Gunny froze. He wasn’t alone.
His body reflexively crouched into a defensive stance, hands up, ready to move in any direction. When his eyes finally adjusted to the dark, his blood ran cold.
He was staring at the barrel of a gun.
Guns. He hated the things. They filled him with rage, yet he was helpless before them. He had found that out soon enough when he enlisted in the army. He had believed in that fight and wanted to put his life on the line for his country and for freedom. But then came basic training.
“Van Dyke, you’re up,” the sergeant barked.
“Yes, sir!” Gunny took the proffered rifle, lifted it, placed it in exactly the right position. Then…
Nothing.
He looked through the site. Had a perfect bead on the target. He took a deep breath.
Nothing. He just couldn’t pull the trigger.
The men had teased him about it for days. He knew they were joking and meant no harm, but it still stung. One of them called him “Gunny,” in the ironic way the hulking Private McCall was nicknamed “Tiny.” Everywhere he went that week, all he heard was men calling out “Gunny! Hey, Gunny!”
“Gunny.”
Gunny roused himself. Someone was actually saying his name. Here and now. He peeled his eyes away from the gun barrel and allowed his gaze to travel up to the face above it.
“Jed!” Gunny looked back down at the body on the floor. It wasn’t Marvin Halliday, as he had expected. It was Jeffrey Wright Sr.
Gunny couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Jumpin’ Jed holding a gun over the dead body of his own drummer.
“Jed, what happened here?” Gunny asked.
Jed seemed stunned. He stared down at Jeffrey. “I don’t know—”
“Hands in the air!” a voice behind Gunny shouted. “Now!”
Jed looked past Gunny, then at the gun, as if he just realized he was holding it. He dropped it with a clatter to the floor and raised his hands.
As Gunny turned around, cops swarmed into the demolished nightclub.
A short, squat policeman roughly grabbed Jed’s wrists, yanked them behind his back, and handcuffed him.
“I didn’t do anything!” Jed protested.
“If you’re arresting him, why aren’t you arresting me too?” Gunny demanded. “I’m standing right here!”
“Don’t tempt us,” the policeman said.
A thin detective with hawklike features stepped forward carefully. “We saw you walk in just a minute ago. Not enough time to do all this.” He gestured at the room, then his beady eyes returned to Jed. “Besides, he was holding the weapon.”
“I just found him like this,” Jed said. “Jeffrey Wright is a member of my band—and my friend! Why would I want to kill him?”
“So that’s Jeffrey Wright,” a fresh-faced blond cop said.
“You know him?” Gunny asked, surprised.
“We hear the same rumors everyone else does,” the officer holding Jed said. “And what we’ve been hearing is that Jeffrey Wright wanted to strike out on his own. Start his own band.”
The hawk-faced detective bent down and, with a handkerchief, gingerly picked up the gun Jed had just dropped. “Here’s my theory, fellas,” he declared loudly as he stood. “Jumpin’ Jed followed Wright to a meeting with Marvin Halliday to try to persuade his drummer not to defect.” He glanced at Jed and smirked. “I guess the meeting got ugly.”
“That’s crazy,” Jed protested. “I came to tell Jeffrey if he wanted to leave there’d be no hard feelings.”
“Sure you did,” the detective said.
The hawklike detective suddenly stepped right up to Jed. “What did you do with Marvin Halliday?” he bellowed inches from Jed’s face.
“Nothing!” Jed said. “I never even saw him.”
The detective looked Jed up and down. “Bring him in, boys. We’ll ask him more questions at the precinct.”
“Don’t worry, Jed,” Gunny shouted as the cops roughly hauled Jed away. “I’ll get you out of this!”
He just had to figure out how.