Terminal

The first drawer, the one the blond teller had been using, hung open. Despite everything that had happened, I’ve got to admit that I smiled beneath my ski mask when I saw all that cash. Dead presidents smiled back at me. Ignoring the change, I scooped up the stacks of bills and dropped them into my backpack. Then I hit the next drawer and did the same. Already my backpack felt heavier, and I wondered how much cash was inside. An excited thrill shot through me, but then I remembered the guy that Sherm had shot and I felt sick again. I moved on to the third drawer but it was locked.

I walked back out from behind the counter, checked the door again and nudged the young blonde with my toe.

“Give me the keys to the drawers.”

“They’re on the counter.”

“Show me.”

She rose to all fours and pointed. At the same time, the little boy, Benjy, began crawling toward the old man.

“Hey! Kid! Get back over there with your mom.”

“Benjy!” She jumped to her feet, hands held out in submission. “Please, please don’t shoot him. Benjy, get back here, now!”

“But Mommy, that old man’s going to die if we don’t help him. His heart is sick.”

“Hey,” I shouted again, and realized that I’d raised the pistol without even thinking about it. I lowered it halfway. “I mean it. Get down now!”

The mother clawed at her son’s arm, but he slipped free and scurried to the old man’s side. She was crying now, black mascara running down her face as she pleaded.

“Please, sir. Please don’t shoot my son.”

I took five or six quick strides and stood over them. The old man’s pale skin was turning blotchy, and his eyes were squeezed shut.

“My . . . heart . . .”

“Oh shit!” I rubbed my head through the ski mask. He was having a heart attack. Part of me wanted to give him CPR and the other half wanted to finish up and get the fuck out of there.

“Can’t . . . breathe . . . hurts . . .” Sweat ran off of him like rain. While I was still trying to decide what to do, Benjy reached out with both hands and touched the old man’s chest. That was when we heard the gunshots.

ELEVEN

At first, I thought Sherm killed Keith. Then another gunshot rang out and I realized that they were coming from outside. The customers started screaming again, growing louder and more frenzied, and Sherm ran out from the vault, pushing Keith in front of him as a human shield.

“What the fuck, Tommy?” The no-names rule had completely gone out the window. I’d slipped and called him by his name when he shot Leather Jacket. Now they knew my name as well.

“I don’t know, man. Somebody’s shooting outside.”

“Five-oh?”

“Fuck if I know, Sherm. I ain’t sticking my head out to see.”

Another gunshot boomed across the parking lot. Just then, a bloodied and haggard figure stumbled through the front door. Sherm and I raised our pistols at the same time. John shrieked.

“Don’t shoot! D-don’t shoot, you guys! It’s m-me— John!”

He collapsed to his knees, hands clutching his stomach. Blood seeped between his fingers—

dark blood, almost black. It soaked through his sweatshirt and jacket, and little flecks of it decorated his neck, cheeks, and forehead. He’d been gutshot, and I’d seen enough movies to know that wasn’t a good thing. Images of Tim Roth in Reservoir Dogs rushed through my head. I started toward him and almost tripped over the old man and the kid.

“Tommy,” John pleaded, “help me, man! Please? My stomach is hot— it’s burning up. It’s on fire. Hurts! F-fucking shot me . . .”

Deciding that the old man and his heart attack would have to wait, I ran to John, catching him as he sank to the floor. Sliding my hands under his armpits, I dragged him farther inside the lobby, away from the door. He whimpered, but whether from fear or pain I don’t know. His breath smelled sour and he spoke through clenched teeth, his words harsh and clipped.

“C-can’t believe he fucking s-shot me . . .”

“Shhh,” I soothed. “It’s gonna be okay. You’re going to be all right, John.”

His hand slipped away from his stomach and I caught a glimpse of the wound peeking out at me from beneath the burned fabric. It didn’t look good. I sat down, crossed my legs, and cradled his head in my lap, wiping the bloodstains from his face with my shirtsleeve. Tears slid from his eyes, and the panic in his voice increased.

“Oh, it h-hurts! I’m gonna d-die, Tommy! My stomach feels h-hot. It’s hot and it f-feels like somebody p-punched me. I’m dying!”

“You’re not gonna die, John. You hear me? You’re not going to fucking die!”

“I’m scared, T-tommy. I don’t w-want to d-die. I don’t want to g-go to hell. I’m afraid of hell. Don’t l-let me die. Don’t let me go to hell!”

He coughed blood. A lot of blood. Red froth bubbled from his lips and dribbled down his chin in long, ropy strands. I wondered if that was what I looked like when I got sick.

“There’s no such thing as hell, John. You’re going to be okay. Just lie still, dog.”

“I-I don’t w-want to die. Don’t want to d-die. Please . . . S-scared of hell . . .”

“Stop it, John!”