The Thirteenth Skull (Alfred Kropp 3) - Page 7
I hoped I had counted right. I was pretty sure I had, but even simple things like counting can get complicated when someone is firing bullets at your head.
Snap. Then rapidly as he yanked the trigger over and over: Snap, snap, snap
. . . snap snap snap snap!
I jumped up and landed a haymaker to the side of his head. Then another to the other side of his head. Then a gut punch, as hard as I could throw it. He doubled over and my fists kept flying wherever I could land them: head, shoulders, arms, chest. He dropped the gun. It hit the edge of the landing and spun into the open space of the stairwell, disappearing from view.
He fell into me and we grappled like two exhausted prize fighters in the tenth round. He slowly drove me backward until I felt the metal bar of the handrail pressing against my lower back. I didn’t need to look to know I was a foot away from taking a thirty-story tumble down the center stairwell.
He freed his right hand, which he used to force my head back, his fingers slick with somebody’s blood, mine or his, or maybe both. I grabbed his wrist, yanked his arm down, and pivoted to my left, spinning him around as I went. The momentum carried him over the handrail—and pulled me with him.
Then everything froze. He dangled there with me holding his wrist as I leaned over the railing, my face about a foot from his. There was no fear in his eyes. There was no emotion at all, not even disappointment.
My grip slipped: too much blood.
“I don’t want to drop you,” I gasped.
“You should,” he gasped back.
He kicked hard with his legs and yanked free.
I watched him fall. About a couple stories down, the brown jacket tore away and the top of a parachute appeared, one of those small chutes you see stunt skydivers wear.
That was enough for me. I raced back up to the hallway and hit the button on the express elevator. There was no time to check on Samuel, not if I had any chance of catching this guy.
The elevator door slid open. “Sorry, Sam,” I muttered, and stepped inside.
I dialed 911 on my cell phone.
“Nine one one, what is your emergency?”
“There’s been a shooting at Samson Towers. Penthouse suite,” I said. “You gotta send an ambulance down here right away.”
“Someone’s been shot?”
“You bet someone’s been shot, otherwise why would I be calling you guys?” I shouted. I watched the floor numbers ticking down: 25, 24, 23 . . . They seemed to be moving in slow-motion.
I heard the dispatcher say something to someone else like, “Another one from Samson Towers! Yeah, that’s what he says.”
“Hello?” I shouted into the phone, watching the floors slide by: 15, 14, 13 . . . “You gotta send an ambulance! Samson Towers!”
“Sir, someone’s already called for an ambulance at that location.”
“That’s probably for the dude in the explosion. This is someone else.”
“Another explosion?”
“No, a shooting.”
“A shooting! How many people?”
“One! Just one!” 5, 4, 3 . . . “Penthouse suite. He’s in the inner office, farthest one back through the main doors.”
The door slid open. I stopped a couple steps past the door to the stairs. He’d fooled me once with the hiding-behind-the-stairway-door trick. Maybe he thought I would think he wouldn’t try it again, but if it were me I wouldn’t race onto a street swarming with cops.
I kicked open the door and stepped inside. I found the discarded chute and harness, his jacket and, lying on the bottom step, the empty 9mm, but no Delivery Dude. I scooped up the gun and dropped it into my pocket. At some point, Samuel would want it back.
The lobby was swarming with people. I saw the red flash of emergency vehicle lights on the street outside and the red hulk of the fire engine beside the smoldering wreckage of the car.
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