Winter Moon

The gunman would be coming.

From the sound the weapon made and the brief glimpse he'd gotten of it,

Jack figured it was a submachine gun--maybe a Micro Uzi. The Micro was

less than ten inches long with the wire stock folded forward but a lot

heavier than a pistol, weighing about two kilos if it had a single

magazine, heavier if it featured two magazines welded at right angles

to give it a forty-round capacity. It would be like carrying a

standard-size bag of sugar in a sling, it was sure to cause chronic

neck pain, but not too big to fit an oversize shoulder holster under an

Armani suit--and worth the trouble if a man had snake-mean enemies.

Could be an FN P90, too, or maybe a British Bushman 2, but probably not

a Czech Skorpion, because a Skorpion fired only .32 ACP ammo.

Judging by how hard Luther had gone down, this seemed to be a gun with

more punch than a Skorpion, which the 9mm Micro Uzi provided. Forty

rounds in the Uzi to start, and the son of a bitch had fired twelve,

sixteen at most, so at least twenty-four rounds were left, and maybe a

pocketful of spare cartridges.

Thunder boomed, the air felt heavy with pent-up rain, wind shrieked

through the ruined door, and the gun rattled again. Outside, Hassam

Arkadian's cries to Jesus abruptly ended.

Jack desperately pulled himself around the end of the counter, thinking

the unthinkable. Luther Bryson dead. Arkadian dead. The attendant

dead. Most likely the young Asian mechanic too. All of them wasted.

The world had been turned upside down in less than a minute.

Now it was one-on-one, survival of the fittest, and Jack wasn't afraid

of that game. Though Darwinian selection tended to favor the guy with

the biggest gun and best supply of ammunition, cleverness could

outweigh caliber. He had been saved by his wits before and might be

again.

Surviving could be easier when he had his back to the wall, the odds

were stacked high against him, and he had no one to worry about but

himself. With only his own sorry ass on the line, he was more focused,

free to risk inaction or recklessness, free to be a coward or a

kamikaze fool, whatever the occasion demanded.

Then he dragged himself entirely into the sheltered space behind the

counter and discovered that he didn't, after all, enjoy the freedom of

a sole survivor. A woman was huddled there: petite, long dark hair,

attractive. Gray shirt, work pants, white socks, black shoes with

thick rubber soles. She was in her mid-thirties, maybe five or six

years younger than Hassam Arkadian.

Could be his wife. No, not a wife any more. Widow. She was sitting

on the floor, knees drawn up against her chest, arms wrapped tightly

around her legs, trying to make herself as small as possible, straining

for invisibility.

Her presence changed everything for Jack, put him on the line and

reduced his own chances of survival. He couldn't choose to hide,

couldn't even opt for recklessness any longer. He had to think hard

and clearly, determine the best course of action, and do the right

thing. He was responsible for her. He had sworn an oath to serve and

protect the public, and he was old-fashioned enough to take oaths

seriously.

The woman's eyes were wide with terror and shimmering with unspilled

tears.

Even in the midst of fear for her own life, she seemed to comprehend

the meaning of Arkadian's sudden lapse into silence.

Jack drew his revolver.

Serve and protect.

He was shivering uncontrollably. His left leg was hot, but the rest of

him was freezing, as if all his body heat was draining out through the

wound.

Outside, a sustained rattle of automatic-weapon fire ended in an

explosion that rocked the service station, tipped over a candy-vending

machine in the office, and blew in both big windows on which the gang

symbols had been etched. The huddled woman covered her face with her

hands, Jack squeezed his eyes shut, and glass spilled over the counter

into the space where they had taken shelter.

When he opened his eyes, endless phalanxes of shadows and light charged

across the office. The wind coming through the shattered door was no

longer chilly but hot, and the phantasms swarming over the walls were

reflections of fire.

The maniac with the Uzi had shot up one or more of the gasoline

pumps.

Cautiously Jack pulled himself up against the counter, putting no

weight on his left leg. Though his misery still seemed inadequate to

the wound, he figured it would get worse suddenly and soon. He didn't

want to precipitate it by any action of his own for fear that a

sufficiently fierce flash of pain would make him pass out.

Under considerable pressure, jets of burning gasoline were squirting

from one of the riddled pumps, splashing like molten lava onto the

blacktop. The pavement sloped toward the busy street, and scintillant

rivers of fire spread in that direction.

The explosion had ignited the roof of the portico that sheltered the

pumps.

Flames licked rapidly toward the main building.

The Lexus was on fire. The lunatic bastard had destroyed his own car,

which in some strange way made him seem more completely out of control