A Friend in the Dark - Gregory Ashe Page 0,85
minutes ago, because Jesus Christ, his body ached and he was so exhausted from the peaks and crashes of adrenaline. Rufus gripped the handrail until reaching the landing, then pointed, ignoring the shake in his hand. “Bruno’s in that room. The kids in this one.”
Sam moved toward the room where Rufus had cuffed Bruno, opened the door, and went in hard and fast, gun in his hand. From where Rufus stood, he watched Sam through the doorway. The big man moved around the room, inspecting Bruno first and then surveying everything else. After a minute, Sam came back and nodded.
“Didn’t believe me?” Rufus asked.
Sam grunted. “Ask me again when you can walk a straight line.”
Ophelia moved past the two, weapon at low-ready. She backed up against the wall beside the partially open door, took a quick glance inside, then lowered her gun. “My God.”
“I don’t know if that’s all of them,” Rufus said as Ophelia took a step into the room with the kids. “But they’re so fucking scared.”
Instead of moving to check, as he had with Bruno, Sam just shifted his weight, his eyes restless on Rufus.
Feeling Sam’s gaze, Rufus cast him a sideways look. He reached out to take Sam’s hand again, but froze when the sound of shrieking metal—the rusted rolling gate—echoed all the way upstairs.
And then came voices and footsteps.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Sam froze when metal screeched below them. His first thought was of the door that they had left partially raised. His second thought was of Heckler—and whoever else she might have brought with her.
When he looked at Ophelia, she said, “The stairs.”
Nodding, Sam moved with her toward the stairs. In one hand, he held the Beretta, keeping the muzzle pointed at the ground for the moment—although he didn’t think that would last long. With the other hand, he motioned Rufus back.
The stairs were a natural choke point. Sam couldn’t do anything about the fact that he had managed to get himself and Rufus—and Ophelia, for what it mattered—trapped on the second floor of Dino’s Body Repair. It was a stupid mistake, the result of stupid decisions. One of them should have stayed below and kept watch. Instead, worry over Rufus had led Sam to make mistakes. He hoped they weren’t the mistakes that would cost all of them their lives.
The layout was simple: the main floor of the body shop, with the rolling door; a dog-leg staircase, a landing interrupting the steps halfway so that the stairs could turn and come back; and then the second-floor landing, where Sam and Rufus and Ophelia held their ground. The second-floor landing was basically a hallway. On one side of the stairs, it ran for about twenty-four inches before ending in painted concrete blocks. Just a shallow niche, it offered enough cover that Ophelia darted forward and took up position there, her shoulder against the wall. Sam took the other side of the stairwell, where the hallway ran toward the two doors: the junk room where Rufus’s buddy was cuffed to the radiator, and the room where the kids were being held. Sam gave Rufus one last glance, waving him back again, mouthing, The kids.
Rufus gave Sam two middle fingers, but obediently moved into the room.
Before Sam could do anything else, footsteps came toward the staircase, echoing off the painted concrete. Sam’s heart moved into his throat; he thought about hummingbirds. Twelve hundred beats per minute. Hummingbirds had fuck-all on him right then, and most of that had to do with Rufus being in danger. How long had it been since Sam had needed to qualify at the range? Eight months? Ten? How bad had the tremors gotten since then, now that he was off the meds? How likely was he to put a bullet in the linoleum instead of center mass on Heckler? Fuck. He blew out a breath. Fuck.
Below, a figure moved into view. Mousy brown ponytail. Department store pantsuit, accessorized today by some sort of brooch on the collar. Bridget Heckler put her back to the wall as she came up the stairs; she had a gun in her hand.
“Stop,” Sam said.
Heckler stopped, but the gun floated like smoke, maybe just five degrees, but it was five degrees more than Sam liked.
“Drop the fucking gun and get on the fucking ground,” Sam shouted.
Ophelia was on her phone, her words clipped, concise, voice carrying enough that Sam could pick up her badge number, cross-streets, officer-involved shooting, like she already knew which way this was going to go