Hell Dawn

“Kid, we’re burning daylight. I gotta go through that door. You’re in my way.”

Hesitating another heartbeat, the young man finally shuddered and dropped the knife.

“Good,” Lyons said. He gestured the kid away from the door, and this time he complied. “Hide somewhere until the cops come to get you,” Lyons said as he brushed past the young man.

Lyons stepped into the alley and immediately found the pungent smell of rotting food assailing his nostrils. A garbage Dumpster stood to his right. Police cars barreled into the alley from both ends, their sirens screaming.

The Python extended, Lyons skirted the garbage bin, his eyes searching either for Gabe Fox or for another killer. Footsteps slapped against concrete and a moment later Lyons caught sight of a stocky man with coffee-colored skin bearing down on him. He remembered the guy as one of the gunners who’d been with the black-coated shooter a few minutes earlier.

The guy spotted Lyons and began to raise his gun.

The gesture came a microsecond too slow. The Colt Python bucked twice in Lyons’s hand. The slugs hammered into the hardman’s stomach and he collapsed to the ground. Even though he was sure the guy was dead, Lyons kicked away the man’s gun as he moved past him.

“Ironman to Ace.”

“Go, Ironman,” Grimaldi replied.

“You have any contact with our runaway?”

“Negative.”

“Politician?”

“With me. We’re watching the paramedics treat Gadgets.”

“Give me a sitrep.”

“Give us five and I’ll let you know.”

“Make it three.”

“Roger that.”

Before he could make another move, a police car skidded to a halt twenty yards to his left. Doors popped open on either side and a pair of county deputies surged from the vehicle, guns drawn. Anticipating this, Lyons had already holstered the Colt, exchanging it for his fake Justice Department credentials. He raised his hands, flipping open his badge case as he did, and played it cool. Experience told him that a downed officer put everyone on edge, igniting a volatile combination of fury and fear. He felt it burning in his own gut and wanted to chase down the bastards who’d shot Gadgets and the other fallen officer. He also didn’t want to waste precious seconds tangling with the locals. One of the officers, his gun drawn, approached him. From the corner of his eye, Lyons could see another deputy, a sergeant, closing in from the opposite direction.

The officer snagged Lyons’s ID from his hand, stepped back and inspected it. Holstering his weapon, the guy returned Lyons’s credentials and other officers emerged from cover.

“The other guys told us to look for you, Agent Irons,” the cop said. “We lost your shooter.”

Lyons nodded. “I’m going. I hope everything turns out okay for the lady.” Without waiting for the man’s reply, he turned and walked away.

CHAPTER FOUR

Fox thrust himself inside a doorway as a pair of police cars whizzed by, sirens blaring. The move was more of a reflex than a rational action. He’d spent too many years in the juvenile justice system to regard the police as friends, even under the current circumstances. The CIA—or at least someone within the Agency—already had sold him out. Who was to say the police around here weren’t also bought and paid for?

Moving quickly, he covered two blocks on foot, his gaze cast downward, though he continued taking in his surroundings with surreptitious glances.

Pain seared through his ribs, causing him to wince with each step. The knife thrust had been a glancing one, striking bone, skittering off it, without biting into the vital organs beneath his rib cage. But Fox knew he was losing lots of blood. He could feel his warm life fluids grow cool as the breeze whipped inside his long coat. Each step caused bolts of pain to emanate from the wound, and he clenched his jaw to keep the pain in check. Gunshots continued to ring in his ears, reminding him of the rare occasions when as a teen he’d attended concerts and his ears would buzz for twenty-four hours as they recovered from the audio assault.

Taking his hand away from the wound, he found it covered with blood. In fact, blood had soaked his wrist and then his sleeve, turning the fabric black almost up to his elbow. Unbidden, the face of the thug he’d just killed flickered across his mind and he felt his stomach roll. He saw the man’s gaze transform from one of controlled rage, a predatory confidence, to shock and finally helplessness as he realized he was dying. Fox had shoved the man away and exploded from the alley, passing the fallen police officer, leaving her also to die as he’d tried to save his own skin.

Tears stung his eyes as he chastised himself for his cowardice. How many more people were going to have to die because of him? Because of what he’d wrought with his own hands? His vision began to blur and his footsteps grew heavier. Shit! He’d lost so much blood that his body was ready to give out, to shut down, if not forever, at least for a time to heal.

Move!

He passed a couple of slab houses covered in peeling paint and fronted by small rock gardens and spotty grass. In the backyard of one, laundry hung from a line, blowing in the breeze. In the other, a black Labrador retriever stood on his hindquarters, his front paws hooked over the fence, barking at him and wagging its tail in welcome. He kept moving and hoped its noise didn’t prompt the home’s occupants to peer through their window where they’d see a blood-soaked man lumbering down the street.

He was beginning to feel shaky, and knew he couldn’t keep walking forever. Ahead, he saw a refuge, a wooden shed painted an odd green color that he guessed matched his skin tone at this particular moment. It sat inside a fenced yard, its door seized by the strong winds whipping through town, fanning open and closed.

The structure lay forty or so yards away. It might as well have been a mile for the way he felt. Eyes locked on the building, he stumbled to the corner and felt his legs grow rubbery. His hand lashed out and he caught hold of a street sign’s metal post. Leaning his body against it, his eyes slammed shut and a seductive blackness began to envelop his mind, summoning him to surrender to it.

The cell phone in his pocket trilled, pulling him back out. Dipping a hand into his pocket, he retrieved the phone and answered the call. “Hello.”

“Gabe?” Even in his shaky condition, Fox recognized Kurtzman’s voice immediately.

“Yeah.”

“Where the hell are you?”

“Good to hear your voice.”

“Yeah. C’mon. Where the hell are you?”

“Not sure. Some street.”

“You sound like hell. You injured.”

“Guy stabbed me, Aaron. Cut my side open. Hurts. Like. Hell.”

“Understood, brother. Where are you at? We’ll come get you.”

Fox peered up at the street sign, trying to bring the words into focus. “Peak Street,” Fox said. “I’m on Peak Street.”

“Okay, we’re on our way.”

“Man, I killed two people.”

“Right. You did what you had to. No worries, huh?”

“I didn’t want to. I feel like shit.”

“Like I said, no worries. We’ll work stuff out. Just hang on for a minute. I’ve got guys coming for you. Plainclothes. A mouthy blond guy and a gray-haired Hispanic fellow. They’ll take good care of you.”

His eyes slammed shut again until Fox heard a car engine growl to his left, prompting him to turn and look. He watched as a van rolled up to the curb. In his delirium, he’d lost his feel for time.

“That was fast,” he said.

“What was fast?” Kurtzman replied.