11th hour

Chapter 98

As Will Randall pulled the trigger, he was jostled by a lurching bum in a woman’s coat who grabbed on to his arm to steady himself, saying, “Whooaaa.”

Will’s shot went wild, and Lesko took the split second of confusion to get away.

Will stiff-armed the bum and knocked him aside, then he aimed at Lesko. Jimmy was now a moving target in the dark, running like he was carrying a football under his arm, smashing into a couple of kids holding hands, ramming into a homeless grandma with a shopping cart. He knocked both the cart and grandma to the sidewalk, and she lay there with her limbs splayed out, her cart’s wheels spinning, garbage everywhere.

Forward motion blocked, Lesko took the clearest path, bounding up steps that led to the front deck of a house.

Will fired at Lesko’s back — and missed. And now Lesko crouched on the deck one story above him and shot at Will through the wrought-iron railing.

Will took to the street, then popped out from behind a van and got off six shots. But Lesko returned fire and Randall realized he had to corner this bastard and kill him at close range.

Pedestrians screamed and fled as Will charged toward the stairs, and then tires squealed and voices came from behind him.

“Freeze. Randall, put down your gun. Drop your gun now.”

Will turned his head. He saw cops — cops that he knew. The blond guy with the ponytail — Brady. And the other two. Conklin and Boxer, who had brought him into the Hall.

How had they found him?

They’d been inside the unmarked car on Golden Gate Avenue and had seen him, followed him, that was how.

There was screaming on both sides of the street, Lesko yelling for help, pedestrians freaking, cops shouting, “Drop your gun! Hands in the air!”

Will turned toward the cops, waved his gun, and shouted, “I know what I’m doing. Clear out of here. Don’t make me shoot.”

A cop yelled, “Drop your gun now!”

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.