Flashback

He soon realized that they were making noise and firing at random in order to herd him to their left, toward Oxford Road bordering the gardens to the east. Nick didn’t want to go back east. He had business to the west and south.

It was starting to get light in earnest now. He had to get this over with.

He’d come into an area where a Doric-columned circular mausoleum stood in the middle of a clearing. Nick hobbled as quickly as he could across the clearing but his trackers still had time to get off two shots. One tugged at his jacket and then he was in the trees and panting to catch his breath. He’d seen the muzzle flashes and knew that the hunters were directly across the clearing from him. He shouted, “What do you want from me?”

“Everything you got, pal,” shouted one of the men. The other two giggled.

“Let’s meet in the middle and settle this,” shouted Nick. He ducked low and began running as quickly as he could through the thick undergrowth, no longer heading away from the shooters, circling the clearing back to the west, in their direction. There was a park road only a few meters to the north and he knew they’d also want to use the maximum amount of cover as they attempted to flank him.

Nearing the west end of the circular clearing, Nick stopped, knelt, and slipped in a fresh magazine of ammo. He crouched low and chambered the first round as silently as he could.

All three men came out into the clearing, crouching and silent. They were moving too quickly for Nick to get a clean shot at all of them at once. Counting on the fact that they were amateurs—no matter how many men and women they’d killed in recent days—Nick shouted, “Hey!”

Soldiers, mercenaries, or professional killers would have kept moving, throwing themselves in different directions. These three amateurs froze, turned, and opened fire. Even the Quarterback had a pistol in his right hand—while he carried the rifle in his left—and was joining in the shooting.

Two slugs caught Nick in his lower right side, not penetrating the Kevlar-3 he wore under his shirt, but cracking some ribs, knocking the wind out of him, and spinning him around. He knelt in a combat firing crouch, ignored the fusillade of bullets ripping branches just over his head, and fired eight times.

All three men went down hard. After a minute, seeing everyone’s hands empty in the increasing light of dawn, Nick crabwalked toward them, gun raised and steady in both hands.

He’d somehow managed to miss the great bulk of the Linebacker except for one high center-mass shot, but that had pulped the big man’s heart. Blood had exploded from the man’s mouth, ears, and eyes. He’d been dead before he hit the ground.

The Quarterback had taken two of Nick’s slugs center mass but it had been the third shot—a round, bloodless hole in the precise center of the ferret-faced man’s upper lip—that had done the job.

Billy Clanton had also absorbed three slugs but was still alive, writhing and curling in pain.

Nick kicked all the visible weapons into the bushes and crouched over the teenager.

“Help me, mister, please, help me, I hurt… oh, Jesus God, Jesus, it hurts… help me, please, for the love of Christ, mister, please…”

Nick studied the wounds. None was fatal in and of itself, but the boy would bleed out soon enough if he didn’t get medical attention. Nick was sure there’d be a medical station at the California Institute of Technology just a few blocks to the northwest.

“Where’s your car?” asked Nick, bending low so that he was hissing almost into the boy’s ear. “Where are the keys to your car?”

The mantra of pain and entreaty paused long enough for the boy to squint up at him. Like most young Americans, this one had never felt real pain for more than a few minutes at a time. He wanted a pill or shot or IV for this pain… and right now.

“You’ll… help me? I didn’t wanna come along, you know. It was all Dean’s idea. I didn’t wanna…”

“Where’s the car?” whispered Nick. “Where are the keys? Medical help’s only a few minutes away by car. I can’t carry you.”

The boy nodded and then belched blood. This terrified him and he started babbling through his groans and weeping.

Dean’s blue Nissan Menlo Park was parked on Landor Lane, just half a block from where they’d shot at Nick. They all lived up in Altadena and were just regular guys, you know, and were coming home from having some night fun down in East L.A.—everybody was doing it this week—when they’d seen the moped and Dean’d said, one more for a nightcap, but…

“Keys?” hissed Nick.

“Dean… Dean’s pocket… Dean… front pocket, I think… help, for the love of Christ, mister, it hurts so much.”

Nick guessed that Dean was the Quarterback and found the keys in the dead man’s front pocket. The key ring was labeled NISSAN. Nick also checked both the dead Linebacker’s pockets and the moaning, writhing boy’s, as well as all three backpacks, but found only some extra ammunition, billfolds, cards, and some cash. He kept the cash and Dean’s NICC.