“All right, all right. This is your call. Whatever you say, buddy.”
What was he thinking? Some sort of hero trying to do what the police couldn’t?
This coach or whoever eased out of the elevator, hands behind his head. Facing Lafitte, who was headed back. Shit. Didn’t want two fucking flanks.
“I’m going to get in the next elevator. You’re going to come with me.”
Coach said, “Boy, I just came up to see if we could find some common ground. I understand what you’re feeling. My own son’s got twenty years to serve for manslaughter, and I know what it’s like thinking there’s no other option.”
Lafitte didn’t answer. Steady on the guy. Kept himself in shape. Fucking ripped, man. Shirt was tucked in. Only place he could hide a gun would be his ankle.
“You a cop?” Lafitte asked.
Coach shook his head. “I’m just a man. Like you.”
“Fed?”
“Listen, I’m nothing. They called me, told me what was up, and…I don’t know. Maybe it was Jesus. I think it was. Jesus spoke to me, said, ‘Go talk to the man. He doesn’t really want to cause any problems.’ So here I am.”
He was a hero all right. Shit. Only reason to take him along on the elevator was to keep him from running and telling SWAT where he was. Let him preach all he wanted. As long as he didn’t sing to the folks in the uniforms.
Lafitte waved the gun. “Press the down button.”
Coach didn’t move. “No sir. I’m here under the Lord’s protection. We’re not going anywhere.”
“Hit the goddamn button or I shoot you in the knee.”
Coach shrugged. “The Lord is my shepherd.”
Lafitte let out a breath. Losing time, losing time. Losing the element of surprise. He stomped over, punched the button with the tip of his gun.
“When we get on, get quiet. You want to talk, whisper.”
“I said we’re not going anywhere.” Coach took a bold step forward, hands still behind his head.
Lafitte stumbled back three feet. Still off-balance. “Shit!”
The hero took his chance. Tucked in and charged, tackled Lafitte in the middle, pinned his arms up. The wind left him.
Coach took hold of Lafitte’s wrists while straddling him. Lafitte bucked, yanked his arms every which way. Coach shouted, “I’ve got him! I’ve got him!”
Bucked again. Threw Coach to the side. Lafitte got his knee up between him and Coach. Pushed as hard as he could. Broke that guy’s grip, Jesus, like a vice. Scrambled back. Coach was up on one knee plotting another charge.
No fucking way. Just, no.
Lafitte closed his eyes, raised both guns, and fired.
*
Outside, the radios squawked, “Shots fired! Shots fired!”
Rome raised his head, still shaky from the taze. “Oh, Desiree.”
The Lieutenant was on the ball now, yelling into his radio, “Are we ready to go in? Can we?”
The answer came back. “Negative. Negative. Need ten more minutes.”
The Lieutenant glanced down at Rome, cuffed and seated on the curb. “We didn’t send enough people inside. Those guys are sitting ducks.”
Rome said, “If my wife…if she’s…not okay—”
Cut him off with a quick Shhp and then, “Don’t make us use the pepper spray.”
*
Coach was dead or dying, maybe dying—wheezing up a gusher—but Lafitte didn’t have time to care. The stairwell door opened and a single SWAT was drawing down. Lafitte was running for it, already anticipating, firing both fists. Bulls-Eye. The SWAT went down. Lafitte knew he had to hurry, since the body armor had plenty of padding and the guy would be up in a moment. Lafitte got there into the stairwell, looked up, down. Fuckers hadn’t even had time to set up yet. Why the hell would you only send up one guy?
Lafitte stomped down hard on the SWAT’s chest. Bones cracked. The SWAT grit his teeth and bent his fingers into claws. Lafitte reached down and got the AR-15 before the SWAT could get his breath back. Then he bent over, shoved his pistol under the SWAT’s chinstrap, and pulled the trigger. His facemask splattered red. His body spasmed once good and hard before going limp.
Lafitte wanted his vest. He set the semi-auto down, set the smaller pistol down, and shoved the big one in his waistband as he got on his knees and started working on the Velcro straps. Not much time. Once word of those shots hit the airwaves, they’d be coming all quick like.
He had the left side undone when from the landing one floor below he heard:
“Lafitte!”
A woman’s voice.
“Hands up!”
He lifted his hands. Glanced over his shoulder.
It was the good-looking black woman he’d seen Rome talking to outside. Had herself a nice compact nine, it looked like. One hand on the railing, one with the gun.
He took a chance. “Mrs. Rome?”
“Don’t talk to me.”
“Come on, let me know if I’m right, at least.”
Took a moment. She too one step up. “Eyes ahead. You don’t look at me.”
“You’re going to shoot a man in the back?”
“I’m a woman and this ain’t the OK Corral.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck, think. Well, maybe push off, fall down the steps onto her? That would surprise her. But she might still get a shot off. Take a jump to the right, use the stairs going up as cover, at least long enough to take higher ground. But higher ground won’t help get him out of here.
Or risk it all, grab the gun in his belt, and see what happens.
She kept talking. “You took him away from me for so long. He changed. And as soon as I think we’ve gotten past you, here you come again.”
“I didn’t even know he was looking—”
“Of course he was looking. Every goddamned day he was looking. He was going to lose everything, even me.” She cleared her throat. “I can’t lose him again, not to you or the government, or his own nightmares, whatever. He’s mine, you hear me? Mother fucker, you don’t want it in your back, you’d better stand up slowly, keep those hands up, and turn around.”
Lafitte rose to his feet. Didn’t turn around just yet. Too far away from the AR-15. No, had to go with the gun in reach. He said, “You’re really going to kill me to keep him from getting involved again? You love him that much?”
“You don’t know anything.”
“Fuck, you heard he was using my ex-wife and kids as fucking bait? And you tell me I don’t know anything?”
“I don’t care. I’ve heard what you’ve done, made that bitch stone crazy.”
Lafitte felt his guts rumble. “That’s not on me.”
“I don’t care. I’m not a judge. I’m just doing what someone else should’ve done a long goddamn time ago. Turn around.
Guts on fire. Guts going apeshit.
Lafitte grinned. Couldn’t help himself. Okay, this was it. The whole ball game. Three seconds left on the clock, the Hail Mary pass.
He said, “All right. Let’s get this over with. I’ve got a gang to lead.”
His hand twitched. He pulled the gun as soon as he started turning.
*
Rome heard the next two shots. Weak, like firecrackers set off underwater, but he flinched anyway. This time the radio squawks were unintelligible, frantic, and the remaining cops didn’t wait for orders. They just moved, moved, moved, shouting, “Go! Go! Go!” Right past Rome, ignoring him, guns drawn, into the lobby. Rome tried to imagine what was going on, who was alive, who was dead, and on which side his wife ended up. Jesus.
Mouth dry, gaping. Couldn’t call for her. Couldn’t turn around to look at the hotel and the advancing line of cops.
More shots. Three of them.
Rome looked up at the sky, blinking snowflakes away, as if it might have an answer for him. Yeah, right. Nothing but gray, cold, and endless.
END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anthony Neil Smith is the author of Psychosomatic, The D
rummer, Yellow Medicine, and Hogdoggin’. His fifth novel, Choke on Your Lies, was published as an e-original for Kindle and Nook earlier this year.
He is the publisher of the noir webzine Plots with Guns, and is the Director of Creative Writing at Southwest Minnesota State University.
Visit him at http://anthonyneilsmith.typepad.com and http://plotswithguns.com
Follow him on Twitter: @docnoir.
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