Thriller (50 page)

A relief…sort of.

He spotted Mr. Ecuador standing over them with a gleaming

nickel-plated .357 revolver.

Robbery.

Okay, just keep your head down to stay off the cameras and

off these bozos’ radar, and you’ll walk away with the rest of them.

The black guy pushed him from behind.

“Assume the position, asshole.”

Jack spotted two cameras trained on the pharmacy area. He

knelt at the left end of the line, intertwined his fingers behind

his neck and kept his eyes on the floor.

He glanced up when he heard a commotion to his left. A

scrawny little Sammy Davis-size Rasta man with his hair packed

into a red-yellow-and-green-striped knit cap showed up packing a sawed-off pump-action twelve and driving another half a

dozen people before him. A frightened-looking Loretta was

among them.

And then a fourth—Christ, how many were there? This one

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had dirty, sloppy, light brown dreads, piercings up the wazoo, and

was humping the whole hip-hop catalog: wide baggy jeans, huge

New York Giants jersey, peak-askew cap.

He pointed another special as he propelled a dark-skinned,

middle-aged—Indian? Pakistani?—by the neck.

Both the newcomers had glazed eyes, too. All stoned. Maybe

it would make them mellow.

What a crew. Probably met in Rikers. Or maybe the Tombs.

“Got Mr. Manager,” the white guy singsonged.

Ecuador looked at him. “You lock the front door?”

Whitey jangled a crowded key chain and tossed it on the

counter.

“Yep. All locked in safe and sound.”

“
Bueno
. Get back up there and watch in case we miss somebody. Don’t wan nobody getting out.”

“Yeah, in a minute. Somethin I gotta do first.”

He shoved the manager forward, then slipped behind the

counter and disappeared into the pharmacy shelves.

“Wilkins! I tol you, get up front!”

Wilkins reappeared, carrying three large plastic stock bottles.

He plopped them down on the counter. Jack spotted Percocet and

Oxy-Contin on the labels.

“These babies are mine. Don’t nobody touch em.”

Ecuador spoke through his teeth.
“Up front!”

“I’m gone,” Wilkins said, and headed away.

Scarbrow grabbed the manager by the jacket and shook him.

“The combination, mofo—give it up.”

Jack noticed the guy’s name tag: J. Patel. His dark skin went

a couple of shades lighter. The poor guy looked ready to faint.

“I do not know it!”

Rasta man raised his shotgun and pressed the muzzle against

Patel’s quaking throat.

“You tell de mon what he want to know. You tell him
now!
”

Jack saw a wet stain spreading from Patel’s crotch.

“The manager’s ou-out. I d-don’t know the combination.”

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Ecuador stepped forward. “Then you not much use to us, eh?”

Patel sagged to his knees and held up his hands. “Please! I have

a wife, children!”

“You wan see them again, you tell me. I know you got armored-car pickup every Tuesday. I been watchin. Today is Tuesday, so give.”

“But I do not—!”

Ecuador slammed his pistol barrel against the side of Patel’s

head, knocking him down.

“You wan die to save you boss’s money? You wan see what happen when you get shot inna head? Here. I show you.” He turned

and looked at his prisoners. “Where that big bitch with the big

mouth?” He smiled as he spotted Loretta. “There you are.”

Shit.

Ecuador grabbed her by the front of her dress and pulled, making her knee-walk out from the rest. When she’d moved half a

dozen feet he released her.

“Turn roun, bitch.”

Without getting off her knees, she swiveled to face her fellow captives. Her lower lip quivered with terror. She made eye contact with

Jack, silently pleading for him to do something, anything,
please!

Couldn’t let this happen.

His mind raced through scenarios, moves he might make to

save her, but none of them worked.

As Ecuador raised the .357 and pointed it at the back of

Loretta’s head, Jack remembered the security cameras.

He raised his voice. “You really want to do that on TV?”

Ecuador swung the pistol toward Jack.

“What the fuck?”

Without looking around, Jack pointed toward the pharmacy

security cameras. “You’re on ‘Candid Camera.’”

“The fuck you care?”

Jack put on a sheepish grin. “Nothing. Just thought I’d share.

Done some boosting in my day and caught a jolt in Riker’s for not

noticing one of them things. Now I notice—believe me, I
notice
.”

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Ecuador looked up at the cameras and said, “Fuck.”

He turned to Rasta man and pointed. Rasta smiled, revealing

a row of gold-framed teeth, and raised his shotgun.

Jack started moving with the first booming report, when all

eyes were on the exploding camera. With the second boom he

reached cover and streaked down an aisle.

Behind him he heard Ecuador shout, “Ay! Where the fuck he

go? Wilkins! Somebody comin you way!”

The white guy’s voice called back, “I’m ready, dog!”

Jack had hoped to surprise Wilkins and grab his pistol, but

that wasn’t going to happen now. Christ! On any other day he’d

have a couple dozen 9mm hollowpoints loaded and ready.

He’d have to improvise.

As he zigged and zagged along the aisles, he sent out a silent

thank-you to the maniac who’d laid out these shelves. If they’d

run straight, front to back, he wouldn’t last a minute. He felt like

a mouse hunting for cheese, but this weird, mazelike configuration gave him a chance.

He hurried along, looking for something, anything, to use

against them. Didn’t even have his knife, dammit.

Batteries… notebooks… markers… pens… gum… greeting

cards…

No help.

He saw a comb with a pointed handle and grabbed it. Without stopping, he ripped it open and stuck it in his back pocket.

He heard Ecuador yelling about how he was going this way

and Jamal should go that way, and Demont should stay with the

people.

Band-Aids…ice cream…curling iron—could he use that? Nah.

Hair color…humidifiers…Cheetos…beef jerky—

Come
on!

He turned a corner and came to a summer-cookout section.

Chairs—no help. Umbrella—no help. Heavy-duty spatula—

grabbed it and hefted it. Nice weight, stainless-steel blade, serrated on one edge. Might be able to do a little damage with this.

Spotted a grouping of butane matches. Grabbed one. Never hurt

to have fire.

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Fire…he looked up and saw the sprinkler system. Every store

in New York had to have one. A fire would set off the sprinklers,

sending an alert to the NYFD.

Do it.

He grabbed a can of lighter fluid and began spraying the

shelves. When he’d emptied half of it and the fluid was puddling

on the floor, he reached for the butane match—

A shot. A
whizzz!
past his head. A quick glance down the aisle

to where Scarbrow—who had to be the “Jamal” Ecuador had

called to—stood ten yards away, leveling his .38 for another go.

“Ay yo, I found him! Over here!”

Jack ducked and ran around a corner as the second bullet

sailed past, way wide. Typical of this sort of oxygen waster, he

couldn’t shoot. Junk guns like his were good for close-up damage and little else.

With footsteps behind him, Jack paused at the shelf’s endcap

and took a quick peek at the neighboring aisle. No one in sight.

He dashed across to the next aisle and found himself facing a

wall. Ten feet down to his right—a door.

He pulled it open and stuck his head inside. Empty except for

a table and some sandwich wrappers. And no goddamn exit.

Feet pounded his way from behind to the left. He slammed

the door hard and ran right. He stopped at the first endcap and

dared a peek.

Jamal rounded the bend and slid to a halt before the door, a

big grin on his face.

“Gotcha now, asshole.”

In a crouch, gun ready, he yanked open the door. After a few

heartbeats he stepped into the room.

Here was Jack’s chance. He squeezed his wrist through the

leather thong in the barbecue spatula’s handle, then raised it to

vertical in a two-handed samurai grip, serrated edge forward.

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Then he moved, gliding in behind Jamal and swinging at his

head. Maybe the guy heard something, maybe he saw a shadow,

maybe he had a sixth sense. Whatever the reason, he ducked to

the side and the chop landed wide. Jamal howled as the edge bit

into his meaty shoulder. Jack raised the spatula for a backhand

strike, but the big guy proved more agile than he looked. He

rolled and raised his pistol.

Jack swung the spatula at it, made contact, but the blade

bounced off without knocking the gun free.

Time to go.

He was in motion before Jamal could aim. The first shot splintered the door frame a couple of inches to the left of his head as

he dived for the opening. He hit the floor and rolled as the second went high.

Four shots. That left two—unless Jamal had brought extras.

Somehow he couldn’t imagine a guy like Jamal thinking that

far ahead.

On his way toward the rear, switching aisles at every opportunity, he heard Ecuador shouting from the far side of the store.

“Jamal! You get him? You get him?”

“No. Fucker almost got me! I catch him I’m gonna skin him

alive.”

“Ain’t got time for that! The truck be here soon! We gotta get

inna the safe! Wilkins! Get back here and start lookin!”

“Who’s gonna watch the front?”

“Fuck the front! We’re locked in, ain’t we?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Find him!”

“A’ight. Guess I’ll have to show you guys how it’s done.”

Jack now had a pretty good idea where Ecuador and Jamal

were—too near the barbecue section to risk going back. So he

moved ahead. Toward Wilkins. He sensed that if this chain had

a weak link, Wilkins was it.

Along the way he scanned the shelves. He still had the spatula,

the comb and the butane match but needed something flammable.

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Antibiotic ointments…laxatives…marshmallows…

Shit.

He zigged and zagged until he found the hair-care aisle. Pos sibilities here. Needed a spray can.

What the—?

Every goddamn bottle was pump action. He needed fluorocarbons. Where were the fluorocarbons when you needed them?

He ran down to the deodorant section. Everything here was either a roll-on or a smear-on. Whatever happened to Right Guard?

He spotted a green can on a bottom shelf, half hidden behind a

Mitchum’s floor display. Brut. He grabbed it and scanned the label.

DANGER: Contents under pressure…flammable…

Yes!

Then he heard Wilkins ambling along the neighboring aisle,

calling in a high, singsong tone.

“Hello, Mr. Silly Man. Where aaaare youuu? Jimmy’s got a

present for you.” He giggled. “No, wait. Jimmy’s got six—count

em—six presents for you. Come and get em.”

High as the space station.

Jack decided to take him up on his offer.

He removed the Brut cap as he edged to the end of the aisle

and flattened against the shelf section separating him from

Wilkins. He raised the can and held the tip of the match next to

it. As soon as Wilkins’s face came into view, Jack reached forward,

pressing the nozzle and triggering the match. A ten-inch jet of

flame engulfed Wilkins’s eyes and nose.

He howled and dropped the gun, lurched away, kicking and

screaming. His dreads had caught fire.

Jack followed him. He used the spatula to knock off the can’s

nozzle. Deodorant sprayed a couple of feet into the air. He shoved

the can down the back of Wilkins’s oversize jeans and struck the

match. His seat exploded in flame. Jack grabbed the pistol and

trotted into an aisle. Screams followed him toward the back.

One down, three to go.

He checked the pistol as he moved. An old .38 revolver with

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most of its bluing rubbed off. He opened the cylinder. Six hardball rounds. A piece of crap, but at least it was his piece of crap.

The odds had just become a little better.

A couple of pairs of feet started pounding toward the front.

As he’d hoped, the screams were drawing a crowd.

He heard cries of “Oh, shit” and “Oh, fuck!” and “What he
do

to you, bro?”

Wilkins wailed in a glass-breaking pitch. “Pepe! Help me,

man! I’m dyin!”

Pepe…now Ecuador had a name.

“Sí,”
Pepe said. “You are.”

Wilkins screamed, “No!”

A booming gunshot—had to come from the .357.

“Fuck!” Jamal cried. “I don’t believe you
did
that!”

A voice called from the back. “What goin on dere, mon? What

hoppening?”

“S’okay, Demont!” Pepe called back. “Jus stay where you are!”

Then, in a lower voice to Jamal: “Wilkins jus slow us down. Now

find that fuck fore he find a phone!”

Jack looked back and saw a plume of white smoke rising toward the ceiling. He waited for the alarm, the sprinklers.

Nothing.

What did he have to do—set a bonfire?

He slowed as he came upon the employee lounge again. Nah.