by Joe Hill
“I saw you sitting on the wall. When I looked up. I was afraid you were going to— Like, right then. You can’t do that. Promise me you won’t do that.”
“You know how you sometimes hear about people who have this huge will to live?” Maggie asked. “I don’t think I have that. I never did.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like how someone will fight and fight and fight to get away from someone who is attacking them? Or when someone survives for days drinking their own pee after getting lost in the woods? Or cuts off their own arm?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Or they lay down really still and flat in the middle of the tracks and the train goes right over them without hurting them?”
“Sort of. Or more like hanging onto a tree for days while a tsunami is wiping out your whole village.” Maggie turned to him. “There’s no way I would do that. I guess I never felt like my life was really worth fighting for.”
“I tried to kill myself once.”
“You did?” she asked, surprised.
“The day my mom and dad were called to St. Cat’s to first hear about the thing with Father Joe. I didn’t think I would be able to face them after they knew. I knew they weren’t ever going to look at me the same way as before.”
“What did you do? I mean, how?”
“I took all the pills in their medicine chest. And then I got in bed and tried to go to sleep. But then my sister came home and found the empty pill bottles. She drove me to the emergency room and I got my stomach pumped.”
“I’m glad,” Maggie said. “That it didn’t work, I mean. Otherwise we never would have met.”
“If you were going to kill yourself, how would you do it?”
“I don’t know. Something quick, I guess. Like, jumping off a roof.”
“Like from here?” he asked.
“It’s high enough, don’t you think? Come look.”
“Yeah, definitely,” he said, leaning across the wide top of the parapet.
She pulled herself up to sit on top of the wall.
“It would be a really big deal,” he said, sitting next to her. “I mean, obviously. To your mom and everything. But it would really rock this place, you know? Especially if we both—”
“Really? Would you?” They turned to face out, their legs hanging over the edge.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t stay here.”
“There’s no place for me to go,” she said. “I talked to my mom today. I was thinking maybe I could go be on tour with her or something. Like, if I got kicked out or if I decided to leave? She said no.”
“I can’t think of a single reason not to.”
“The only reason I can think not to is because CeeCee would have to cancel some shows, and someone would lose a shit ton of money. I don’t even know who. But that’s always her excuse. She can’t do this because it will cost someone money. Or she has to do that or it will cost someone money. Whatever.”
“And I just keep thinking how my parents are already wrecked by this stuff. At least this would be the end of it.” He reaches for her hand. “It really would be like Romeo and Juliet.”
“It would,” she said, looking down onto the path below. “Look, is that the same guy from last night?” she asked. “The security guard who came up here?”
“Yep, Walter.”
“Do you think he’s looking for us?” she asked.
“Probably. It’s past curfew.”
“I don’t want to get caught again.”
“Me neither,” he said. “Should we do it?”
“I think so. Don’t you?”
“I do,” he said. “Are you ready?”
She nodded. “Don’t let go of my hand.”
They kissed, and together leaned forward into the moonlight.
Nightbound
Wallace Stroby
“Leave him,” Crissa said. “He’s dead.”
Adler was face down in the alley, not moving, Martinez kneeling beside him. She could see the entry wound in Adler’s back, the blood soaking through his field jacket. From the location of the wound, and the speed he was bleeding out, she knew he was gone already, or would be soon.
They had to keep moving. Back at the stash house, the Dominicans would be recovering from the flashbang she’d thrown on her way out the rear door. The three of them had been halfway down the alley when one of the Dominicans had stumbled out of the vacant brownstone, firing blindly. She’d snapped a shot at him with her Glock, chased him back inside. But Adler had caught a round, gone down hard.
Now Martinez looked up at her, panic in his eyes, all that was visible through the ski mask. She shifted the strap of the gear bag, heavy with money, to her left shoulder, grabbed him by the coat sleeve, pulled him up. “Move!”
Forty feet away was the mouth of the alley, the street beyond. To their left, more empty houses. To the right, a high chain-link fence that bordered a vacant lot. The only way out was ahead.
More shots behind them. She spun, saw two men run out into the alley, guns in their hands. She fired twice without aiming. One round ricocheted off blacktop, the other punched through a plywood-covered window. The men ducked back inside.
She fired another shot to keep them there, shoved Martinez forward. The street ahead was still empty. Where was Lopez? The Dominicans would be going out the front door as well, would try to circle around, block the alley. If they beat Lopez there, she and Martinez would be trapped.
Broken glass and crack vials crunched beneath her feet. She could hear Martinez panting behind her.
A screech of brakes, and the Buick pulled up at the end of the alley, Lopez at the wheel, the rear drivers-side door already open.
She tossed the gear bag into the back seat, threw herself in after it. A shot sounded. Martinez grunted and fell against her.
“Get in!” Lopez said.
She gripped Martinez’s field jacket, pulled him to her, and they fell back onto the bag. His legs were still hanging out of the car when Lopez hit the gas. As the Buick lurched forward, she heard rounds strike the left rear fender. She pulled Martinez all the way in just as the Buick made a hard right turn. The momentum swung the door shut.
Martinez moaned. She rolled him off her onto the floor, sat up. They were in a residential area, dark houses on both sides of the street. The transfer car was still a couple of miles away.
“What happened back there?” Lopez said.
She pulled off her ski mask, had to catch her breath before she could speak. “Too many of them. Seven, maybe. At least. More than we thought.”
Through the rear window, she saw headlights way back there, coming fast. No other cars around.
“They’re on us,” she said.
“Shit.” Lopez gunned the engine. The Buick swung a left, then another right onto a main thoroughfare, sped by darkened storefronts.
She pushed the mask into a jacket pocket. If she had to do a runner from the car, she didn’t want to leave it behind. There would be hair in the material, DNA. Evidence if the cops found it.
Martinez moaned again. She lay a gloved hand atop his. “Steady. You’re going to be all right.”
They’d scouted this area of East New York for weeks, timed the route, and she knew the chances of running into a squad car were slim. It was midnight shift change, the same reason the Dominicans chose that time for their weekly money pickup. Lopez was an ex-cop, knew the area, the players. Martinez was his brother-in-law. The two of them had found the stash house, gathered the intel, then reached out to her through a middleman. She was the one who’d brought in Adler.
Two blocks ahead was the business district, an intersection controlled at this hour by only a blinking yellow light. She looked back at the street behind. A pair of bright headlights swung out onto it, moving fast.
“They’re coming,” she said.
Martinez made a slow sign of the cross. His breath was ragged now, wheezing. Collapsed lung, she thought.
Lopez took the left
at the yellow light, cut it too close, the drivers’ side tires bumping hard over the curb. A red light began to blink on the dash, in time with a soft beep.
“Fuck,” he said.
“What?”
“They must have hit the tank. We’re losing gas.”
Behind them, a dark SUV made the turn, staying on their tail. High-beams flashed on, lit the inside of the car. The Buick began to sputter and slow. The next turn was still a block ahead.
“Get down!” Lopez said.
The SUV swept into the left lane, came abreast of them. The front passenger side window slid down, and a shotgun barrel came through.
Lopez slammed on the brake. It threw her forward onto Martinez. She heard the roar of the gun, an explosion of glass. The Buick slewed to the right, hit the curb, rolled up on it and came to a stop. The SUV braked just beyond it, then reversed.
She heard the shotgun being ratcheted. Another blast, and safety glass sprayed over her.
She jerked up on the latch of the passenger side door, pushed it open and rolled out onto the sidewalk, the Buick between her and the SUV.
How many men? Two, at least, driver and shooter, but maybe others in back. Likely more on their way from the stash house in another vehicle. She couldn’t stay where she was, couldn’t run without presenting a target.
A third blast, this time into the rear driver’s side. The car rocked with the impact. She heard a door in the SUV open. They were getting out to finish it. Now, she thought.
She raised up, aimed the Glock over the roof of the Buick. The man with the shotgun stood there, lit by the streetlight. Shaven head, facial tattoo. She’d seen him at the stash house. He swung the muzzle toward her, and she fired twice, saw his head snap to the side. He fell back against the SUV, dropped the shotgun and slid to the pavement.
She aimed through the open door of the SUV, but the driver was gone. The rear windows were tinted. She couldn’t see inside or through.
She steadied the Glock with both hands, waited. Would he come around the front or back? Were there more men inside, ready to open a side door, start firing?
The driver popped his head over the top of the SUV, pistol resting on the roof. She fired once to get him to duck, then lowered the muzzle and began shooting through the SUV’s side windows. The smoked glass exploded and collapsed. She could see the driver on the other side, saw him take the impact of the bullets. She kept firing until he fell out of sight. The rear of the SUV was empty.
Shell casings clinked on the sidewalk behind her. Gunsmoke hung in the air. There’d been fifteen rounds in the Glock—fourteen in the magazine, one in the chamber. How many left?
She went around the front of the Buick. The man with the shotgun lay on his side. A rivulet of blood ran out from below him, shiny on the blacktop, coursed toward the gutter. She kicked the shotgun away, circled the SUV. The driver lay on his back, motionless, eyes open. She put a foot on his pistol, swept it into a storm drain.
In the Buick, Lopez was slumped over onto the passenger seat. He was dead or close to it. There was blood on the dashboard, the steering wheel, and what was left of the windshield. The fuel light still blinked red.
The rear door was pocked with buckshot holes. She pulled it open. Martinez lay still and silent on the floor. His own gun had slid partly out of his jacket pocket, the same model Glock as her own. She took it.
Headlights back at the cross street. She leaned into the car, hauled out the gear bag, swung the strap onto her shoulder.
A block ahead was another intersection, another blinking yellow light. To her right was a wide, unlit alley that ran behind a row of commercial buildings. Their storefronts would face onto that main street. High above, a bright half moon shone through thin clouds.
Headlights lit her, the vehicle coming fast. She took a last look at the Buick, then ran into the darkness of the alley.
• • •
Breathe. Think.
Fire escapes here, but their street-level ladders were raised and unreachable. She ran on, the bag thumping against her back. A cat darted from behind a dumpster, crossed her path and disappeared.
She heard a vehicle brake on the street behind her. If it turned into the alley, she’d be caught in its headlights. They’d send someone to the other end too, to cut her off, try to pin her between them.
Ahead on the left was a one-story brick building with a loading dock, a green dumpster and a pile of discarded tires beside it. The metal pull-down gate was covered with graffiti. On the dock was a single, 55-gallon metal drum. She stuck the Glock in her belt, tossed the bag onto the dock and climbed up after it.
There was a heavy padlock at the bottom of the gate. She tugged at it, but there was no give. She looked around, considered the dumpster for a moment. Knew that would be one of the first places they’d look.
No way in, and she couldn’t go back. She felt the first sharp edge of panic. She tilted the barrel toward her, heard its contents slosh, smelled motor oil. The drum was half full. She swung and wheeled it closer to the gate, then scrambled atop it. It rocked unsteadily beneath her feet.
The roof was gravel and tarpaper, bordered on all sides by three limp strands of barbed-wire. Broken bottles glinted in the moonlight. There was a silent air conditioning unit in one corner, its grille dark with rust. A few feet away was a closed wooden hatch.
She climbed back down, the barrel shaking. She could hear urgent voices in Spanish on the street back there. They’d be coming this way soon.
Hoisting the gear bag to her shoulder, she climbed carefully back onto the barrel, almost overbalanced. She heaved the bag onto the barbed-wire strands, weighing them down, then crawled onto and over it. Pulling the bag free, she rolled away from the edge, the roof creaking under her.
She backed away farther, out of eyesight from below. Seven men at the stash house. She’d killed two at the SUV. By now they might have called for more men. Likely why they hadn’t come down the alley yet. They were waiting for reinforcements.
She crawled toward the air conditioning unit, got her back to it, tried to slow her breathing. The Glock’s magazine was empty, with a single round left in the chamber. She took the full clip from Martinez’s gun, transferred it to her own, and slapped it home. She pulled the bag toward her, unzipped and opened it. His Glock, her mask and the empty magazine went inside.
She pointed her gun toward the edge of the roof, the butt resting on a thigh. There was nothing she could do about the drum. If they saw it, figured out what she’d done, then it would be all over. But she’d take out as many of them as she could before they got her.
With her left hand, she rifled through the money. Packs of bills, some bank-strapped, some bound with rubber bands. Street money, hundreds, fifties and twenties. She did a rough count in the moonlight. Maybe a hundred thousand altogether. Less than they’d expected. Lopez had said there might be as much as $300,000 at the stash house.
It hadn’t been worth it. Lopez, Martinez and Adler all dead, and everything they’d planned gone to hell.
Headlights below. She looked over the edge of the roof, saw a dark SUV come to a stop just inside the alley. Its high-beams lit dumpsters, fire escapes and brick walls. A side door opened and two men got out, both carrying pistols. They’d search the alley on foot. The SUV stayed where it was, engine running.
She could hide here for now, wait them out. But soon they’d know she hadn’t come out on any of the neighboring streets, was still somewhere on this block.
How far away was the transfer car? Would she even be able to find it? It was a banged-up Volvo wagon, inconspicuous enough not to draw attention, too old and ugly to invite theft. Lopez had stolen it the day before in Yonkers, cracked the steering column so the ignition could be easily hot-wired again. She’d shown Martinez and Adler how to do it. If something went wrong or they got separated, anyone who could make it to the transfer car would still have a chance of getting clear. But now there was only her.
She gripped the
gun, rested the back of her head against the cool metal of the air conditioning unit, looked up at the moon and waited.
• • •
When she looked at her watch again, it was one-thirty. A half hour had passed. The SUV was still there. They’d turned off the engine, but left on the headlights.
She crawled toward the front of the roof. The street was lined with dark stores, most with riot gates. No traffic. To the left, past the blinking yellow signal at the intersection, a storefront threw light on the sidewalk. Neon signs in the window read BURGERS PIZZA FRIED CHICKEN 24-HRS. There was a cab parked outside, no one at the wheel.
Stay or go? With the alley blocked, the only way out would be through the front, with the hope she could make it to the cab without being spotted, find the driver. Get away from here.
The other option was to wait until daylight. There would be more cars then, people. The searchers might have given up. But she didn’t want to stay here in the meantime, trapped like some animal, her fate being decided by someone or something else.
She took two banded packs of money from the gear bag, stuffed them in her jacket pockets. The bag would be a burden, would slow her down. She’d have to leave it here, come back another time, hope no one found it in the interim.
She zipped the bag back up, wedged it behind the air conditioning unit, covered it with a loose piece of aluminum flashing. It would have to do. If they searched the roof and found it, it would just be her bad luck. There was nothing for it.
The hatch was locked from the inside, but it was old wood. She took out her buck knife, opened the three-inch blade and went to work on the hinges, slicing away wood until the screws were loose. She pulled the hinges free, then pried up that side of the hatch high enough that she could reach in. Her fingers found a bolt. She opened it, then lifted the entire hatch free, set it gently on the roof.
An iron ladder led down into darkness. The familiar smells of motor oil and rubber drifted up. She closed the knife, put it away, took out her penlight. She shone the beam inside, saw an oil-stained concrete floor, a lift pit with no lift. More tires. She switched off the light, put it away.