty. I grabbed onto his wrist and jerked it down onto my knee, the driver screaming as the bone snapped, and then I rose to my feet and kicked him in the chest, sending him to the ground. By then the dust had thinned enough to see clearly—the Corvette up on the highway, the Focus off to the right, my own gun just feet away—and I started toward the gun.
 

Behind me, I heard a
snick!
and turned to see the driver back on his feet, a switchblade held at his side with his unbroken hand.
 

He charged at me.
 

I squared my feet, waiting, and then twisted away at the last moment, dodging the knife. I kneed him in the stomach, heard him groan, but he was much quicker than I took him for. Despite his injury, he managed to slice my arm and elbow me in the face. I stumbled back, my glasses askew, and he was on me again, throwing me to the ground. I used my arm to keep the knife away from my face, but the driver kept it there, the blade pointed at my eye. I struggled, and he struggled, sweat beading on his brow, breathing heavy, his teeth gritted, the point of the blade lowering closer and closer ...
 

I jerked my head away, pushed his hand gripping the blade to the left, and snapped my head forward into his nose. He stumbled back, letting go of the knife, and I climbed on top of him, used the heel of my sneaker to grind into his broken wrist.
 

He screamed.
 

The gun lay only feet away, the knife even closer. I grabbed the knife, flung it away, then stood and went for the gun just as a familiar whine rose up in the distance.
 

I glanced up and readjusted my glasses.
 

The Ducati was headed this way, coming from Hope Springs.
 

I picked up the gun and turned back to the driver. He was still on the ground, holding his broken wrist. I leaned down and grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him up and stuck the barrel of the gun in his mouth.
 

“You fucking killed that boy’s father.”
 

Despite the gun in his mouth, the driver looked back at me with amusement.
 

“And you killed one of my people. A close friend.”
 

The driver began to laugh.
 

I slid the gun back out of his mouth and knocked it against the side of his head. “What’s so fucking funny?”
 

He spat blood and grinned up at me. “You, Ben. You’re a fucking joke.”
 

The distant whining had stopped. For the first time I was aware of it and glanced up and saw the rider straddling the bike on the side of the highway. In his hand was a gun—maybe the same gun that had killed those two bent cops back in Miami Beach.
 

“What do you want?” I shouted.
 

The rider made no reply.
 

“I don’t need your help. I’m taking care of the situation.”
 

The rider lifted the gun and fired. The ground only feet away from me spat dirt.