The Chaos Kind Page 7

  The other two raced forward, firing as they ran, trying to get to the trees. Dox knew the chances of someone hitting what he was aiming for while running flat-out were decidedly poor, but still, having rounds flying even at random did tend to pose a challenge to your own ability to aim. He took a deep breath, put his front sight on the torso of the man on the right, let the breath ease out, and pressed the trigger. The round caught the man in the shoulder. It threw off his stride, but the man managed to keep his footing. Dox adjusted. The next shot caught the man in the midsection. The man flinched like he’d been punched hard in the gut. He tried to get his gun up and back into play, but Dox had zeroed him now and put three more rounds into the man’s chest. The man twitched, staggered, did a half pirouette, and went down.

  The last man, number six, had managed to make it to a tree—with the current angles, better cover than Dox and Larison had. Without anything needing to be said, they raced for their own tree, both laying down suppressing fire as they ran. They got behind the trunk just in time to avoid a fusillade of shots. The tree, which had looked plenty thick from far away, suddenly seemed like a sapling.

  Larison swapped in a fresh magazine. “You want to show this guy what a pincer is all about?”

  Dox swapped in a fresh mag, too. “Hell yes. Who goes first?”

  “You.”

  “Had a feeling I shouldn’t let you choose.”

  “Just about who’s the better shot. No offense.”

  “None taken. Though if something happens to me, I’d be grateful if you’d kill him dead after. Of course, before would be my preference.”

  “Shut up and go.”

  Dox sucked in a long breath and dashed out from behind the tree—

  Larison popped partway out from the other side and began firing—

  The remaining man fired back—

  Dox felt a round whiz past him, another, and then—

  He was behind the next tree. It was no thicker than the previous one, but still he’d never been so grateful for the proximity of nature. The last line of a poem zipped through his head—But only God can make a tree—and he almost laughed.

  He glanced back at Larison. Larison nodded. Dox took a deep breath, stepped right, and started firing. In his peripheral vision, he could see Larison sprinting forward. This time, the sixth man didn’t even try to return fire. Maybe he was swapping in a fresh mag. Maybe he was shitting his pants. Maybe all of the above.

  Larison made it to the next tree. Their three positions now formed a scalene triangle, with Dox and Larison at the base and Dox closer to number six’s position.

  There were more trees ahead. If Dox had been the man, he would have found the options depressingly bleak. Dox and Larison could just keep leapfrogging closer and closer until they flanked him, one keeping him pinned down while the other moved. Absent a hell of a lucky shot, at this point it was only a matter of time.

  Number six must have been doing the same math. Because just as Dox was about to dart to the next tree, the man went tearing off in the opposite direction, zigzagging as he moved. But his zigs and zags weren’t as random as they might have been, and Larison, stepping out from behind his tree, brought up the Glock, took a moment to track the man’s movements, and fired. The round caught the man in the back and staggered him. Dox fired twice, nailing him both times. Larison shot once more and the man went down.

  The two of them did a quick 360-degree sweep of the area. No more threats. No more anyone, other than Manus. But there would be plenty of visitors soon enough, most of them wearing blue uniforms. People could rationalize or otherwise ignore a single gunshot, maybe as many as three or four. But even if the city hadn’t set up one of those fancy acoustic gunshot detection systems, and probably it had, a running firefight between this many combatants in a public park was going to get called in.

  Larison walked over, his head still swiveling, scanning the park. “You all right?”

  Dox took a moment to inspect himself. He didn’t see any holes. “Yeah. You?”

  “You want to make small talk, or you want to get the hell out of here?”

  Dox laughed. Once you got to know him, Larison actually had a fine sense of humor. “Don’t see why we can’t do both,” he said.

  They looked over at Manus. The man was heading their way from fifty feet off, the dripping Espada still gripped in his right hand. It looked like someone had tossed an entire bucket of blood onto him. Which, as Dox considered, was more or less what had happened.

  Neither of them said anything as Manus approached. Dox, who had planned to holster the Wilson, found himself keeping it in a retracted low ready position. As it happened, Larison was doing the same.

  Manus reached their position. He glanced at their pistols. Then he closed the Espada, and for the first time, Dox saw him smile.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already.”

  chapter

  fifteen

  LARISON

  Larison couldn’t decide whether Manus was serious or joking. Even Dox, who had an answer for everything, was momentarily stymied and just stood there silently, the Wilson frozen in purgatory.

  Whatever. Probably Manus meant it both ways. Larison holstered the Glock and looked at Dox. “Stick together, or split up?”

  Dox glanced around, then back to Manus, either so Manus could read his lips or because Dox was afraid to look elsewhere.

  “Three big guys,” Dox said, finally holstering the Wilson. “One scary, one covered in blood, and one devilishly handsome. See if you can guess who’s who. Anyway, overall the description is apt to be a lot like whatever witnesses might report.”

  “Yeah,” Larison said. “But on the other hand—”

  “I know, on the other hand, if anyone runs into another team, I’d rather it be the three of us together. It’s hard to imagine whoever’s behind this sent more than six, but still, let’s take our chances with witness descriptions until we’re clear of the area. Then we’ll split up, and regroup later and debrief. Sound good?”

  It sounded good to Larison. And apparently to Manus, too, who said, “Let’s go.”

  They all popped up their parka hoods. Larison said, “Wait, let’s not leave the toys. I told you it was going to be talking or shooting and nothing in between.” They grabbed the umbrella and the selfie stick and started moving.

  There were a lot of ways in and out of the park, so unless there were quite a few more than the six they’d already dropped, Larison didn’t expect to run into any more opposition. They’d already thoroughly reconnoitered and knew the surroundings well, and without any discussion headed out the east side, the less trafficked part of the park.

  Larison scanned the area as they moved, eyeblink-ready to pull the Glock if he saw anything the least bit suspicious. But the park was quiet.

  He was half-horrified, half-relieved that he hadn’t shot Manus when he had the chance. A sequence kept replaying in his mind: when he had hesitated, the trigger half depressed, then holstered the Glock, tore in empty-handed, and engaged an obviously formidable operator struggling to deploy a giant knife. Why? To help Dox, of course, but a head shot would have been the right way to do that. He realized it was Dox’s determination to stay within the less-than-lethal parameters for the sake of his lady. But that was Dox’s deal. When had Larison become so devoted to Dox, and to Rain, that he would compromise his own instincts just to demonstrate his loyalty?

  It was disturbing, and he’d have to think about it. For now, he was glad he’d made the right call. Or at least the lucky one.

  They had made it down the stairs and had just cut onto Ninth Avenue when they saw a woman in a jogging outfit come running up the street straight toward them. Of course. Alondra Diaz.

  chapter

  sixteen

  DOX

  Larison and Manus kept their heads down and their feet moving, but Dox couldn’t help looking back as Diaz passed them. Ah, shit, she was turning onto the stairs
and heading straight up into the park.

  He shook it off and continued along the street. She was probably safe for now. There couldn’t be another team in the park at this point, could there? A cleanup crew, something like that?

  Of course not. He was being ridiculous. But—

  “Don’t,” he heard Larison growl. The man had gotten to know him too well.

  Dox tried to listen. Tried not to think about how he would feel if something happened to the woman. And couldn’t help imagining her walking right into the kind of ambush he and Larison had just prevented.

  “Don’t,” Larison said again, louder, but it was already too late. Dox turned back. She was halfway up the stairs and about to go around a corner. He called out, “Ms. Diaz!”

  She stopped and looked at him. He heard Manus’s and Larison’s footfalls moving steadily away. He couldn’t blame them. He just hoped they wouldn’t blame him.

  “Please, ma’am, don’t go running in the park this morning. There are people there who were planning to hurt you. They can’t now, but there might be others. You need to watch your back. I think it’s about that big case of yours. Some powerful people who aren’t happy about it.”

  “What?” Diaz said. “How do you . . . How do you know who I am? How do you know about my case?”

  “You need to stay clear of that park,” Dox said. “And anywhere else people might expect you. Now, if you have any sense at all, you’ll listen to what I just said.”

  He turned and walked away, fast but not too fast. He made a quick right, then another right onto a series of quiet stairs that led to more stairs and a walking path behind some apartment buildings. One of the bugout routes they had agreed on earlier. In under a minute, he’d caught up to Larison and Manus. He looked back and was relieved Diaz wasn’t trying to follow them.

  Manus was walking point and didn’t say anything. Not that his silence meant much. Dox got the feeling the man was even quieter than Larison, and besides, he probably hadn’t heard Dox coming. But Larison glanced back and said, “What the hell was that?”

  “You know what it was.”

  “I agreed to save her. Not die for her. Or get arrested. She can describe you now.”

  “My hood’s up. I don’t think she got much of a look.”

  “No, just enough to tell the cops, ‘He was a big guy who sounded straight out of Abilene. And he was with two other big men.”

  “How come you’re the men and I’m just the guy?”

  “I’m not fucking around.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. A lot just happened and I’m trying to improvise.”

  “You want to be a knight in shining armor, do it when it’s not my ass, okay?”

  “I said I’m sorry, all right? Let’s just keep moving.”

  They passed some early-morning commuters, but with the rain, everyone was walking hoods up and heads down. A few were sheltering under umbrellas. No one paid them any heed.

  At the top of the path, they emerged back onto the street. They headed into an alley between a pair of apartment buildings and ducked behind a Dumpster.

  “Partial as I am to All City Coffee,” Dox said, his eyes going from Manus’s face to the tip of the Espada protruding from his front pants pocket and back again, “I think we’d be better off reconnecting outside the city limits. How’d you get here and how were you planning to leave?”

  “No,” Manus said. “I don’t want to split up.”

  “Well, it’s not my first choice either, but—”

  “I want to know who’s behind this. Who hired me. Who hired you. Who sent those people.”

  “Fine, we can talk about that when—”

  “I’m not taking a chance on you two ghosting. We stick together until you tell me what you know.”

  “Hey,” Larison said. “I don’t want to hear your demands. We just saved your ass back there.”

  Manus shook his head. “I saved yours.”

  “Why the fuck would we ghost? The only reason you’re not dead right now is because someone wants to know why you were sent to kill Diaz.”

  “You want what I know?” Manus said. “You go first.”

  Larison took a step back and to the side. “No. You.”

  Well, that wasn’t good. A typical posturer would have stepped in to make a point. When Larison stepped offline, it was the opposite. He wasn’t making a point. He was going to shoot you.

  “Hold on,” Dox said. “Hold on. We’re all a little upset and we need to take a deep breath. Mr. Manus, my name’s Dox. And this here is Larison.”

  “Jesus,” Larison said. “Why don’t you just give him our driver’s licenses?”

  “You’re right that we need to put our heads together,” Dox went on. “And we want the same thing you do. So I’ll tell you what. We have a car—a minivan, as it happens. One of us can drive, the other two can lie down. When we get somewhere quiet, we can park and all sit in back and debrief to our hearts’ content. Maybe even bring in a little takeout. I don’t know about you, but I always get hungry after surviving a gunfight.”

  “What are you doing?” Larison said. “We had a bugout point, why are you changing the plan?”

  Good God, anytime something seemed to be cooling off, Larison had to turn a damn flamethrower on it. “Because, in case you haven’t been keeping up on current events, so far this morning not one thing has gone according to plan.”

  “Bullshit. You want to stick around because you want to see Livia.”

  That riled him, mostly because it was true. He stared at Larison. “Why are you saying her name in front of him?”

  Larison took a step closer. “You can say mine and I can’t say hers?”

  In spite of everything, Dox couldn’t help but smile at that. In contrast to what he’d done with Manus, Larison had stepped closer to Dox to emphasize his anger.

  “Remember when we used to fight?” Dox said. “We’d be an eyeblink from shooting each other. And now? All you’re thinking to do is punch me in the face. That’s some kind of in-group we’ve formed, and I for one am proud of it.”

  For a second, Larison stared at him, incredulous. Then he started laughing. “I give up,” he said. “You crazy bastard, I’ll get the van.”

  chapter

  seventeen

  DIAZ

  For a long moment, Diaz stood rooted to the steps, watching the now-empty street, unsure of what to do. Had that man really told her not to go into the park? That people were trying to hurt her in connection with . . . what, with Schrader? There had been three of them, hadn’t there? But suddenly she was unsure. It felt so surreal, she wondered if it had even really happened.

  Just a few minutes earlier, as she was approaching the park, she’d heard what sounded like gunfire. It hadn’t been very loud, though, and there had been so much of it that she’d dismissed it as something else. Kids with firecrackers or something. But the park was designed to suppress the sound of the highway it was built over. Could the design suppress the sound of gunshots, too?

  She realized she was afraid to go in. And that decided it for her. She turned, marched up the stairs, and walked into the park.

  She saw it all immediately. Bodies. Several of them.

  She froze, her heart suddenly hammering so hard it seemed she could hear it. “Shit,” she said. “Shit, shit, shit.” Her voice sounded unnaturally high, and she realized her throat had constricted. Still, it was a comfort to hear herself saying something, anything.

  She jerked her head right, afraid whoever had done this was still here. Nothing. She jerked left—and saw another cluster of bodies, the ground around them soaked with blood. She stood staring for a moment, shocked, sure she wasn’t seeing correctly.

  They’re statues. It’s a joke. It’s, it’s . . .

  She tried to pull out her cellphone but her arms were frozen. She tried to say shit again, but nothing came out. Confused, she tried to move her feet. They were stuck. She heard a roaring in her ears, as though water were rushing
past. It was like one of those nightmares where you’re glued to the ground or sinking into it—

  The freeze, she heard Livia saying. A normal survival reflex. But to break it, you have to take external action. Say a word. Flex your hand open and closed. Take a step. Something. And make that one external action lead to another.

  She tried to say shit again, but it was as though her throat was locked tight, her jaw wired shut.

  “Sh . . . sh . . . ,” she managed. She felt her stomach clenching and she pushed harder, managing to draw out the sound: “Shhhhhhhh . . .”

  And then the word broke through. She said it again and again, afraid if she stopped, her throat would close again. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit . . .”

  She was talking. She could talk. “Move, Alondra,” she said, panting. “Fucking move . . .”

  But she couldn’t. Her legs wouldn’t listen. She imagined her toes. Tried to wiggle them. She made her foot turn back and forth, as though stubbing out a fallen cigarette. She forced the foot forward, an inch, another, two more, like someone confirming the ground would support her weight. She managed a shaking step. Then a second. And suddenly the freeze was gone. It was as though she’d burst free of a straitjacket, an invisible cocoon.

  Her hands were shaking so badly she couldn’t reach into her jacket pocket, and when she finally did, she nearly dropped her cellphone. She managed to punch in 411 and was about to press Call when she realized that was information, it was 911 she needed. She deleted the entry, got the correct digits in, hit Call, and raised the phone to her ear.

  One ring, then: “911, what is your emergency?”

  “This is Alondra Diaz,” she said. Her voice was still high and shaky and she fought to control it. “I’m an assistant US Attorney. I’m in Freeway Park. There are . . . bodies here. Five. No, wait, six.”

  “Ma’am, are you sure—”

  “I’m sure. I’m looking at them. I don’t know what happened. There’s blood on the ground. Lots of it.”