Wicked Prey

dead, blank-eyed, a long brown wig lying beside her head, and a pistol lying by her hands. She’d been hit twice, once in the midsection, once in the forehead. “I only hit her once,” Lucas said. “They’re killing their own.”
    “Not leaving anybody behind to make a deal,” Shrake said. “You ready?”
    * * *
    AT THE BOTTOM of the ramp, Cohn and Lane could see two exits—one said “Monthly Parking” and the other “Daily Parking,” going in opposite directions. “Which way?” Lane asked.
    “I don’t know. We weren’t supposed to come this way,” Cohn said.
    Lane said, “I’m down to my last clip. I’m going that way.” He gestured at the monthly parking exit.
    “I don’t think that’s right,” Cohn said. “Ah, Jesus. I don’t think that’s right. I think it’s out the other side.”
    “Well, I’m going this way,” Lane said.
    Cohn nodded. “I’m going the other way. If you make it, if I make it, I’ll see you at the farm.”
    “See you there,” Lane said, and he ran off toward the monthly parking with the jewel bag over his shoulder. The thought crossed Cohn’s mind that he should shoot him, and take the bag; but he was too tired. Instead, he pushed himself up, shook his head, and headed toward the daily parking exit. There, he came up to a concrete pillar and looked out on the street; parked cars, but he didn’t see the street car. Could he have been wrong? They’d come down the spiral . . .
    He looked back, and heard footfalls coming down the ramp. Had to make a move.
    He sprinted across the street, heard somebody shouting, saw two cops running after him, forty yards back, and he turned and fired two quick shots and broke out on the open street and looked around.
    Wrong place. He was going the wrong way. Lane had been right. Almost made him laugh.
    Instead of laughing, he sprinted hopelessly toward an ornate old building across the street that showed the mouth of an alley or intersecting street. One of the cops shot at him and he heard the round go by, close, but no cigar.
    He turned down the street and up ahead, saw two more cops, fat guys, big fat guys. They were looking at him, bracing themselves, but didn’t seem to have their guns out. He waved at them, shouted, “Help, help, gun, gun,” and the cops looked past him for a moment and he closed to thirty feet and then one of them shouted, “Stop right there, stop . . .”
    He realized then that they were not fat, they were armored. He lifted his gun and fired three times, fast, as he closed on them, the last from only a few feet, aiming low, at their exposed legs, and one of them screamed and went down and then he was past them.
    The other cop fired at him and missed, and fired again and missed, and he was almost at the mouth of the street and a third shot missed and he turned the corner and forty feet away, two more cops, large guys, the guys from the hotel, he thought, and he said to them, “Shit!” and fired and the last thing he saw was the flash from the muzzle of one of their guns.
    * * *
    LUCAS CROUCHED over him. “He’s gone. Was there another one?”
    “I think so. I don’t know where.”
    Shrake had fired the shot that killed Cohn; now he looked at the body and said, “Piece of shit.”
    “I better go back; you stay with this guy,” Lucas said. An armored cop came around and shouted, “Police officer,” and Lucas shouted back, “We’re cops, we’re police. You okay?”
    “Got a guy hit bad, hit bad,” the cop shouted. “He’s hit bad . . .”
    Lucas told Shrake, “Go see, get an ambulance started if this guy hasn’t, I’m going back . . . You okay?”
    “I’m good,” Shrake said.
    “Hang in there,” Lucas said.
    He turned and ran back the way they’d come, heading for the parking ramp. They’d come out on a diagonal street, and had gotten ahead of Cohn that way. Now he ran back on the same diagonal, into a cluster of cops spread around the ramp. They saw him coming, some turned toward him, but he could hear people shouting his name and he shouted back.
    Larkin, the St. Paul sergeant, was there, and asked, “What happened?”
    “We got two dead, the woman and Cohn,” Lucas said; he reloaded. “We got one cop shot, I don’t know who or what department, he was one of the control guys for the convention, got an ambulance started; what about here? Anybody hurt?”
    Larkin’s face was covered with blood from his facial and scalp cuts. “Not except for me getting nicked up.