Sudden Prey

driveway.
    Four cars had passed in that time, and a woman in a parka and snowpants, walking, carrying a plastic grocery bag. She passed within six feet of LaChaise, and never suspected him. As she passed, LaChaise pointed the ’dog at the back of her head and said to himself, “Pop.”
    He had six shots in the ’dog. He thought about that for a minute. Martin had given him one of the .45s he’d bought from Dave. Now he took it out of his pocket, racked the slide to load and cock it and flipped the safety up.
     
     
     
    WHEN FRANKLIN TURNED onto the street, LaChaise leaned forward, tense. The car was moving slow, and he had a feeling . . . yes. He clicked the safety down on the .45.
    The garage door started up, a light on inside, and Franklin took a hard left into the driveway. The door was moving up quickly enough that Franklin could keep rolling into the garage. LaChaise unfolded from behind the fir, stumbled—his legs were cramped, he’d been kneeling too long—recovered, started to run after the car, stumbled again, caught himself and saw the car door swing open. But the stumbles had slowed him down . . .
     
     
     
    FRANKLIN WAS A big man, but agile. He swung his feet out of the car and stood up, still thinking about the snowblower, and at that moment saw LaChaise running up the drive, knew who it was and said, “Shit.”
    LaChaise saw the big man turn toward him and saw his hand drop, and he flashed on Capslock making the same quick move. He was ready this time, and he pulled up and fired the first shot with the ’dog, into Franklin’s chest from twenty feet, saw Franklin stagger back. He closed, walking, fired again at fifteen feet, then a third, a quick bang-bang-bang and then Franklin’s hand came up and LaChaise jerked off a fourth shot and knew that it had gone wide to his right . . .
    And then Franklin’s gun was up and LaChaise saw the muzzle flash and he fired once with the .45 with his off hand; missed, he thought. Franklin fired again and LaChaise thought he felt the bullet zip through his beard and he was firing and Franklin fell down but he was still firing and LaChaise turned and ran . . .
    Martin was there, skidding to a stop, the door opening. LaChaise piled through the passenger-side door and Martin took off, the back end slewing wildly once, twice, then straightening. LaChaise caught the door and slammed it, and looking back, saw Franklin on the floor of the garage . . .
    “Got him,” Martin said.
    “I don’t know,” LaChaise said uncertainly. “He was this big motherfucker, and I kept shooting him and he kept bouncing around and he wouldn’t go down . . .”
    “You can shoot a guy in the heart, he can be good as dead, but he can go on pulling the trigger thirty seconds or a minute,” Martin said. “That’s what happened to them FBIs down in Miami. Those old boys were good as dead, but they kept on shooting, and they took the FBIs down with them.”
    “I don’t know . . .” LaChaise said. He twisted to look back, but Franklin’s place was gone in the night.
     
     
     
    WHEN THE FIRST slug hit, Franklin felt like somebody had smacked him in the breastbone with a T-ball bat. Same with the second one, and the third. Then he had his own weapon out, but the fourth shot caught his arm, and stung, as though somebody had hit him with a whip, or a limber stick, and turned him. He thought, Don’t be bad , and he opened fire, knowing that he wasn’t doing any good, his left arm on fire. Then another shot hit him in the chest and he fell down, slipping on the snow that had come off his car. He had no idea how many times he’d fired, or how many times he’d been shot at, but a slug ripped through his leg and he rolled, and now was hurting bad, but he kept his pistol pointing out toward the door, and kept it going . . .
    And then it all stopped, and he was in silence. Out in the street, he saw LaChaise hurtle into a waiting car.
    He said out loud, “What?” And he remembered, Christ, he probably was out of ammo. He automatically went for the second magazine with his left arm, and a tearing pain ran through his arm and shoulder.
    “Ahhh . . .” He pushed himself up, and pain coursed through his left leg. He looked down, and saw blood pooling on the floor. Pushing with his right leg, he managed to flop across the driver’s seat and grab the radio with his good hand.
    “Help me,” he groaned.
     
     
     
    LESTER CAUGHT LUCAS just as he walked into the