Winter Moon

his weakening arms, but there was no target. He could see all the way

across the garage because the BMW was up on the service rack. The only

person in sight was the Asian mechanic, as dead as the concrete on

which he was sprawled.

Jack turned to the blue door. It was black on this side, which seemed

ominous, glossy black, and it had gone shut behind him.

He took a step toward it, meaning to pull it open. He fell against it

instead.

Harried by the changeable wind, a tide of bitter tarry smoke washed

into the double-bay garage.

Coughing, Jack wrenched open the door. The office was filled with

smoke, an antechamber to hell.

He shouted for the woman to come to him, and he was dismayed to hear

that his shout was barely more than a thin wheeze.

She was already on the move, however, and before he could try to shout

again, she appeared out of the roiling smoke, with one hand clamped

over her nose and mouth.

At first, when she leaned against him, Jack thought she was seeking

support, strength he didn't have to give, but he realized she was

urging him to rely on her. He was the one who had taken the oath, who

had sworn to serve and defend.

He felt dismally inadequate because he couldn't scoop her up in his

arms and carry her out of there as a hero might have done in a movie.

He leaned on the woman as little as he dared and turned left with her

in the direction of the open bay door, which was obscured by the

smoke.

He dragged his left leg. No longer any feeling in it whatsoever, no

pain, not even a tingle. Dead weight. Eyes squeezed shut against the

stinging smoke, bursts of color coruscating across the backs of his

eyelids. Holding his breath, resisting a powerful urge to vomit.

Somebody screaming, a shrill and terrible scream, on and on. No, not a

scream. Sirens. Rapidly drawing closer. Then he and the woman were

in the open, which he detected by a change in the wind, and he gasped

for breath, which came cold and clean into his lungs.

When he opened his eyes, the world was blurred by tears that the

abrasive smoke had rubbed from him, and he blinked frantically until

his sight cleared somewhat. Because of blood loss or shock, he was

reduced to tunnel vision. It was like looking at the world through

twin gun barrels, because the surrounding darkness was as smooth as the

curve of a steel bore.

To his left, everything was enveloped in flames. The Lexus.

Portico.

Service station. Arkadian's body was on fire. Luther's was not afire

yet, but hot embers were falling on it, flaming bits of shingles and

wood, and at any moment his uniform would ignite. Burning gasoline

still arced from the riddled pumps and streamed toward the street. The

blacktop along the perimeter of the blaze was melting, boiling.

Churning masses of thick black smoke rose high above the city, blending

into the pendulous black and gray storm clouds.

Someone cursed.

Jack jerked his head to the right, away from the terrible but

hypnotically fascinating inferno, and focused his narrowed field of

vision on the soft-drink machines at the corner of the station. The

killer was standing there, as if oblivious of the destruction he had

wrought, feeding coins into the first of the two vending machines.

Two more discarded cans of Pepsi lay on the asphalt behind him. The

Micro Uzi was in his left hand, at his side, muzzle pointing at the

pavement. He slammed the flat of his fist against one of the buttons

on the selection board.

Feebly shoving the woman away, Jack whispered, "Get down!"

He turned clumsily toward the killer, swaying, barely able to remain on

his feet.

The can of soda clattered into the delivery tray. The gunman leaned

forward, squinting, then cursed again.

Shuddering violently, Jack struggled to raise his revolver. It seemed

to be shackled to the ground on a short length of chain, requiring him

to lift the entire world in order to bring the weapon high enough to

aim.

Aware of him, responding with an arrogant leisureliness, the psychopath

in the expensive suit turned and advanced a couple of steps, bringing

up his own weapon.

Jack squeezed off a shot. He was so weak, the recoil knocked him

backward and off his feet.

The killer loosed a burst of six or eight rounds.

Jack was already falling out of the line of fire. As bullets cut the

air over his head, he fired another shot, and then a third as he

crumpled onto the blacktop.

Incredibly, the third round slammed the killer in the chest and pitched

him backward into the vending machine. He bounced off the machine and

dropped onto his knees. He was badly hurt, perhaps mortally wounded,

his white silk shirt turning red as swiftly as a trick scarf

transformed by a magician's deft hands, but he wasn't dead yet, and he

still had the Micro Uzi.

The sirens were extremely loud. Help was nearly at hand, but it was

probably going to come too late.

A blast of thunder breached a dam in the sky, and torrents of icy rain

suddenly fell by the megaton.

With an effort that nearly caused him to black out, Jack sat up and

clasped his revolver in both hands. He squeezed off a shot that was

wide of the mark.