Speak of the Devil

39

ANGEL RAMOS WAS STANDING TWENTY FEET AWAY WHEN THE ELEVATOR door opened. My gun was already up and aiming. My knuckles were white on the handle. Just as the elevator bumped to a halt, I’d noted the blood oozing from the gash in my coat sleeve. The warmth had given way to a hot searing pain. I realized what had happened. A large piece of the toy store’s plate-glass window had sliced open my shooting arm when I dove through the window. A nasty thought tore through my brain as Ramos appeared before me: What if my trigger finger doesn’t respond?

Ramos was cradling an Uzi rifle. He was in jeans and a white oversize Sean John sweatshirt. A black scarf covered his head. A black knapsack was on the floor between his feet.

He turned. Whether he actually saw me or not, I’ll never know. Abruptly his body began to jerk as if he were having an epileptic seizure. The rifle clattered to the ground. Ramos’s sweatshirt had a fit of its own, rippling in a breeze of gunfire. The splotches of red appeared even before the man had crumpled to the ground. It was over in seconds. His last movement-and he was probably already dead at this point-was his left leg. It kicked. His foot hit the Uzi, and the rifle skidded about ten feet along the floor.

The elevator door started to close, and I reached out with my gun hand and stopped it. A loud, metallic voice sounded. “Lay down your weapon!”

I did. I leaned down and skidded my accomplice across the floor. About ten feet. Just like Angel’s. I stepped out of the elevator with my hands raised.

A police helicopter was floating in the air just off the end of the pavilion. The pilot was jockeying his stick to keep the craft in place. The sharpshooter was still aiming his rifle into the pavilion. The man holding the bullhorn was leaning out the side window of the bubble.

I turned to look in the other direction. Several dozen people-Angel’s hostages-were moving forward as one. They all seemed to have forgotten how to walk normally.