Jerzy Belaski stares back down the track, past Jimmy Scardino’s head, at the lights in the woods.
“It could be hunters,” Jimmy says.
Belaski reaches for the overhead dome light—moves the switch to stop it from coming on.
He leans his weight forward. Takes out the suppressed SIG.
The lights approaching are thirty yards away.
“Maybe they won’t stop...”
Above the glare of headlamps, more lights begin to flash, colored lights—red and blue.
“We’re not in Garfield Park,” Belaski answers.
The vehicle’s stopped moving.
A door opens, the driver’s door.
A man steps out.
A tight, white beam snaps on, a flashlight.
Scardino reaches to a door-pocket, he takes out a mid-size Springfield XD.
“Put that away.” Belaski eases open the passenger door. “Just get him talking.” He drops, crouches to the ground.
Moving down the side of the pickup, hidden from the headlights, he reaches the tailgate.
He risks a look at the vehicle down the track.
He can't see a partner.
Rural cops, he tells himself—they'd work alone.
The flashlight shines directly into the cab of the Toyota.
The cop nears the side of the pickup—gun trained on the driver-side window.
“Police officer...”
Red and blue light fractures the dark.
“Open up. Step out of your vehicle.” The sound of the man’s voice is dull, flat in the noiseless woods.
Scardino opens the driver’s door an inch.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” the officer shouts.
The door of the Toyota creaks on its hinges.
Belaski edges around the back of the pickup, still crouched—he studies the man now standing at right-angles to him—a police cap on his head, a padded jacket. Heavy face. Like an Iowa pig-farmer.
Scardino gets a boot on the ground, his hands out in front of him, no gun.
“Step out, turn around, put your hands on the roof of the truck.”
Jimmy gets out, straightens.
The officer steps sideways to the front of the Toyota. Moves the flashlight onto the registration plate. “Chicago?”
“Uh?”
“You're from Chicago?”
“I was just driving, man. I needed to get out of the snow.”
Belaski crouches at the tailgate. For a moment, he thinks of the control, the absolute power—the lives of both men in his sights. All he has to do is squeeze on the trigger. He feels the beating pulse in the muscle of his thumb.
“I want to see driver’s license and registration,” the officer says. He steps back directly behind Scardino.
Jimmy turns his head a little. “My license is in the truck there...”
Belaski hears the lack of any clue in the man’s voice.
“Put your hands behind your back,” the cop says.
“What? What for?”
“Just do what I tell you.”
Raising the pistol, Belaski takes a shallow breath. He stares into the side of the cop’s head.
Squeezes off two rounds.
The man’s head snaps sideways—blown out.
He falls, deadweight, into a crumpled heap.
The blunt thump of the gun echos in the mass of trees.
Jimmy stares at Belaski.
Belaski marches to the cop’s body.
Scardino fumbles out a Camel from his jacket—lights the cigarette, draws the smoke down deep. “Are you fucking crazy?”
“Waiting game is over.” Belaski glances at the lifeless form.
Turning on his heel, he walks down the track to the man’s vehicle—the Ford Explorer from before. Pausing by the open door, he listens—nothing from the radio, no sound.
“Drag him into the woods and get in the truck,” he calls back. “Follow on behind me.”
“What're you talking about?”
“Just do it, Jimmy, for Chrissake. Get the guy’s hat. Get in the truck, drive up behind me. You see me stop, you stop. That’s all you have to do.”