Winter Moon

just enough to make him want to cough. He clenched his teeth, making only a low choking sound in his throat, because the killer might be on the far side of the door, hesitating and listening.
        Still directing the revolver squarely at the entrance from the garage, he glanced outside into whirlwinds of tempestuous fire and churning shrouds of black smoke, afraid he was wrong. The gunman might erupt, after all, from that conflagration, like a demon out of perdition.
        The metal door again. Painted the palest blue. Like deep clear water seen through a layer of crystalline ice.
        The color made him cold. Everything made him cold-the hollow iron-hard thunk-thunk of his laboring heart, the whisper-soft weeping of the woman huddled on the floor behind him, the glittering debris of broken glass. Even the roar and crackle of the fire chilled him.
        Outside, seething flames had traveled the length of the portico and reached the front of the service station. The roof must be ablaze by now.
        The pale-blue door.
        Open it, you crazy sonofabitch. Come on, come on, come on.
        Another explosion.
        He had to turn his head completely away from the door to the garage and look directly at the front of the station to see what had happened, because he had lost nearly all of his peripheral vision.
        The fuel tank of the Lexus. The vehicle was engulfed, reduced to just the black skeleton of a car enwrapped by greedy tongues of fire that stripped it of its lustrous emerald paint, fine leather upholstery, and other plush appointments.
        The blue door remained closed.
        The revolver seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. His arms ached. He couldn't hold the weapon steady. Could barely hold it at all.
        He wanted to lie down and close his eyes. Sleep a little. Dream a little dream green pastures, wildflowers, a blue sky, the city long forgotten.
        When he looked down at his leg, he discovered he was standing in a pool.of blood. An artery must have been nicked, maybe torn, and he was going fast, dizzy just from looking down, nausea swelling anew, a trembling in his gut.
        Fire on the roof. He could hear it overhead, distinctly different from the crackle and roar of the blaze in front of the station, shingles popping, rafters creaking as construction joints were tortured by the fierce, dry heat.
        They might have only seconds before the ceiling exploded into flames or caved in on them.
        He didn't understand how he could be getting colder by the moment when fire was all around them. The sweat streaming down his face was like ice water.
        Even if the roof didn't cave in for a couple of minutes, he might be dead or too weak to pull the trigger when at last the killer rushed them. He couldn't wait any longer.
        He had to give up the two-hand grip on the gun. He needed his left hand to brace himself against the For mica top of the counter as he circled the end of it, keeping all weight off his left leg.
        But when he reached the end of the counter, he was too dizzy to hop the ten or twelve feet to the blue door. He had to use the toe of his left foot as a balance point, applying the minimum pressure required to stay erect as he hitched across the office.
        Surprisingly, the pain was bearable. Then he realized it was tolerable only because his leg was going numb. A cool tingle coursed through the limb from hip to ankle. Even the wound itself was no longer hot, not even warm.
        The door. His left hand on the knob looked so far away, as if he were peering at it through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars.
        Revolver in the right hand. Hanging down at his side. Like a massive dumbbell.
        The effort required to raise the weapon caused his stomach to keel over on itself repeatedly.
        The killer might be waiting on the other side, watching the knob, so Jack pushed the door open and went through it fast, the revolver thrust out in front of him. He stumbled, almost fell, and stepped past the door, swinging the gun right and left, heart pounding so hard it jolted his weakening arms, but there was no target. He could see all the way across the garage because the BMW was up on the service rack. The only person in sight was the Asian mechanic, as dead as the concrete on which he was sprawled.
        Jack turned to the blue door. It was black on this side, which seemed ominous, glossy black, and it