with the determination I normally only saw in nutcrackers at Christmas, and he stared straight through us as he strode down the alleyway with a firm purpose.
He made no attempt to hide himself among the vehicles, and there was no indication he’d stepped out of any of them. No jingle of keys or juggling of his bag, just straight ahead and careful to keep his hand inside of his duffel.
“Fuck.” That was all the warning I got from Bobby, but it was enough. We both dove between the parked cars when the guy shook the bag off his hand and came up with a wicked-looking gun.
I don’t know who choreographed gunfights on television and movie screens, because things never went as smoothly as depicted. Bobby and I had been walking side by side, and when we instinctively jumped to protect ourselves, we ended up on opposite sides of the alley. I landed in a scatter of gravel, barking my elbows and forearms on the broken-up asphalt. Rolling over onto my side, I spotted Bobby in a full crouch, protected by an enormous Ford truck with his hand clutching a weapon that looked a hell of a lot like the one the guy had in his duffel bag.
There were no guns on me. The duffel bag I’d been carrying held only a stainless steel water tumbler and sweat-soaked clothes. It wasn’t like I could check under the minivan I was hiding against for a Glock or Colt duct-taped to its undercarriage. Something told me that the man or woman with a stick-figure family dancing across the back windshield and an I Love to Brake for Flower Sales bumper sticker plastered below a personalized license plate declaring somebody loved Gigi wasn’t exactly going to be sporting firearms anywhere in their vehicle.
I could’ve been wrong. It is California, after all, and we’re known for our contrary natures as well as our kick-ass tacos, but regardless, I seemed to be the only one who’d come to a gunfight with a gym bag.
A bullet shattered the minivan’s side windows, showering me with bits of glass. Since I still sported a few of the deeper cuts left on me from the Brinkerhoffs’ door, I pressed my face up against the car’s wall, making sure my feet were hidden by the tire. Across the way, Bobby gestured at me with his gun, a questioning look on his face. I was taking that to mean he was asking where the hell was my weapon, but he also could have possibly been suggesting he was going to kill me for once more getting us into trouble simply by doing my job.
To be fair, he gave me that look a lot, for quite a few different things. One thing I knew for sure—I wasn’t going to scream across the alley to tell him I didn’t bring a gun with me. I hadn’t planned on being Doc Holliday to his Wyatt Earp that morning, or really any morning, but I was going to have to do something quick because another shot rocked through the van, and as far as I could tell, Bobby’s side of the alleyway was hot-lead-free.
I was definitely the target.
I really didn’t like being the target.
“Okay, McGinnis, do something,” I muttered to myself, glancing up to see Bobby returning fire with a quick one-two from his weapon. “You’re a sitting duck.”
There was silence in between the shots, and sadly, none of it was filled with police sirens or outraged yelling. What I did hear was the sound of leather-soled shoes scuffling across the gravel-flecked asphalt alleyway, a sure sign the gunman was getting closer. My Rover was, of course, at the far end of the parking stretch, literally the last car along the row opposite of JoJo’s gym. I usually park there to avoid it getting scratched, and with any luck, it would survive this little dust-up without any bullet holes. I could only hope the cars in front of it would take the damage.
Mostly because my insurance company was beginning to believe I had somehow moved into the middle of a war zone instead of living in a Craftsman in Brentwood. My rates were through the roof, and I was pretty certain the Range Rover dealer had a second house in Cabo, considering how many times I’d had to replace my car.
“The stupidest things go through your head when you’re trying not to die,” I scolded myself, looking around. “Think!”
I hated JoJo’s parking area. It wasn’t maintained