Samantha froze. Priscotti, staring intently down at her, didn’t see Taylor where he lay in the shadow of the boxes on the other side of the wash of light from the door. Not yet, at least. He couldn’t move. Just had to hope.
“Slive, we’ve got a family affair.”
Priscotti prodded Samantha to stand up and move into the doorway.
“Why, the brave policewoman. How did you find us?” Again Slive laughed like this was the best game he’d ever played.
Mick Callahan’s reaction was the opposite. For the first time he sounded panicked. “Sam, what are you doing here?”
“I was trying to get Slive before he got me. Followed his lapdog.”
Priscotti slammed an elbow into Samantha’s back. “You’re going to end up in that movie anyway. Maybe I’ll get to play a part.”
“How long were you there?” said Mick Callahan. “What … how much did you hear?”
“Ah, yes.” Slive took a lock of Samantha’s auburn hair in his fingers and rolled it back and forth. “Mick’s little girl. A stalwart in uniform. You have no idea what Daddy’s been up to. How about I brief you?” He took her by the arm and forced her into another chair at the table. Priscotti handed Slive his cuffs, which Slive clicked on. “Let me tell you about The Sergeant, my partner all these years—”
Callahan was up with a roar. Bent over with the chair handcuffed behind him, he charged Slive. The barrel of Priscotti’s gun flashed. Callahan fell backwards, hit the wall and slid down onto his side. Taylor rose from his crouch. Blood darkened the left shoulder of Callahan’s flannel shirt.
Slive slapped Priscotti hard with an open hand.
“What’s that for?”
“He’s handcuffed to the goddamned chair. I’d have knocked him down. Now we’ve got a mess to deal with.”
“You said we were going to make a mess tonight.”
“Not here, you complete idiot.”
“Dad! Dad, say something.”
Now what do I do? That office is a death box.
Priscotti and Slive were both armed. Samantha was cuffed to a chair behind Slive, and her father at the back, now wounded, lay on the floor, attached to his chair. Taylor was outnumbered and outgunned. He had to get one of them out of the office. Divide and conquer. Or at least divide and not get shot.
Taylor stuffed the .357 in one of the outside pockets of his field jacket, fell back three rows, and slipped between the shelves. He brushed a box. A cloud of dust swirled up. He had to sneeze, but somehow did it silently. The act of holding it in made the wound at the back of his head explode with pain. Bent low, he moved toward the center aisle that divided the rows of shelves in the basement. Something glinted in a plastic tub. Handcuffs. No, not handcuffs. These were for cuffing someone’s hands and feet, with a chain that connected both sets of bracelets.
Could come in handy.
In a tub next to them were whips and cat o’ nine tails.
Also helpful. Time for a disturbance.
He grabbed one of the four-way manacles and a cat o’ nine tales, drove his shoulder into the shelf on his right, and raced across the center aisle. By the time he was pressed up against the opposite wall, the first shelf had toppled into the next with a crash and then sent over another with an even louder noise. The dominos tumbled to the back of the basement where the office was. Half the room’s shelves were down.
“What the fuck?” That was Priscotti.
Taylor shoved the cuffs and cat into his other jacket pocket and pulled out the collapsible Polaroid.
“Who’d you come with, Sammie?” That was Slive.
“Who would come with me is the question.”
The crack of flesh on flesh. Samantha cried out. Taylor moved to the center aisle and peered around the shelf. Slive stood over her. He didn’t look like he was enjoying himself now. “That goddamn pest of a reporter?”
“Don’t trust him.”
“Then why did he rescue you?” He turned to Priscotti. “Find him and shoot him in the fucking face.”
Priscotti slowly walked down the center aisle. The cop swung his gun left over the tumbled shelves then right as he reached each new intact row. Taylor stood with his back to a shelf. Priscotti stepped into full view, pointed the gun at the fallen shelves and started swinging back toward Taylor. As he did, Taylor stepped out and put the Polaroid in the fat cop’s eyes and tripped the shutter. The flash went off and Priscotti’s gun roared, ripping the head off a mannequin.
Lightning.
Thunder.
Stay focused.
He dropped the camera and yanked out the cat o’ nine tails. With all his strength, he swung at Priscotti’s face. Priscotti screamed as lashes appeared and filled with blood. Taylor hit him again, harder.
Priscotti dropped to his knees, his hands on his face. Taylor hauled him behind the row of shelves to get out of Slive’s direct line of fire, put a knee on his back, and snapped a handcuff on his right wrist, then his left. Priscotti’s head cleared enough to know this was trouble and started bucking like a steer in the rodeo. Taylor got kicked in the face as he cuffed the right leg. A thunderous roar. A box above exploded. Feathers floated down. Slive was shooting through the shelves. Two arms and a leg would have to do. He scrambled back to the wall as Slive fired again.
Priscotti screamed in pain. “Stop! You shot me.”
“Your fault for letting him jump you. Where is he?”
“Oh God, I’m shot. Help me.”
“Where the fuck is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, get back here.”
“Can’t.” His voice was a pained whine. “He cuffed my arms and a leg. I’m going to bleed to death chained here.”
“Is that you, Taylor? Because you turned out to be a complete pain in my ass. No matter. I’m going to kill you and these two. I’m going to solve all my problems in one night.”
Taylor didn’t answer. He slipped along the wall up toward the small room, stopping at each row of shelves to check for Slive in the doorway, or even a shadow that would tell him something. He was only going to get one shot, and he was far from being a good shot. Everything depended on skill he didn’t have using a gun that hefted like a bazooka.
Priscotti moaned. “Slive, please come help me. I need help. I’m shot.” His voice rose. “What kind of partner are you?” He started screeching. “Help, help. I need—”
Slive’s gun cracked once from the doorway. Priscotti went silent. “Guess this is the night to tie up all my loose ends.” A scraping noise. Slive pushed Samantha’s chair into the doorway. He crouched down behind, using her as a shield, and sighted his gun on her shoulder.
“Get out of here,” yelled Samantha. “Lock the basement door and get backup. He can’t do anything. He’s trapped with enough evidence to bury him forever.”
Slive hit Samantha hard above the right ear with the gun. A half scream and her head lolled to the side. It was all Taylor could do not to call out her name. He moved to the last row of shelves and aimed between boxes at the doorway. The only shot he had was of Samantha.
“She’s wrong, you know. They’ll all be dead and I’ll still get away. Surrender in three, or I shoot her.”
“One.” The muzzle turned toward the side of Samantha’s head. “Two.”
Give in. Talk us out of this.
Before he could step in the open, a shadow rose behind Slive. Mick Callahan, somehow back on his feet, blood covering his chest, screamed something that wasn’t words and ran head down at Slive like a wounded rhino.
For Taylor, time didn’t so much slow down as jump and stutter like in a silent movie.
Callahan drove Slive into the right wall of the office. Slive yelled, spit, and struck at Callahan. With both feet, Slive kicked Callahan away and then shot him three more times. The .357 was at Taylor’s side, then up and aimed at Slive. Taylor fired. The kick threw the gun high. Taylor pulled it back down and closed the distance to the doorway.
Slive fell back with a leg wound. He brought his gun up to fire. Taylor shot again, catching Slive in the arm. He spun once, twice, spraying blood on the wall, then tumbled onto the table, tipping it over and crashing onto the floor. Gold canisters dropped all over him, opening to spill more black strips of film everywhere.
Taylor kneeled in front of Samantha, who had blood trickling down the side of her head into her ear. “Hey, you with me?”
She groaned and her eyes fluttered. “What happened?”
“The short answer is Slive hit you. The long answer will have to wait until your head hurts a lot less.”
“That could take a really long time. What about my dad?”
Taylor picked up the handcuff keys from the floor and unlocked her. “It’s not good.”
“God, no.”
“You need to keep it together a little longer.” Her eyes were filling with tears. “Watch Slive while I run upstairs and call for help. Can you?”
She rose with a groan and leaned against the door jam, taking the gun from Taylor.
“You sure you can?”
“I’ll shoot him if he ever moves again.”
Keeping the gun aimed at Slive, she walked on shaky legs to crouch next to her father.
Taylor ran through the basement past Priscotti’s still handcuffed body. He took the stairs two at a time to the theater, where the same four guys had sat through everything that had happened in the basement.
In the store, he found Jersey Stein browsing the shelves like your average shopper. Cloudy was on his feet holding a handkerchief to his face. “That’s him.” The counterman pointed at Taylor. “He was with her. She hit me and they took my guns.”
Stein peered over a shelf at Taylor. “What’s going on?”
“You need to get four wagons down here. Three people shot in the basement and an officer hurt. And get more guys from your office. Make the calls, then come down. Cuff that bastard too.” Too late. Cloudy was out the door and running west on 42nd Street. “Never mind. He’s the least of our worries.”
Stein went out to his car to use the radio. Taylor went back even faster then he’d come. Samantha had unlocked Mick’s handcuffs and had her father’s head on her lap, the gun half trained on Slive.
She was sobbing. Her father was dead.
Taylor wondered if it would have killed The Sergeant anyway to explain himself to his daughter. Then he wondered if he’d ever be able to do it. The facts had always been everything to him. These would stab like knives.