Текст книги "Penance"

Автор книги: Dan O'Shea

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

CHAPTER 21 – CHICAGO

Lynch grabbed Bernstein at the office, and they headed over to MarCorp to talk to Eddie Marslovak about the waste hauling deal.

“Might want to bring up Andes Capital, too,” Bernstein said as Lynch flipped off some guy trying to muscle a Land Rover into their lane.

“What’s that?”

“Venture capital firm down in Miami. Seems to stick cash into MarCorp’s deals pretty regularly. I called a friend over at Morgan Stanley. Nothing official, but the Feds have started looking at Andes for money laundering. Think it might be washing dollars for the Medellin crowd.”

“Running a laundry for the Columbians and you call the place Andes Capital? Takes some cojones.”

“Or just dumb.”

“Yeah,” said Lynch. “Or that.”

Bernstein looked over, little crooked smile. Second or third time Lynch had seen that.

“Fuck’s up with you? Don’t like the clothes? Blame your friend Andre, he picked em out.”

“Hey, they look great. Just didn’t think you’d still be in them when you got to work the next day. Guess the date went OK.”

“Shut up, Slo-mo.”

“Hey, I’m a detective too, remember.”

Marslovak was already out from behind the desk when Lynch and Bernstein walked into his office, already on the black sofa, already with a drink. Marslovak dressed casual today, khaki slacks, deck shoes with no socks, white cable knit tennis sweater, probably a 3XL and stretched on him like a sausage casing.

“Thanks for seeing us on Saturday,” Lynch said.

“Told you I was trying to stave off divorce number three, Lynch. Whole secret to marital bliss is avoiding your wife.” Marslovak didn’t look happy. “Who’s your little friend?”

“Shlomo Bernstein,” said Bernstein. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Yeah, yeah. Everybody’s fucking sorry, nobody wants to leave my ass alone.” Marslovak gestured toward a second man. “This is Steve Heaton. He’s my attorney. I’ve invited him to join us for today’s festivities.”

Lynch looked at Heaton. Blond, six-two, eyes like a Stolichnaya bottle that had been in the freezer for a while. Navy chalk-stripe suit, extremely white shirt, red tie. Even his skin looked clean and pressed.

“You don’t need a lawyer, Eddie,” said Lynch.

“Such reassurances are always so comforting coming from legal authorities whose personal whims decide whether and to what extent the considerable resources of our government will inject themselves into a citizen’s life, detective,” said Heaton. “I will be present today and at any subsequent meetings. Clear?”

“Clear and remarkably articulate, counsel,” said Lynch.

“Thank you,” said Heaton with a cold smile.

“So?” said Marslovak.

“When we talked the other day, you said you couldn’t think of anybody off hand that might have a thing for you,” Lynch said.

“Didn’t say I couldn’t think of anybody,” said Marslovak. “Said I couldn’t think of anybody in particular.”

“Not even the anybody attached to the waste hauling rollup in New York?” Bernstein asked.

“Checking me out, Lynch? Waste hauling,” said Marslovak. “Few too many guys named Luigi. Few too few dollars in some of the pension plans when you work the books. Somebody’d blown my fat ass away during that a couple of years ago, I’d say you might have your boys. But wait till two years after the deal’s done, then blow away my mom on the stairs of the church? Make sense to you, Lynch?”

“It could,” said Lynch, “if there’s something you’re not telling us.”

“I think this interview is close to over, detective,” said Heaton. “My client is being fully cooperative, and now you are questioning his veracity. I warn you, I had better not start seeing hints in the paper about mob ties to MarCorp. Mr Marslovak’s enrichment resulting from the ensuing civil actions would strain your imagination.”

“So let’s talk about Andes Capital instead,” said Bernstein.

“Why?” said Marslovak.

“They’ve contributed capital to your last six deals,” said Bernstein. “Thirteen deals overall.”

“So what?” said Marslovak

“Feds are sniffing around them about money laundering,” said Lynch.

Heaton stepped between Bernstein and Marslovak.

“First of all, that’s immaterial,” said Heaton. “Since you’ve only heard they are being investigated for laundering money, I will assume they have not been convicted of, much less charged with, laundering money. Therefore, MarCorp has no reason, not legally and not even ethically, to consider that possibility. Second, it is not the responsibility of MarCorp, again, either legally or ethically, to investigate or enforce the laws regarding money laundering. We comply fully with all applicable reporting requirements. That is all we are required to do. Third, I can assure you that Andes’ various investments, which, if memory serves, are generally between $250,000 and $750,000, were made through appropriately documented channels. No one named Pedro showed up here with a suitcase full of twenties, detective.”

“So you’re saying that the money laundering charge against Andes may or may not be bullshit, but, in any event, it’s got nothing to do with you,” said Lynch.

“To paraphrase incompletely and less than wholly accurately, yes,” said Heaton.

“OK, look. Nobody’s saying Eddie did anything. This looks like a professional hit. That generally means money and criminal contacts. Eddie’s got one, some of the people he’s done business with have both.”

Heaton shrugged. “Detective, I assure you, if Mr Marslovak had an idea, you’d know. If he gets an idea, you will know. Now, are we through?”

Lynch nodded. “A pleasure, counsel. You know, you sure do talk pretty. You got any tips for me, anything I can do to raise my level of discourse?”

“A rose smells as sweet no matter the name, detective. And a buffoon sounds as coarse.”

“What do you think, Slo-mo,” said Lynch, looking at the lawyer. “Am I the rose or the buffoon?”

“I thought you were the ice cream man,” said Bernstein.

Lynch moved the Crown Victoria through the North Michigan Avenue traffic around Marslovak’s office like a blunt instrument. Bernstein was trying to time sips on his coffee with Lynch’s lane changes.

“How’d you like Eddie’s lawyer?” Lynch asked.

“Have to call my parents, see if they’re still looking to breed their Rottweiler. Pretty sure the vet said it can’t screw any lawyers, though. Not without a condom.”

“Yeah. So what’s your read on Eddie? Anything?”

“Definitely have to say he didn’t hire anyone to pop his mom. Seems too, I don’t know, volatile to set this up. Could see that lawyer doing it.”

“Get the sense he was holding anything back on the waste hauling thing or those Andes guys?”

“Got the sense the next time he holds something back will be the first.”

“Yeah,” Lynch answered. “Man, I wish I knew what she said in that confessional.”

“You Catholics and your secrets.”

“Careful, Slo-mo. Don’t make me bring the Cabalists into this.”

Back in the office, Lynch and Bernstein ran down what they got from Marslovak, which was nothing.

“Not nothing,” Starshak said. “You did manage to piss him off. I got a call from the deputy chief, who got a call from the chief, who got a call from the mayor. Eddie telling them you all but accused him of being a mob guy and a drug dealer.”

“That’s bullshit,” said Lynch.

“Course it is,” said Starshak. “Still like to keep it off our shoes, though.”

“I got nothing left to rattle his cage about, so I guess we’re OK there,” Lynch said. “What’s with the lab? Still ain’t got ballistics.”

“Called while you were out,” Starshak said. “Guy wants you to stop down.”

A lab tech named Pfundstein met Lynch by the elevators. Pfundstein looked about thirteen, wearing glasses that probably weighed as much as he did.

“I’m sorry to take so long with the results, detective, but I’ve been having some trouble with this one.”

“Slug went through her sternum and her spine and dug into a piece of oak,” Lynch said. “Figured it was pretty fucked up.”

“Oh, it is. Fucked up, I mean.” Pfundstein pushing his glasses up his nose. “If you were hoping to be able to match this to a weapon, forget it. I’ve got the metallurgy for you, and it’s not your garden variety stuff, so that might help a little.”

“So what was the trouble?”

“Even as messed up as the slug is, it should still have marks, right? I mean it’s like fingerprints. Lots of times you get partials. Maybe not enough for a match, but at least you get something. This slug? Nothing. Can’t tell you the number of grooves. Can’t tell you left twist, right twist. Nothing.”

“So what? Smooth-bore weapon of some kind?”

“At that range? Hard to see it. I’m thinking maybe it was saboted.”

“What’s that?”

“Take a bullet. You coat it with something like cellulose, some kind of resin maybe. Coating picks up the spin from the rifling, so your slug stays accurate, but the coating burns off, both in the barrel and in flight. Only way I can think we get a slug with no marks at all.”

“Sounds a little James Bond. This happen much?”

 CHAPTER 22 – CHICAGO

Jose Villanueva drove up to Sacred Heart. The church had one of those Saturday evening masses where you could get the thing out of the way, sleep in Sunday. Or be ready for the Bears game, whatever. Anyway, the chink bitch wanted the job done tonight. Villanueva figured he’d do the mass, get a look at the layout. Grab a bulletin, too. Make sure that nothing was going on in the church later, that he didn’t break in in the middle of an all-night novena or something.

He sat in the middle about halfway back. He could see the confessionals on the east wall. The pews were laid out in a sort of semicircle, so only the ones on his far right had their backs straight to the confessionals. After that, they started curving away. Camera should be on the bottom of the last pew in that far right section.

Confessional layout was pretty basic. Two sets of three doors. Middle door for the priest, doors on either side for people to come in, spill the beans on themselves. Middle door on the second set of three had a little name plate over it, so Villanueva figured he’d check that set first. Could be they brought a priest in from one of the other parishes to help with confessions, but figured the parish guy was here every time.

He’d walked past the vestibule on the south side on his way in, recognizing it from the news. That was where Eddie Marslovak’s mom got it. Bad set up, though. Easy to see from the street, streetlight at the end of the walk. He’d come in to mass through the main door, but that sucked, too. No cover at all. Also, it was a big-ass door, maybe ten feet high, three or four inches thick. Couple of locks on it that he could see, one of them some real old fucker that he’d have to fiddle with some because he was pretty sure he hadn’t worked one like that before.

After mass, he walked out the vestibule and looped around the building, cutting up the narrow walk that ran around the north end of the church. Not a lot of room between the north end and the bungalow behind it. People in the bungalow had planted a tall hedge at the back of their property. No leaves yet, so it wouldn’t be much help if he had a flashlight on, but there should be enough ambient light to see.

A set of cement stairs ran down parallel to the walk to a door into the basement of the church. Villanueva took a quick peek up and down the walk. Nobody looking. He took the stairs. Fairly deep basement, twelve steps down. Stairs forming a dark well. Villanueva figured he could use a penlight down here no problem. Nobody’d see that unless they were right on top of him. Standard metal security door, wire mesh embedded in the window. Schlage lock. Rinky-dink residential alarm he could bypass in about twenty seconds with a pocket knife and a couple alligator clips. Getting up into the church ought to be easy once he got into the basement.

Back in the car, Villanueva ran down what he’d need. Just the small set of picks. Christ, he could do a Schlage in his sleep. Wear the black Adidas warm-ups. He could park a couple blocks up, jog around the neighborhood a little, make sure everything looked cool. Do the job around 10.00, maybe 10.30. Funny how people thought 3am was the best time to break in somewhere. Everybody looks suspicious at 3am. Ten o’clock, people are still out, walking their dogs or whatever. Still some background noise, some traffic.

CHAPTER 23 – SCHAUMBURG, ILLINOIS

Lynch and Johnson were in the middle of what Lynch figured was their tenth circuit of the Ikea store in Schaumburg, Johnson showing him all sorts of end tables and shelves and shit she thought would look good in her place. She had good taste, little quirky maybe.

“So this is your idea of fun, huh?” Lynch said.

“You’re forgetting, Lynch, I’m not a Chicago girl. I grew up in white-bread country, home of the largest mall in America. This isn’t the main event, though. We’re going over to Woodfield next, walk the mall, maybe see a movie.” She’d called him just after he got back from Marslovak’s office, told him it was her turn to take him out.

“Jesus. We gonna eat bad pizza in the food court?”

“Bet your ass.”

“Chick flick?”

“Yep.”

“We gonna at least sit in the back so I can feel you up?”

“That’s the idea,” she said.

Halfway through some movie about some young, good-looking chick dying of cancer, Lynch caught himself smiling. Christ. He was having fun. Sitting through a bad movie, wandering through a mall, out in the freakin’ suburbs, and he was having fun.

Johnson sniffled next to him. “I need your hanky,” she whispered.

“Don’t have one.”

“What kind of man takes a girl to a movie like this and doesn’t bring a hanky?”

“Sorry, out of practice.”

Johnson nudged her head into his shoulder, and he put his arm around her head. He slid his hand down, gave her breast a little squeeze. She slapped his hand.

“I’m trying to watch the movie,” she said.

A minute later, Lynch felt her hand rubbing his thigh.

“Thought you were watching the movie,” he said.

“I am,” she said, “but you’re not.”

Lynch smiling again. God, this was fun.

After the movie, Johnson drove to one of the restaurants ringing the mall. Houlihans, TGIF, Chili’s, Lynch couldn’t remember without looking at the little plastic dessert menu. Bennigans.

“I know this will sound stupid, but this place reminds me of home,” Johnson said.

“Why? Your dad like to make up stupid names for drinks?”

Johnson laughed. “Just growing up. Out with my friends, we’d always end up in some place like this, you know? Talk about who was going out with who and how far they were going. Just comfortable, that’s all.”

They just sat for a while. Lynch was drinking a black and tan, which he’d had to let stand for five minutes before it got any separation, but still, a black and tan. Johnson was having some drink named after a cartoon character. Nice they could just sit, drink, play a little footsie, nobody feeling like they had to talk all the time.

“Are you doing OK, Lynch? Having urban withdrawal?”

Lynch smiled. “This is nice. You keep doing that with your foot, and I’m not going to be able to stand up, though.”

“So, when was the last time you were out of the city?”

“Berwyn count?”

“No.”

“Cicero?”

“No place where Al Capone used to hang out.”

Lynch laughed. “I guess Christmas. I drove my mom up to my sister’s. Right before she got real bad.”

“Where’s that?”

“Milwaukee. She’s some big-shot VP with Northwestern Mutual. Her husband is a surgeon. Got a couple kids, getting up to junior high now.”

“Are you guys close?”

“Not like we should be,” Lynch said. “Guess I’m supposed to lie about that, right? Used to be, when she was little.”

“What happened?”

“Hard to say. Everything changed after my father was killed. I tried to be dad, she resented it. Nothing horrible, but we just… People say drifted right? That sounds so stupid. I mean, I call sometimes, she calls sometimes, and it’s, you know, how are the kids? They’re fine. How’s work? Work’s good.” Lynch took a sip of his beer, looked out the window. Wind shifting around, starting to pick up. “I miss her. Funny, huh? She’s not dead or anything, but I miss her.”

“That’s got to be hard now, with your mom.”

Lynch shrugged.

The waiter came by, asked if they wanted dessert.

“I think we’re going to have that somewhere else,” Johnson said, looking at Lynch, her foot sliding up his leg again. “I’ve got a taste for something I don’t see on the menu.”

It was colder walking out to the car. The wind was out of the northwest now, Lynch smelled rain in the air. Johnson drove south on 355 toward the 290 extension that ran east toward the city. She drove fast, weaving through the moderate traffic.

“You’re quiet, Lynch,” she said.

“Thinking about the Marslovak case.”

“And you’re afraid to say anything to me?”

“Yeah, well, you’re still the press, Johnson. I mean, this is your beat.”

Johnson cut right around a slow-moving SUV, ran up behind a semi in the right lane with a panel truck next to it, cut two lanes left around them and then back across all three lanes and onto the 290 ramp.

“Jesus,” Lynch said. “Good thing I’m not working traffic.”

Silence again, and not comfortable.

“This could be a problem for us,” said Johnson. “If we can’t talk to each other.”

“Yeah.”

Quiet again for a while.

“How about this, Lynch. Unless I say otherwise, everything you tell me is off the record. Not just not-for-attribution, not just background, it’s strictly between us. Can you trust me that far?”

Lynch thought for a second. He’d only known Johnson at all for a few months, only known her personally for three days. But you either trust somebody or you don’t. He could think of guys he’d known all his life he’d trust about as far as he could dropkick a floor safe.

“Yeah. I think I can.”

“OK, then.”

They drove in silence for a while, Lynch knowing it was a kind of test now. He’d have to say something. She wanted him to say something.

“It’s the confession thing,” Lynch said. “I can’t get past thinking that Marslovak said something in that confessional, and whatever she said, that got her killed.”

“And the priest won’t say?”

“Can’t say,” said Lynch. “You’re not Catholic, are you?”

“Lutheran, I guess. You hear people say they’re cultural Jews? I guess I’m a cultural Lutheran. My family didn’t go to services much. Christmas, Easter, stuff like that. Gives you a place to have weddings and funerals, though, almost like being in some kind of club.”

“I’m pretty much in the same boat now. We went growing up. Every Sunday, every holy day. Catholic schools, altar boy, the whole thing. I just... I don’t know. I don’t believe a lot of things I used to believe. I don’t do a lot of things I used to do. I guess church is one of them.”

“Lose your faith, Lynch?”

“Makes it sound like a quarter under a couch cushion somewhere. I believe there’s a God,” Lynch said. “Hard to know what to believe beyond that. I can’t help feeling sometimes that if I ever meet him, I’m not going to like him much.”

“So what’s with the confession thing? Priest really can’t say?”

“Rules are the priest can’t reveal anything said within the seal of confession.”

“Even though she’s dead?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Then how could anyone know? I mean if he didn’t say anything–”

“Oh, shit.” Lynch grabbed his cell phone off his belt and dug a small notepad out of his jacket pocket. He found the number for Sacred Heart and dialed it. Father Hughes answered.

“Father, Detective Lynch. I know it’s a little late. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Actually, I just got in from the hospital, detective, visiting a parishioner. What can I do for you?”

“The crime scene guys, did they look inside the church at all?”

“Not much.”

“You going to be up in, say, half an hour?”

“I could be, why?”

“I’d like to take a look inside the church.”

“All right, detective. I’ll see you around 10.30 then.”

Lynch flipped the phone shut, dropped it on the seat.

“Get over to 294 north, we’re going to church. And stop driving like an old lady, will you? Let’s make some time.”

Jose Villanueva cruised past the church. Lights were out. Weather had turned some, a misty rain just starting, wind picking up a little. He saw one dog walker a block past the church. Guy had his collar up, head down, pretty much dragging some poodle-type rat dog along. Villanueva looped back to the east and parked his Explorer in the lot of a convenience store near Belmont.

Villanueva jogged the six blocks back toward the church. Tracksuit on, use the die-hard exercise addict disguise. He had his picks, a Swiss Army knife, and a mini-Maglight in his left-hand jacket pocket. The short-barreled .38 bounced, zipped in the right-hand pocket. Also had several different lengths of coated wires with alligator clips on the ends. The rain was picking up and coming sideways, but the black Adidas warm-ups were Gore-Tex, so it wasn’t too bad. As he came to the church, he was tempted to cut right up the narrow walk on the north side, get in out of the rain, but he ran past, circled the block. Nobody was out. Visibility was getting bad, too.

He checked his watch as he came up on the narrow walk the second time. 10.14. Good a time as any. He didn’t vary his pace, just turned up the walk like it was a short cut he used all the time, then trotted down the cement stairs to the basement door of the church.

He turned on a penlight and held it in his mouth. Then he took the pocket knife, opened the blade, and carefully sliced back the coating on a couple of wires attached to the alarm on the door. He pulled the wires out of his jacket, picked two that were the right length, and clipped them to the exposed spots on the wires. He looked at his watch. 10.19.

He put the extra wires and the pocket knife back in his jacket and pulled out the narrow black case that held his picks. It took him less than thirty seconds to rake the tumblers and turn the lock. He was in.

Johnson pulled up in front of the rectory at 10.41. Father Hughes pulled the door open just as they walked up. He was wearing black pants and a heavy turtleneck. Johnson and Lynch stepped into the foyer.

“Guess spring is over already,” the priest said.

“You Chicagoans are such wimps,” said Johnson.

“Father, this is Liz Johnson,” said Lynch. “Liz, Father Hughes.” Johnson and Hughes shook hands.

“Your partner?” the priest asked.

“Friend,” said Lynch. “We were out when I had a thought I should have had a couple days ago. I’m still thinking all this goes back to whatever Mrs Marslovak said in confession. But that only makes sense if someone knows what she said.”

The priest put up his hands. “I didn’t say anything, and I’m not going to.”

“I know. You wouldn’t have had time anyway. But somebody heard.”

The priest’s mouth dropped open. “You mean–”

“I mean I think somebody bugged your confessional, Father.”

The priest pulled a ring of keys off a rack by the door. “We’ll go in through the basement. Light switches are down there.”

Villanueva needed a few minutes to find the camera, longer than he expected. He was lying on his back, shining the penlight along the bottom of the pew, when he finally spotted it. Whoever had placed it had put it right up against one of the supports. Damn, it was small. Villanueva had never seen one so small. He slipped the pocket knife blade under the adhesive holding the unit and pried it loose. Villanueva pulled a small Ziploc bag out of his pants pocket, dropped the camera in, sealed the bag, and shoved it back into his pocket. The camera had been pointed at the set of doors with the priest’s name on the plate over the middle door.

The confessionals took a while. He started with the priest’s booth, figuring if you had good pickup on the unit, you might get stuff from both the other booths. Checked under the chair, checked the molding around the doorjambs and around the little sliding screens into the other booths. Checked along the baseboards and the molding in the corners and the juncture between the walls and the ceiling. Nothing. Did the same in the booth on the right. Nothing again.

Villanueva had gone through the entire third booth and was getting pissed off. If the camera was that small, then the bug was probably even smaller. Must have missed it. He’d have to start over in the priest’s booth. He checked his watch. 10.44. He’d already been inside for twenty-five minutes. Church was quiet, and he had no reason to expect company. But this whole job seemed queer from the start, and Villanueva wanted to get out, get home.

He was about to leave the booth when something caught his eye, just a sliver of something sticking out from behind the molding on the right side of the sliding screen that opened into the priest’s booth. Could be a hair or even an antenna from a cockroach. Villanueva held the light in his mouth and carefully slid the knife blade up behind the molding. Bingo. Bug wasn’t much bigger than a fat grain of rice, couple wires leading out of it. He put it in the bag with the camera. 10.47.

Lynch put his hand on Father Hughes’ shoulder just as the priest went to put his key into the lock in the basement door. Hughes looked back. Lynch put a finger to his lips and pointed up at the bypass wires rigged into the alarm at the top of the door. Lynch motioned the priest back toward the stairs.

“I left my cell phone in the car,” Lynch whispered. “I need you to get back to the rectory as fast as you can. Call 911, tell them you have a break-in at the church. Tell them there is an officer on the scene who needs back-up. Go.”

The priest scurried up the stairs and back up the narrow walk. Lynch edged along the wall and back to the door. He reached up under his jacket, sliding the Berretta 9mm out of the hip holster. Standing on the last step with his back flat against the wall of the church, Lynch reached down and slowly turned the doorknob and pulled. The door moved. It was open. For just an instant, in his peripheral vision, Lynch thought he saw light in the door’s window.

Villanueva had just gotten back down the stairs to the basement when he saw the door move. Just a fraction, but it moved. Instantly, he shut off the penlight. His eyes took a second to adjust to the darkness, but Villanueva spent a lot of time in the dark. He was used to it. Slowly, he unzipped the right-hand pocket on the warm-ups and pulled out the .38.

He saw part of a head slip into view through the door’s window, just for a second, then pull back. The head had come down into the top left corner of the window, so somebody was standing on the stairs, leaning down to peek in. Villanueva knew the person wouldn’t be able to see him inside in the dark. He edged over to the wall, made his way along the wall to the corner, then worked along that wall toward the door.

Villanueva pictured the situation in his head. He had his back to the interior wall to the right of the door. Whoever was outside probably had his back to the exterior wall on the other side of the door. Difference being, Villanueva knew where the guy on the stairs was. That guy had no idea where Villanueva was.

Villanueva ran through the possibilities in his mind. Could be the priest, janitor for the parish, somebody like that. Maybe the guy noticed the bypass on the alarm, maybe he noticed the door was unlocked. Either way, he’d probably be on his way back to the rectory, probably be calling the cops about now. But Villanueva didn’t think he’d take that peek back in the window. And if it was somebody like that, then they weren’t there now. Sooner he got the hell out the better.

Could be the person saw the door a while ago, had already called the cops, now the cops were waiting for him. No. Cops would come in and get him, be on the bullhorn, have the whole place lit up.

That left the chink bitch or someone working for her. She said she’d find him. Maybe this was her plan. Pop him right on the stairs, leave the bugs on him, set him up for the Marslovak shooting.

Thing was, any way he looked at it, his situation wasn’t going to get better. The door was still open a fraction. He was just a step from it. Get the gun up, hit the door with his shoulder, come through ready to start shooting up the stairs. Hope he didn’t see anything. See anything, a shoe, a leg, start pulling the trigger. Best chance he had.

Villanueva took a couple deep breaths, tried to relax some of the tension out, raised the gun, and slammed into the door.

Lynch leaned down to take a peek in the window, pulled his head back instantly. Stupid move. Dark out here, but even darker in there. All he’d do looking through the glass was silhouette his head in the window, give the guy a shot at him. Lynch flattened back against the wall. Could have sworn he’d seen a light. Gone now. If somebody had just shut off a light in the basement, then he’d probably seen Lynch peek in the window. Guy might head back upstairs, try to get out another door. Lynch started sliding back up the stairs, keeping his eye on the basement door as he went up. Figured he could get down to the end of the walk, watch the basement stairs and the vestibule door, cover two exits anyway. Guy ran for it, Lynch would just have to trust he could run him down.

Lynch was halfway up the stairs when the door slammed out, wanging against the cement at the back of the stairwell. A man in dark clothes flew into the cement well, arms extended, a loud crack and a muzzle flash as he fired into the stairs where Lynch had just been. The round hit the step below Lynch’s feet, throwing up cement chips. Lynch felt something cut into his right leg, just above the ankle. Lynch brought his gun up and fired, but the guy had kept moving left, across the stairwell, bringing his gun up higher, seeing Lynch further up the stairs. Lynch’s round punched into the steel door, sparks flying. Another round dug into the wall just in front and to the right of Lynch’s head, bits of cement stinging Lynch’s face, Lynch feeling some blood, his right eye clouding up. He heard another shot, but didn’t feel anything. Guy was running out of options down there, trying to back into the corner now, trying to get behind the door, trying to bring the gun right. Lynch started squeezing off rounds as fast as he could, aiming for the space between the door and the wall. The sound of the shots in the cement well punched into Lynch’s ears like nails, the strobing of the muzzle flash revealing the man in the dark tracksuit as he was slammed back into the wall, the graceless spasmodic jerking as Lynch’s rounds tore into him, one more flash as the man pulled his trigger again, the round ricocheting off the floor and whining up the stairs and into the night.