Jay Giles (35 page)
We heard the crank of the door handles, the squeak of hinges as the doors were pulled open. Hands reached in from either side, pulled the dead officers out. Wilder climbed into the passenger seat, held a gun on us. Another man got behind the wheel, put the truck in gear, accelerated through the intersection, down the road.
Wilder turned in his seat so he could look back, waved the gun at us. “You weren’t going to leave without saying good-bye, were you?” He grinned, showed us his pointed teeth. “I told the boss he should have shot you before he got rid of those Colombian assholes. Know what he told me?”
Didn’t seem like a question he wanted me to answer.
“He didn’t think you were that important.” He laughed loudly.
The driver made a right at
University Parkway
, drove inland.
“The boss also wanted me to thank you. He really appreciated your help in setting up the Colombians. He would never have gotten a gun anywhere near them. Thanks to you, he wastes that sanctimonious old sack of shit, those two shit-for-brains leeches. Now he’s got control of everything. Nobody can challenge him.”
I watched the gun in Wilder’s hand, thinking if he waved it close enough to me, I’d make a grab for it. Beside me, Tory was very still, tense.
The driver slowed, turned into the parking lot of a boarded-up 7-11 store, parked. The driver got out. Wilder kept the gun on us. The driver opened the door for us. Wilder’s gun didn’t waver, didn’t get close enough to grab. We got out slowly. Wilder followed.
The driver unlocked the padlock on the boarded-up door, propped it open, got back in the van. “I’ll lose the ride. You know where to pick me up after you finish with them?”
Wilder nodded to him. “Inside,” he said, waving the gun at us.
Tory led the way. I was in the middle. Wilder behind me, the gun at my back.
Inside the 7-11, all that remained was the counter by the door, a few display racks jammed together on the right hand side. Parts of light fixtures, shelving, display cards littered the place. Against the back wall were three bags of concrete, mixing tools. A hole about six feet long, four feet wide had been dug in the floor. Wilder saw me looking at it, grinned. “We own this property,” he said smugly. “Once you’re buried, nobody will ever find you.”
Tory stopped, looked at me, her eyes wide with fear.
I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile, walked three steps past her to put a little separation between us. If I could grab Wilder, screen Tory from him, she had a chance to get out the door.
I nodded at the hole, “This is the same thing you did at the manufacturing plant.”
He responded by pointing his gun at my chest. “
Seattle
, I wanted to make this long and painful.” He grinned, savoring the possibilities. “A bullet in each kneecap.”
I heard him. But my attention was on Tory. Our gazes met.
“One in the nuts.”
I tried to signal her with my eyes.
“Maybe, bury you alive.”
Her eyes danced back. She was trying to tell me something, too.
I frowned, unsure of what she was signaling, not wanting her to do anything rash.
Wilder saw it. “Trying to save the girlfriend,
Seattle
? Set up some move to get the gun like they do in the movies?” He pointed the gun at Tory, grinned wolfishly. “Maybe I’ll start with her kneecaps. Let you watch her die, before I do you.”
Tory’s gaze darted to the side. Whatever it was, she was about to do it.
“No,” I said urgently, as much to her as to him. I took a step toward him.
Wilder swung the gun my way. Probably sensed Tory coming at him from the other side. He jerked the gun in her direction. Fired.
Tory screamed.
The bullet hit her in the shoulder, knocked her down.
I went at Wilder in a bull rush. Hit him in the stomach, chest high, drove him back. He struggled to keep his feet under him, but I had the momentum. He went over backward, landed hard on his back, grunted, as the air was knocked out of him. I got on top of him, straddled his chest, tried to wrestle the gun away from him.
He was a professional killer, but I had seventy pounds on him and had him in an awkward position. He bucked. Kneed me. Punched with his left hand. Tried to get the gun in his right hand pointed at me. Twice he pulled the trigger. Both bullets slammed into the ceiling.
I stayed on top of him, fought to get control of the gun. Even though I was using both hands on his one, I couldn’t get any leverage. His arm was extended away from his body just enough that I was in danger of rolling off, letting him up.
I strained. Pulled. Yanked the gun. Tried to point it at him.
His other hand landed a hard punch to my ear. I felt the pain in my eyes.
I slammed my right fist into his nose as hard as I could. Blood spurted. I hit him again, felt the bone break. I hit him again, same place. Felt his whole body twitch. The hand that held the gun relaxed for a second.
I reached for it, yanked the gun around, forcing his arm toward his bloody face.
Inch by inch, the gun moved closer.
He pushed and kicked.
I concentrated on the gun. When I had it twelve inches from his face, I slammed my fist into his nose again. He yelled, his body involuntarily convulsing from the pain. I forced the gun closer. Only eight inches away.
He hadn’t given up. He kneed me in the groin. A good shot that had me seeing stars. I lost my grip on his hand. He pulled the trigger, and something blew by the side of my head. I slammed his broken nose again, put everything I had into it.
He screamed in pain, grabbed my ear with his left hand, tried to rip it off. I used my right hand to pull at his fingers, break his grip. I bent a finger back, heard it snap. Still, he was tearing my ear. I pulled another finger back. When it snapped, he let go of my ear. I held on to his broken fingers, twisted them.
His screams intensified. I pulled at his gun hand, moving it, pointing it at his head. Our gazes met. What I saw was vengeance. He wasn’t finished.
I used that to feed my rage, used both hands to drive the gun toward his head. The force must have surprised him. The gun barrel swung crazily, knocking into his pointed teeth. Two broke off.
He forced the gun back up, but only momentarily. I pushed it back down, drawing blood when the barrel smashed against his lip. This time, he wasn’t able to force it back. I slammed the gun against his lip again, splitting it wide open. I slammed it against his mouth, breaking off more teeth. When he screamed, I jammed the gun barrel in his mouth, my hand over his on the trigger.
“This is for Tory,” I told him. His eyes got wide, frightened. He knew what was coming. “And Eddie,” I added at the last second. I squeezed his hand. His finger pulled the trigger. The explosion told me it was over. His body went limp.
Gasping from exertion, I got up, staggered over to where Tory lay on the sidewalk, a pool of blood forming around her right shoulder.
I panicked. We were stranded. The next building almost a quarter-of-a-mile away. Too far to go for help.
Tory’s black bag was on the floor next to her. I rummaged in it, searching for a cell phone. My hand felt something hard, rectangular. I pulled it out, turned it on, called 911. “This is an emergency. A woman’s been shot. Send help. Hurry.” I told them where we were.
“How was she shot?” the woman on the other end of the phone asked in a calm, dispassionate voice.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said, repeated the address. “Get somebody here fast. I’ll keep the line open so you can tell me how long until help arrives.”
“They’re en route,” she assured me. “Should be there in less than eight minutes. Are you where they can see you?”
“No. I’m inside a building.”
I bent over Tory. The pool of blood looked bigger. I ripped off my shirt, pressed it on the holes where the bullet had gone in the front of her shoulder, out the back. If I could stem the flow of blood I might buy her a little more time.
“Hurry. Hurry. Hurry,” I said out loud.
The lady on the phone must have heard me. “They’re approximately five minutes away. Can you hear the siren?”
“No. I don’t hear anything. Are you sure they know where we are?”
“They have your location. Keep listening.”
I strained to hear. A distant whine, growing louder.
“The ambulance should be in sight now. Do you see it?”
“I hear it now. I’m inside, I can’t see it.”
“They see the 7-11,” the voice said. “They should be there in seconds.”
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
I heard the ambulance screech to a stop. Doors slammed. Paramedics, a man and a woman, burst through the doorway, ran over to us.
“We’ll take over now,” the woman said, moving me out of the way. The man knelt over Tory. Into a shoulder walkie-talkie, he said, “We have a female with gunshot entry and exit wounds in the right shoulder.” He pulled my shirt away from the wound, grimaced, looked at me. “You did the right thing minimizing the blood loss.”
What he said hardly registered. I was watching Tory breathe. Her face was drained of color, her breathing now coming in small, faint gasps.
The man glanced over, saw Wilder. Into his walkie-talkie, he said, “We also have a deceased male. Let the police know.”
“Should be there in seven-to-eight minutes,” the voice from his walkie-talkie responded.
I watched him work on Tory. Bandaging her shoulder. Slipping an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. Starting an IV. They began immobilizing her head. “Why are you doing that? What’s wrong?”
The woman looked over at me. “She hit the back of her head on the concrete. There’s external bleeding. We don’t know yet about internal bleeding or brain damage.”
Until I heard those words, I’d been operating on adrenaline. Suddenly, all that was gone. I was empty. All I could do was close my eyes.
I heard the sound of a siren. Doors slamming. Police came through the door.
“He’s over there,” the guy working on Tory told them. They went over to look.
A backboard was brought for Tory. They got ready to lift her on.
“Excuse me, sir,” one patrolman said. “Can you tell us what happened?”
I watched as they lifted Tory onto the backboard.
“The dead guy is William Wilder. He killed two policemen who were taking us to the airport, tried to kill me, shot Tory.” I nodded my head in her direction. Now that they had her on the backboard, they secured it to the stretcher.
“Sir, can you tell us how Mr. Wilder died?”
I stood. They were almost ready to move her. “In the struggle, he shot himself.”
“Let’s go,” the female paramedic said. They started moving the stretcher to the ambulance. I went, too.
“Sir,” the one policeman said after me, “we need you to stay here and answer questions.”
Like hell. I turned back. “I’m going with her. Talk to Lieutenant Ellsworth. He knows me. I’m Matt Seattle.”
I thought Ellsworth’s name might spring me. It didn’t. After a hurried conference, one of the policeman climbed in the ambulance with me and we made the forty-minute drive to Sarasota Memorial Hospital together.
A trauma team was waiting for us when we pulled up to the emergency entrance. They off-loaded Tory’s stretcher, wheeled it in, headed down a long hallway, picking up men and women in white lab coats along the way.
At a set of double swinging doors, they told me that was as far as I was allowed to go. “We’ll let you know,” a woman with a nametag identifying her as Dr. Lora Kline told me. I must have looked like I was going to fall apart. “Don’t worry; we’ll take good care of her,” she added.
I knew they would. Still, all the old memories of Sarah in the hospital flooded through me.