my key chain to my father. He was now closest to the door. The two other keys, copper colored, were for a storage unit and my office at Yale.
Having a former CIA operative for a dad has its drawbacks, but it sure comes in handy when taking fire. He knew what to do. More importantly, he knew what not to do. As in, try to open the door to my apartment at the wrong time.
We were crouched on the tight pile carpet, spread on either side of the hall with our guns drawn, waiting for the next rounds to come our way. It wasn’t a matter of if, only when. C’mon, bring it …
We kept staring at the corner, waiting for movement. Amateurs always go for speed, trying to outdraw you. This guy wasn’t an amateur.
The first thing we saw was subtle, a hint of blue from the brim of his Mets cap. It was sticking out no more than an inch, about six feet off the ground. He was decoying us. I could practically picture him holding the cap above his head, trying to draw our eyes.
Instead I gave a quick glance to my father, who nodded back. Enough said. My father was no amateur either.
The Mets cap—and only the cap—suddenly came flying out from behind the corner like a clay pigeon, but my eyes stayed focused below it. Sure enough, his hand came whipping around the edge, the barrel of his semiautomatic leading the way only a few feet up from the floor. Nice try, asshole …
We traded shots. My father and I were pinned down, but the guy had no time to square either of us up. He was quick, though. Good reflexes. No sooner did he lunge forward than he immediately pulled back, although not before I nicked him. A small burst of blood splattered against the wall, probably from the meat of his forearm.
Now!
My father sprang to his feet with the key, finding the cylinder on the first try. With a twist and a shove, he threw open the door. All I had to do was follow him in. That’s all I had to do.
Take it away, Robert Burns.
The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.
CHAPTER 59
ALL AT once came a cacophony of sounds I didn’t want to hear. Not then. Not there. What are you doing, Mrs. Jones?
The sliding of the security chain on her door. The snap of the dead bolt. The squeaking of a turning doorknob that probably hadn’t been oiled since the last time the Mets actually won the World Series.
The hallway was about to have company.
Our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Irma Jones, had just submitted her application to the infamous Darwin Awards by hearing gunshots outside her apartment and somehow deciding that the smartest move for survival’s sake was to get a closer look. Then again, she was in her eighties. Who knows what she thought she heard?
She sure didn’t hear me. As soon as her door opened, I tried to tell her to go back inside. I couldn’t yell, though. Yelling would’ve been the same as grabbing a bullhorn to announce to the shooter that I was distracted. In other words, fire away.
After looking down the hall, Irma turned and saw me flat on the ground behind her. She was about to do the one thing worse than peeking her head out. She was about to come all the way out.
“Are you okay, Dylan?” she asked, squinting.
Irma had maybe an inch on Ruth Bader Ginsburg, if that. She was tiny. And she was about to get body-slammed.
I pushed up off the carpet, launching myself toward her like a sprinter out of the blocks. I had one eye on her and the other over her shoulder, and before I could even blink, it went from bad to worse.
There was no decoying us this time. No trickery with the Mets cap. He jumped out from around the corner with a two-handed grip. He had no intention of missing me twice.
Irma screamed.
Irma never saw him. She had her back to him. She was screaming because of the gun I had pointed at her head while charging at her. At least, that’s what it surely looked like to her eyes. Her neighbor, one of those two nice gay men from next door, was about to kill her. That had to be against the co-op board’s rules, right?
My move was straight out of Ringling Bros. I dove for Irma, leaping through the