The Devils Teardrop

word.
    And so tonight Jerry Kennedy squeezed.
    The explosion was huge and he wasn’t prepared for the pistol to buck so high in the air.
    Kennedy lowered the gun again. Squinted over the dim field. He laughed out loud.
    Christ, I did it! I hit him!
    The Digger was on the ground, grimacing and clutching at his left arm.
    Kennedy fired again. This bullet missed and he fired another round, two more.
    The Digger rolled to his feet. He started to aim at Kennedy but the mayor fired again. This was a misstoo—the bullet struck a tree—but it was close and the Digger stumbled backward. He fired a short burst toward Kennedy. All the bullets missed.
    The killer looked to his left, where the line of agents and cops was moving toward him. He aimed toward them and must have pulled the trigger. Kennedy heard nothing, saw no flash from the end of the gun. But one agent fell and bits of grass and dirt leapt into the air. The other agents dropped into defensive postures on the ground. They aimed toward him but no one fired. Kennedy saw why—because the crowds were directly behind the Digger. They would surely have hit some people in the crowd.
    Only Kennedy had a clear shot.
    He stood up from his crouch and fired five more times at the black bundle on the ground, driving the Digger back, away from the crowds.
    Then the gun clicked. It was empty.
    He squinted, looking past the pistol.
    The dark form of the Digger was gone.
    * * *
    Panting now.
    Something within the Digger snaps and he forgets everything the man who tells him things told him. He forgets about killing as many people as he can and forgets about people seeing his face and forgets about spinning around like a leafy seed in Connecticut. He wants to get out of here and get back to Tye.
    The bullets that man was firing came so close . . . He nearly killed me. And if he gets killed what’s going to happen to the boy?
    He drops into a crouch and sprints toward a tour bus.The engine is idling, a cloud of exhaust rises from the tailpipe.
    His arm hurts so badly.
    Pain . . .
    Look, there’s a red rose on his arm!
    But, oh, how it . . . click  . . . how it hurts.
    He hopes he never feels pain like this again. He hopes Tye never ever has to feel pain like this.
    He looks for the man who shot him. Why did he do that? The Digger doesn’t understand. He’s just doing what he’s been told.
    Even if you loved me less,
    I’d love you all the more.
    Fireworks blossom over the Mall.
    A line of police and agents is moving closer. They start shooting. The Digger climbs up the stairs of the bus and turns, spraying bullets at the cluster of pursuing agents.
    There’s a huge star burst of orange.
    “Oh, my,” he says, thinking: Tye would like that.
    He breaks a window in the bus and carefully aims his gun.

29
    Parker and Cage crouched behind a squad car.
    Neither of them had much tactical training and knew it was prudent to leave the shoot-’em-up stuff to the younger, more experienced agents.
    Besides, as Cage had just shouted to Parker a minute ago, it was a goddamn war zone. Bullets flying everywhere. The Digger had good protection inside the bus and was firing careful bursts through the shattered windows. Len Hardy was pinned down with several other District cops on the other side of Constitution Avenue.
    Cage pressed his side and winced. He hadn’t been hit but a stream of bullets had ripped through the sheet steel of the car they were using for cover and he’d flung himself to the ground, landing hard on his side.
    “You okay?” Parker asked.
    “Rib,” the man moaned. “Feels broken. Shit.”
    Agents had cleared the area around the bus and were peppering it freely whenever they thought there was a target. They’d flattened the tires so the Digger couldn’tdrive away although Parker could see there was no chance of that happening in any case—the broad avenue was one huge traffic jam for a half mile in both directions.
    Parker heard snippets of radio transmissions.
    “No target presenting . . . Get a flash-bang inside. Who’s got a grenade? Two down on Constitution. We got . . . anybody copying? We got two down on Constitution . . . Snipers in position.”
    Then Cage glanced up over the hood of the torn car.
    “Jesus,” Cage gasped, “what’s the fucking kid doing?”
    Parker looked too, toward Constitution Avenue, following the agent’s gaze. There was Len Hardy, his tiny gun in his hand, crawling from tree to tree toward the bus,