“He’s in too good a spot, he’ll scrag us both. There’s a service door for the janitor. I’ll get in that way, come up behind him. You stay put. Make him think we’re both out here.”
He grunted cooperatively. I hurried toward the curving hall to the main room, while he hunkered down at the end of the bar to cover the lounge door. As soon as he turned from me I vanished, changed course, and floated right past him, a necessity since there was no such service entry. Desanctis might have felt a deadly chill as I went by. Unable to see in this form, I had to bump and bumble along by memory and the awareness of solid shapes between me and my goal. This was a stool, that bulk to the right was the bar, skim along a vertical plain of wall on the left, and for the love of Mike don’t miss the door.
I found it and slipped quickly under the threshold crack and in. My hearing was limited; I couldn’t locate Foxtrot by sound, so I cast about with what should be my arms, a blind, invisible monster trying to find its prey before anyone else got hurt.
He was on the floor just inside, right where I’d have been. This close and I could hear his quick, labored breathing. I set myself and went solid, and he was too surprised to react when his gun was suddenly yanked away.
His back propped against the wall, he held the door open a few inches with one outstretched leg. He shifted and the door shut automatic
ally, cutting off most of the light. There was some glow seeping through the red-tinted windows, enough for me, but he’d be blinkered. Just as well; I didn’t want him noticing how the mirrors here kept missing me.
I tried a reasonable tone. “All right, Foxtrot, game’s over—”
He flopped on one side, throwing his right arm wide to grab. I backed away and smelled fresh blood again, a lot of it, mixed with the sharp, sweet odor of cordite from his one shot. The red color of the window glass made it difficult to see, but his middle was soaked. He held his left arm tight there, panting with pain. His voice was slurred and rushed. “Who izzit?”
“Jack Fleming.”
He grunted disgust and stopped trying to find me. “Na’ dead.”
“In so many words, not quite.” I was being strangely polite to him, considering the dirtiness of the grenade trick. His wounding puzzled me, and tardy alarm bells only I could hear went off inside my thick skull. I cursed while pocketing the gun and grabbed him under the arms to drag him out of the way, exactly as I’d done for the fellow in the lobby.
He did not resist. “ ’f tha’ bas’ard’s hurt her . . .”
“She’s fine, Joe.” I eased him down flat, got towels from a cupboard under the sinks, and pressed a wad of them to whatever damage he’d taken. “Hold it there, can you do that?”
He made no reply, responding by dropping a bloody arm over the makeshift dressing. “Emma . . .”
“Keep quiet.”
I opened the door and called out to Desanctis, “It’s clear, Gino, I got him.”
Desanctis was already in the hall, striding forward, gun raised, which I did not expect, which was damned stupid, but I faded just as he fired. It was such a near thing that I felt the sharp passage of the slug tugging with miserable familiarity through my chest, and it was enough to startle me into vanishing completely.
Dimly, I heard the door thump shut.
Damnation.
I went solid, listening. Desanctis was just on the other side, certainly doing the same thing, reluctant to try the door until he was sure he’d gotten me. It was dark for him; the disruptive flash from his gun would have prevented him from seeing me wink out. I shoved hard on the door to knock him silly, but he skipped back and fired three times right through at chest height, and that did the trick.
I dropped like a bag of sand, nerve and muscle in shock from the bullets’ passage. The lead shattered bone, seared flesh, and I’d have screamed had there been breath. Instead, I made an ugly choking sound down in my throat and thrashed like a fish. I should have vanished, but something short-circuited things. Blood flowed out front and back, weakening me. I had to vanish to heal or—
Damned wood.
The door was made of pine panels, soft, splintery pine.
My fingers raked over the holes in my chest, clawing for the slivers that had to be there. I pulled one clear but remained solid, still bleeding.
How many more?
They were like little daggers. I had to get them all, but if they were too small or if fragments had tattooed themselves under my hide . . .
Desanctis hauled open the door. I frantically rolled out of the way of his next shot.
It was nearly pitch dark for him. I could use that—
He flicked on the light, revealing the whole appalling mess of what seemed like gallons of blood smearing the black and white tiles, Foxtrot Joe helpless on his back over there, me fumbling desperately to get one slick hand on the gun in my pants pocket, knowing I’d be too late.
Desanctis showed teeth in the bright, ferocious grin of a man who’s won everything—