And then the cops fired at him.
He felt a shot hit his left shoulder and it enraged him. Adrenaline surged. He was right. They were wrong. He had told them to leave.
He fired toward the cops, watched them duck and cover.
Someone shouted, “Officer down. Officer down.”
Cops were down.
It was happening so fast. The blood left Will’s head as he realized, with an almost calming clarity, that he wasn’t going to leave this street alive. But he still had to do what he had come to do.
Lesko was pulling the trigger on his empty gun. He pulled again and again, looked at the gun, swore, then dropped it.
Will took the stairs and advanced on Lesko, the good-looking kid with blood staining his expensive clothes, blood dripping down his pants. He had his hands in the air, was backing up against the side of the house.
Lesko shouted at Will, veins popping in his neck and forehead, “You’ve got the wrong person! I’m Jimmy Lesko. I don’t know you. I don’t know you.”
Will said, “I feel sorry for your father. That’s all.”
He fired two shots into Lesko’s chest, then turned with his gun still in his hand. He felt the blow of a shot to his gut. His legs folded.
Will was on his belly, fading out of consciousness.
Lights flashed. Images swam. Voices swirled around him.
He got Jimmy Lesko.
He was sure. Almost sure. That he’d got him.
Chapter 99
CINDY WAS AT the half-moon table in the corner of the living room, what she liked to call her home office, when the phone rang. She glanced at the clock in the corner of her laptop screen, then snatched up the phone.
“Ms. Thomas? This is Inspector May Hess, from radio communications. I have a message for you from Sergeant Boxer. There’s been a shooting. Go to Metro Hospital now.”
“Oh my God. Is it Richard Conklin? Has he been shot? Tell me it’s not Rich. Please tell me.”
“I just have the message for you.”
“You must know. Is Inspector Conklin —”
“Ma’am, I’m just supposed to deliver the message. I’ve told you everything I know.”
Cindy’s mind slipped and spun, then she got herself together. She phoned for a cab, put a coat on over her sweatpants and T-shirt, stepped into a pair of loafers, and headed downstairs.
She paced in front of her apartment building, calling Richie’s phone, leaving messages when the call went to voicemail, then calling him again.
The cab came after five minutes that seemed like five hours. Cindy shouted through the cabbie’s window, “Metropolitan Hospital. This is an emergency,” then threw herself back into the seat.
She was trying to remember the last thing she’d said to Richie. Oh God, it was something like Not now, honey, I’m working.
What the hell was wrong with her? What the hell?
Her body was running hot and cold as she thought about Richie, about him being paralyzed or in pain or dying. God, she couldn’t lose him.
Cindy didn’t pray often, but she did now.
Please, God, let Richie be okay.