The Killing Kind

26

Leon Leonwood hadn’t the faintest idea if he’d hit Purkhiser or not. He knew he’d put the three guards down-not the only ones in the room, but the only ones with a line of sight on him, and therefore his biggest threats-and through the bouncing mass of multicolored balloons, he could see a couple bodies facedown on the stage, but he couldn’t swear any of them were his target. Which meant he’d have to check.

He had two mags left. Sixty rounds, plus the nine in the throwaway pistol he wore tucked into his pants at the small of his back-a dinky little.25-caliber eight-plus-one that was handy in a pinch but worth shit in a firefight. Suddenly, what seemed before like overkill now threatened to fall short. At this point, a standoff seemed likely-if not inevitable.

He ejected his empty magazine and slid another into place. Then he toggled his weapon to semiautomatic. Sixty rounds shot one at a time would last way longer than the same count sprayed indiscriminately across the room-long enough to finish Purkhiser, maybe get himself out of here alive.

The balloons were nearly waist-high, or would have been, if they had stayed put. They lighted on furniture and one another, only to take flight once more thanks to the flailing of the frightened and wounded beneath them. They bounced off Leonwood with his every movement as he headed toward the stage, and reduced his visibility to inches. All around him he heard movement-a shift of fabric, a sharp intake of breath. Those fleeing him, he ignored. But some, by either confusion or design, shuffled ever closer or maneuvered themselves directly between him and the stage. Problem was, thanks to the balloons, he couldn’t tell if they were security or bystanders until he was right on top of them-and if they proved to be the former, that was too late to react. He’d be caught or killed for sure.

So-his heart thudding and acrid flop sweat beading on his meaty, furrowed brow-Leonwood decided he’d just have to shoot them all.

Michael Hendricks had no idea what the fuck was going on. Last time he saw a mission go so FUBAR so fast, he lost his squad, his fiancée, his whole damn life.

He collapsed, exhausted and bleeding under a layer of balloons, trying to catch his breath. His right shoulder rang with pain, his left hand bled. His face smarted from getting slammed into the tabletop. He tried to put together what the hell had just transpired, but the edges of the pieces didn’t seem to match. He’d had Leonwood in his sights.

He’d been blindsided, attacked. That smacked of a setup-but if that’s the case, who the fuck discharged their firearm into the ceiling?

And he had no idea what to make of the balloon drop.

So where did that leave him? His assailant hadn’t stirred since Hendricks had taken the guy down, but that didn’t mean he’d stay down; from where Hendricks lay, he couldn’t see him past all the damn balloons. He knew he should finish the guy-eliminate the threat, in the parlance of his former military life. But Leonwood was still on the loose. And the place would soon be surrounded by local PD and Feds, if it hadn’t been already. God only knew if Purkhiser was still breathing.

Hendricks heard two quick pops-powerful but dulled, an assault rifle with a suppressor. They sounded as though they came from somewhere between his position and the stage. That meant Leonwood was on the move-that he was trying to finish the job.

Purkhiser, Hendricks thought, must still be alive.

That fact shouldn’t have mattered to him. If he were half as cold-blooded as he thought he was, it wouldn’t have. Even if Hendricks could stop Leonwood from killing Purkhiser, there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d ever see a dime of the six million he’d been promised. He’d be lucky if he didn’t leave Pendleton’s in shackles-or a body bag.

But he’d given his word. So, exhausted and bleeding, Hendricks heaved himself up off the table. He clenched his teeth, and with a sharp intake of breath, he closed his left hand around his right wrist and yanked his shoulder back into place. The effort-and the subsequent solar flare of pain-damn near made him faint.

Once he could bring himself to move again-once he trusted his trembling legs to hold him up-he began scanning the floor for his knife, willing himself to focus despite the chaos around him. By some miracle, he found it, then picked it up and began pushing through the balloons, heading toward the muffled sounds of Leonwood’s continued gunfire.

Eric Purkhiser’s mind was blank with terror. His mouth moved in silent prayer. Shredded bodies lay across the stage. The avuncular local politician was frozen midsmile, his blood hot and sticky on Purkhiser’s hands and clothes. The burly, dark-skinned security guard with the crew cut was missing half of his head. The weasel-faced casino owner remained relatively unscathed, having taken refuge behind the first wave of the fallen. His pit boss had survived as well, though the bullet wound in his thigh spurted crimson with every beat of his heart, so without help, he likely wouldn’t last much longer.

Eric himself had taken some shrapnel when the podium exploded, but had somehow avoided getting shot-possibly because, despite both Hendricks’s and Engelmann’s assurances, he’d remained tensed for this eventuality since long before he actually took the stage. He’d taken every opportunity to keep the other people onstage between him and the crowd, and he’d hit the ground at the first sign of trouble-which turned out to be Engelmann and Hendricks engaging. It was only in the silence after Leonwood emptied his first magazine that Purkhiser realized he’d survived the initial onslaught-and when that silence was once more punctured by the sounds of gunfire, he realized he had to move.

Still, he couldn’t force his mutinous limbs to do his bidding until he saw the sea of balloons that lapped lazily at the shore of the stage part around the grim, determined visage of Leon Leonwood, approaching slowly but with purpose. Somewhere in the distance, law enforcement shouted, and through the flickering of the damaged lights above, Purkhiser saw armored officers positioning themselves on either side of the banquet hall’s entrance. But they were too careful to simply storm the room, too concerned at the prospect of spooking a gunman whom they couldn’t see. That meant they’d be too slow to save him.

Eric Purkhiser began to crawl.

He made his way across the stage toward the entrance to the service corridors. Leonwood’s grease-slicked hair was a shark’s fin, parting the balloons as he passed. Occasionally, that hair would halt and a single shot would ring out, silencing some poor soul’s cries.

Purkhiser reached the stage door and panicked. Just beside it was a square panel of black plastic, an LED embedded in it shining red. A proximity sensor for an ID badge, to prevent those without badge access from entering the corridor. Purkhiser had no such badge and no such access.

But he knew one of the bodies onstage must.

The casino owner was sure to have one, he thought, but as he scanned the stage for him the man slithered off the edge on the far side, disappearing beneath the balloons and leaving a trail of blood behind.

That left the pit boss and the dead guard. The pit boss was in the center of the stage, maybe ten feet from where Purkhiser lay, propped against the back curtain. The dead guard was closer but lay at the front of the stage, toward Leonwood.

Still on his belly, Purkhiser waved his arms madly, trying to catch the pit boss’s attention. “Hey!” he whispered, as loudly as he dared. “Over here!”

The pit boss’s head lolled to one side, and his glassy eyes met Purkhiser’s.

“Can you move? With your badge, you and me could get outta here!”

The pit boss removed his hand from the wound on his leg and placed his index finger to his lips. “Shhhh…,” he said. Absent pressure, his leg gushed blood. His eyes fluttered, and he was gone.

A scream. A pop. Purkhiser looked up and realized the gunman had nearly reached the stage. Purkhiser scrabbled on all fours to the fresh corpse of the pit boss. He grabbed the man by his lapels and violently patted him down. He checked the outer patch pocket on his suit coat’s breast, and the inside pocket as well: nothing. The breast pocket of his oxford contained only a hard pack of Camels and a disposable Bic lighter.

Okay, Purkhiser thought, if it’s not in his jacket, then it’s got to be in his pants.

He tipped the dead man to one side to check his pants pockets. There-clipped to his belt loop. A retractable key reel, from which the card dangled.

He snatched at it. His hopes fell.

The card was in tatters, a bullet hole clean through it.

He tore it from the man’s belt loop anyway, key reel and all. There was a chance it might still work.

Purkhiser found his feet and sprinted for the stage door.

Balloons parted at the foot of the stage, and from them Leonwood’s hulking form emerged. His once-slickeddown hair was now half-wild-greasy parentheses framing his sweaty face.

Purkhiser reached the door. Leonwood clambered onto the stage. The former moved with the twitchy panic of a trapped animal, the latter with an almost lackadaisical certainty. He bore Purkhiser no malice-or, at least, no more malice than that which he bore the world. It was simply a matter of fact in his mind that Purkhiser had to die, and he was the one who was going to kill him. So he didn’t rush. He didn’t fret. He didn’t even raise his weapon in threat to halt Purkhiser. He just kept coming.

Purkhiser waved the damaged badge in front of the proximity sensor, the fingers of his free hand lighting on the doorknob so that he could yank it open the second the lock disengaged.

The lock held.

He tried again, more frantically. The light on the sensor stayed red. A third time, with exaggerated care. Still nothing happened. He slapped the badge against the sensor, but it was no use. The card was ruined.

Purkhiser leaned heavily against the door. His legs failed him, and he slid down its cold, steel surface. He saw a blur of checkered gray, the blended fabric taking on a sickly sheen beneath the stage lights, and then Leonwood’s shadow fell across him.

Purkhiser closed his eyes. Hot steel pressed against his temple, searing a brand into his skin, but still, he did not move.

“Jesus fucking Christ, have you been a pain in my ass,” Leonwood said. A hysterical laugh escaped Purkhiser’s lips-he could think of no better eulogy from the universe than that. His bladder emptied. He quaked with fear the likes of which he’d never felt before. It hit him with the force of a seizure.

The barrel tightened against his temple as Leonwood’s arm tensed for the shot.

A keening wail rose in Purkhiser’s throat.

And then, nearby, a woman said: “Leon, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”