Hell Dawn. Don Pendleton
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he clenched his jaw to keep the pain in check. Gunshots continued to ring in his ears, reminding him of the rare occasions when as a teen he’d attended concerts and his ears would buzz for twenty-four hours as they recovered from the audio assault.
Taking his hand away from the wound, he found it covered with blood. In fact, blood had soaked his wrist and then his sleeve, turning the fabric black almost up to his elbow. Unbidden, the face of the thug he’d just killed flickered across his mind and he felt his stomach roll. He saw the man’s gaze transform from one of controlled rage, a predatory confidence, to shock and finally helplessness as he realized he was dying. Fox had shoved the man away and exploded from the alley, passing the fallen police officer, leaving her also to die as he’d tried to save his own skin.
Tears stung his eyes as he chastised himself for his cowardice. How many more people were going to have to die because of him? Because of what he’d wrought with his own hands? His vision began to blur and his footsteps grew heavier. Shit! He’d lost so much blood that his body was ready to give out, to shut down, if not forever, at least for a time to heal.
Move!
He passed a couple of slab houses covered in peeling paint and fronted by small rock gardens and spotty grass. In the backyard of one, laundry hung from a line, blowing in the breeze. In the other, a black Labrador retriever stood on his hindquarters, his front paws hooked over the fence, barking at him and wagging its tail in welcome. He kept moving and hoped its noise didn’t prompt the home’s occupants to peer through their window where they’d see a blood-soaked man lumbering down the street.
He was beginning to feel shaky, and knew he couldn’t keep walking forever. Ahead, he saw a refuge, a wooden shed painted an odd green color that he guessed matched his skin tone at this particular moment. It sat inside a fenced yard, its door seized by the strong winds whipping through town, fanning open and closed.
The structure lay forty or so yards away. It might as well have been a mile for the way he felt. Eyes locked on the building, he stumbled to the corner and felt his legs grow rubbery. His hand lashed out and he caught hold of a street sign’s metal post. Leaning his body against it, his eyes slammed shut and a seductive blackness began to envelop his mind, summoning him to surrender to it.
The cell phone in his pocket trilled, pulling him back out. Dipping a hand into his pocket, he retrieved the phone and answered the call. “Hello.”
“Gabe?” Even in his shaky condition, Fox recognized Kurtzman’s voice immediately.
“Yeah.”
“Where the hell are you?”
“Good to hear your voice.”
“Yeah. C’mon. Where the hell are you?”
“Not sure. Some street.”
“You sound like hell. You injured.”
“Guy stabbed me, Aaron. Cut my side open. Hurts. Like. Hell.”
“Understood, brother. Where are you at? We’ll come get you.”
Fox peered up at the street sign, trying to bring the words into focus. “Peak Street,” Fox said. “I’m on Peak Street.”
“Okay, we’re on our way.”
“Man, I killed two people.”
“Right. You did what you had to. No worries, huh?”
“I didn’t want to. I feel like shit.”
“Like I said, no worries. We’ll work stuff out. Just hang on for a minute. I’ve got guys coming for you. Plainclothes. A mouthy blond guy and a gray-haired Hispanic fellow. They’ll take good care of you.”
His eyes slammed shut again until Fox heard a car engine growl to his left, prompting him to turn and look. He watched as a van rolled up to the curb. In his delirium, he’d lost his feel for time.
“That was fast,” he said.
“What was fast?” Kurtzman replied.
“Your guys are here.”
He heard Kurtzman mutter an oath. “Those aren’t my people, guy. Can you move?”
“Don’t. Think. So.” His tongue felt fat and clumsy, his mouth dry.
“Roger that. We’re on our way.”
Fox sank to his knees, his head whirling. He heard the dull thunk of an automatic transmission slipping into park, followed by a door opening. The idling engine buzzed in his ear like an insistent insect, but he kept his eyes shut as he felt himself slip closer to unconsciousness.
Boots thudded, and he cracked an eye. A pair of snakeskin cowboy boots came into view, the leather creaking as the wearer bent to kneel next to him. An instant later he saw a face, Latino, he thought, and he felt relief wash over himself. A mouthy blond guy and a gray-haired Hispanic fellow, Kurtzman had said. Did the guy have gray hair? Fox thought so, hoped so.
He fell unconscious as Cortez grabbed him under the arms and dragged him roughly toward a stolen Hyundai.
BLANCANALES SPRINTED toward the spot where Fox had claimed to have fallen. He was in good shape by almost anyone’s standards. Still, he felt his lungs burn for air as he exerted himself at the mountain town’s altitude.
From two blocks away, he heard a car door slam. Looking up, he saw two men dragging Fox toward a small red sedan. He poured on the speed, snatching one of the Beretta’s from beneath his coat as he did.
He also recognized the man who’d shot Schwarz. Blancanales’s heart drummed harder as rage flared inside him, causing him to run that much harder. The men hadn’t seen him yet and he stepped into the grass median between the sidewalk and the street, hoping the softer terrain would eliminate the sound of his pounding feet.
Lyons was across the street, surging forward at a similar pace, his form hidden behind parked cars. Unsure of what they’d find, the two men had decided to leave some distance between them, rather than bunching into a knot, forming an easy target.
“That’s our shooter,” Blancanales said.
“Right,” Lyons replied.
“You got the shot?”
“Negative. Too far away. Too clustered.”
“Let me fix that.”
Lyons darted out from between a pair of parked cars and uttered a war whoop. The sudden flurry of sound and motion caused the three men to look up from their captive. The guy in the black coat, the one who’d shot Schwarz, went on the defensive immediately. Crouching, he spotted Lyons heading his way and capped off two shots that whizzed well past the approaching figure. Lyons held his own fire, in part because of the proximity of houses and because the men remained too tightly wound around Fox. There was a good chance that Fox would take a hit.
Lyons ran in a zigzag pattern as the air around grew heavy with gunfire. Bullets perforated car windows, tail- and headlights, or glanced off steel. He watched as the third man dragged Fox’s body toward the car, opening up more precious space between him and the shooters with each passing second.
One of the hardmen got brave. He separated from the others and unleashed a volley of gunfire at Lyons. The former cop dived forward, rolled, before coming up in a prone position. The Python thundered twice more, spitting jagged columns of flame from the barrel. A moment later the shooter flew backward, as though hit dead-center by a wrecking ball. The guy in the black duster reacted, wheeling toward Lyons and unloading another deadly barrage of fire. The bullets chewed into the ground, showering Lyons with dirt and grass. Without aiming, he emptied the Python at his attacker, hoping the slugs at least would throw the guy off his stride.
The guy’s weapon went dry at the same time, forcing him to break off the attack. Lyons watched as the shooter let the submachine gun fall on its strap, spin and head for the vehicle’s driver’s side. The other man already had succeeded in stuffing Fox into the back seat of the car, and was