Mortal Prey

ready, up high with a rifle, yellow vinyl kitchen gloves protecting against the inadvertent fingerprint, the jeans and thin long-sleeved shirt meant to guard against DNA traces. Izzy was good.
    He’d been in the loft for an hour and ten minutes when he saw the 740iL ease around the corner. He had two identical Motorola walkietalkies sitting next to his feet. Izzy believed in redundancy. He picked up the first walkie-talkie, pushed the transmit button, and asked, “Hear me?”
    “Yes.”
    “Come now.”
    “One minute.”
     
    TEN OF THEM had been sitting in the back of Gino’s, the talk running down, a friend leaving and then another, with his new girlfriend, who’d been brought around for approval. Then Paulo looked at his watch and said to Rinker, “We better get back.”
    “Just a minute,” she said. “Turn this way.” She turned his chin in her hand, dipped a napkin into a glass of water, and used the wet cloth to wipe a nearly invisible smear of red sauce from his lower lip.
    “I was saving that for later,” he protested.
    “I couldn’t send you back that way,” she said. “Your mother would kill me.”
    “My mother,” he said, rolling his black eyes.
     
    THEY WALKED OUT of the Italian restaurant— Just like the fuckin’ Godfather—and the black BMW stopped beyond the balustrade that separated the restaurant’s patio from the Plaza. They walked past an American who sat at a circular table in his Hawaiian shirt and wide-brimmed flat hat, peering into a guidebook—all the details as clear and sharp three days later, in the hospital, as the moment when it happened—and the driver started to get out and Paulo called, “I got it, I got it,” and Rinker reached for the door handle, but Paulo beat her to it, stepping in front of her in that last little quarter-second of life….
    The shot sounded like a firecracker, but the driver knew it wasn’t. The driver was in his pocket as Rinker, suddenly feeling ill—not in pain, yet, but just ill, and for some inexplicable reason, falling—went to the ground, Paulo on top of her. She didn’t understand, even as a roaring, ripping sound enveloped her, and she rolled and Paulo looked down at her, but his eyes were already out of control and he opened his mouth and his blood gushed onto her face and into her mouth. She began screaming as the roaring sound resumed.
    She rolled and pushed Paulo down on the cobbles and turned his head to keep him from drowning in his own blood, and began screaming at the driver, “Paulo, Paulo, Paulo…”
    The driver looked at her, everything slow-moving. She saw the boxy black-steel weapon in his hand, a gun like she hadn’t seen before. She saw his mouth open as he shouted something, then he looked back over the car and then back down at Paulo. Then he was standing over them, and he lifted Paulo and put him on the backseat, and lifted her, and put her in the passenger seat, and in seconds they were flying across the Plaza, the hospital three minutes away, no more.
    She looked over the seat, into Paulo’s open eyes; but Paulo wasn’t there anymore.
    Paulo had gone. She could taste his blood in her mouth, crusting around her teeth, but Paulo had left the building.
     
    IZZY COHEN SAID , “Goddamnit,” and he wasn’t sure it’d gone right. The scope had blocked too much and he ran the bolt and lifted the rifle for a second shot, the bodies right there, and he saw the driver doing something, and then as Izzy lifted the rifle, the driver opened up and the front of the church powdered around him and Izzy thought, Jeez…
    An Uzi, he thought, or a gun just like it. Izzy rolled away from the window as the glass blew inward, picked up the two walkietalkies, and scrambled to the far corner of the loft and the steel spiral stair, the bullets flying around him like bees. He dove down the stair and punched through the back door, where a yellow Volkswagen Beetle was waiting with its engine running. Izzy threw the gun in the back, climbed in, and slammed the door. The driver accelerated away from the church’s back door and shouted, “What was that? What was that gun?”
    “Fuck if I know,” Izzy said. He was pulling off the latex gloves, shaking glass out of his hair. Blood on his hand—he dabbed at his cheek: just a nick. “A fuckin’ Uzi, maybe.”
    “Uzi? What is this Uzi?”
    “Israeli gun, it’s a machine gun…”
    “I know what IS a fuckin’ Uzi,” the driver shouted. “WHY is this fuckin’ Uzi? Why