Stolen Souls

87

LENNON LOOKED FOR the source of the voice, moved between it and Galya, one hand already reaching for the holster attached to his belt.

The tall and slender shape of a man stood beyond the Audi. He limped forward, his left hand raised, a revolver gripped in it, his right arm held tight to his side as if it pained him. Dried blood drew deep red lines across his cheek, cuts and grazes crisscrossed his forehead and jawline, his hooded jacket torn.

“Connolly,” Lennon said.

He reached behind with one hand and shoved Galya away, his other freeing his Glock from its holster.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” Connolly said.

The first shot hit Lennon’s left shoulder like a punch from a heavyweight, threw him against the Audi. He kept his legs under him as adrenalin hit his system ahead of the pain. By instinct, his right hand came up, his Glock squared on Connolly’s chest. Before he could get a round off, he felt a punch to his gut, then another, and his legs deserted him.

Lennon went down on his back, his right hand still raised. In the periphery of his vision, he saw Galya crouch over him, her mouth wide, but he heard no scream.

“Run,” he said.

Connolly entered his line of sight, his pistol aimed not at Lennon, but somewhere over his head.

“Run,” Lennon said. “Now.”

He fired at Connolly’s body, no idea if his aim was true or not. Connolly jerked and fell against the side of the van, his face twisted in pain.

Lennon took a breath, held it, steadied his right hand, the Glock’s sight lined on Connolly’s chest. Connolly brought his left hand up, the pistol looking back at Lennon. As a hard chill spread from Lennon’s gut, he squeezed the trigger, saw Connolly’s muzzle flash, saw him go down, saw a deep, cold blackness where the world had once been.