Winter Moon

had gone shut behind him.
        He took a step toward it, meaning to pull it open. He fell against it instead..Harried by the changeable wind, a tide of bitter tarry smoke washed into the double-bay garage.
        Coughing, Jack wrenched open the door. The office was filled with smoke, an antechamber to hell.
        He shouted for the woman to come to him, and he was dismayed to hear that his shout was barely more than a thin wheeze.
        She was already on the move, however, and before he could try to shout again, she appeared out of the roiling smoke, with one hand clamped over her nose and mouth.
        At first, when she leaned against him, Jack thought she was seeking support, strength he didn't have to give, but he realized she was urging him to rely on her. He was the one who had taken the oath, who had sworn to serve and defend.
        He felt dismally inadequate because he couldn't scoop her up in his arms and carry her out of there as a hero might have done in a movie.
        He leaned on the woman as little as he dared and turned left with her in the direction of the open bay door, which was obscured by the smoke.
        He dragged his left leg. No longer any feeling in it whatsoever, no pain, not even a tingle. Dead weight. Eyes squeezed shut against the stinging smoke, bursts of color coruscating across the backs of his eyelids. Holding his breath, resisting a powerful urge to vomit.
        Somebody screaming, a shrill and terrible scream, on and on. No, not a scream. Sirens. Rapidly drawing closer. Then he and the woman were in the open, which he detected by a change in the wind, and he gasped for breath, which came cold and clean into his lungs.
        When he opened his eyes, the world was blurred by tears that the abrasive smoke had rubbed from him, and he blinked frantically until his sight cleared somewhat. Because of blood loss or shock, he was reduced to tunnel vision. It was like looking at the world through twin gun barrels, because the surrounding darkness was as smooth as the curve of a steel bore.
        To his left, everything was enveloped in flames. The Lexus.
        Portico.
        Service station. Arkadian's body was on fire. Luther's was not afire yet, but hot embers were falling on it, flaming bits of shingles and wood, and at any moment his uniform would ignite. Burning gasoline still arced from the riddled pumps and streamed toward the street. The blacktop along the perimeter of the blaze was melting, boiling.
        Churning masses of thick black smoke rose high above the city, blending into the pendulous black and gray storm clouds.
        Someone cursed..Jack jerked his head to the right, away from the terrible but hypnotically fascinating inferno, and focused his narrowed field of vision on the soft-drink machines at the corner of the station. The killer was standing there, as if oblivious of the destruction he had wrought, feeding coins into the first of the two vending machines.
        Two more discarded cans of Pepsi lay on the asphalt behind him. The Micro Uzi was in his left hand, at his side, muzzle pointing at the pavement. He slammed the flat of his fist against one of the buttons on the selection board.
        Feebly shoving the woman away, Jack whispered, "Get down!"
        He turned clumsily toward the killer, swaying, barely able to remain on his feet.
        The can of soda clattered into the delivery tray. The gunman leaned forward, squinting, then cursed again.
        Shuddering violently, Jack struggled to raise his revolver. It seemed to be shackled to the ground on a short length of chain, requiring him to lift the entire world in order to bring the weapon high enough to aim.
        Aware of him, responding with an arrogant leisureliness, the psychopath in the expensive suit turned and advanced a couple of steps, bringing up his own weapon.
        Jack squeezed off a shot. He was so weak, the recoil knocked him backward and off his feet.
        The killer loosed a burst of six or eight rounds.
        Jack was already falling out of the line of fire. As bullets cut the air over his head, he fired another shot, and then a third as he crumpled onto the blacktop.
        Incredibly, the third round slammed the killer in the chest and pitched him backward into the vending machine. He bounced off the machine and dropped onto his knees. He was badly hurt, perhaps mortally wounded, his white silk shirt turning red as