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“Jimmy. Jimmy Lesko.”
Lesko waited on the sidewalk for the guy to reach him, then said, “Do I know you?”
“I’m William Randall,” the guy said.
Lesko searched for some recognition. The name. The face. An association. Something. Nothing came up. Lesko had a good memory — but he didn’t know the guy.
“What’s this about?” he said.
“I want you to see this.”
The guy took his hand out of his pocket. He was holding something weird. It was a plastic bag covering what looked to be a gun.
Shit. A gun.
This was not happening. This was just not on.
Jimmy jerked back, but he was hemmed in by the clots of boozed-up pedestrians on the sidewalk and cars at the curb. He went for his gun, stuck into the waistband at the back of his pants. But this fucking asshole Randall had pushed him back onto a car and pinned him there. He put the gun right up to his forehead.
Lesko threw his hands up. Dropped his keys. Wet his pants.
What was this? What the hell was this?
Didn’t anybody see what was happening?
Lesko screamed, “What do you want? What do you want? Tell me what you want, for Christ’s sake!”
“I’m Link Randall’s father,” the guy said. “Any idea who that is? Doesn’t matter. You ruined my son’s life. And now I’m going to ruin you. Totally.”
Chapter 98
AS WILL RANDALL pulled the trigger, he was jostled by a lurching bum in a woman’s coat who grabbed on to his arm to steady himself, saying, “Whooaaa.”
Will’s shot went wild, and Lesko took the split second of confusion to get away.
Will stiff-armed the bum and knocked him aside, then he aimed at Lesko. Jimmy was now a moving target in the dark, running like he was carrying a football under his arm, smashing into a couple of kids holding hands, ramming into a homeless grandma with a shopping cart. He knocked both the cart and grandma to the sidewalk, and she lay there with her limbs splayed out, her cart’s wheels spinning, garbage everywhere.
Forward motion blocked, Lesko took the clearest path, bounding up steps that led to the front deck of a house.
Will fired at Lesko’s back — and missed. And now Lesko crouched on the deck one story above him and shot at Will through the wrought-iron railing.
Will took to the street, then popped out from behind a van and got off six shots. But Lesko returned fire and Randall realized he had to corner this bastard and kill him at close range.
Pedestrians screamed and fled as Will charged toward the stairs, and then tires squealed and voices came from behind him.
“Freeze. Randall, put down your gun. Drop your gun now.”
Will turned his head. He saw cops — cops that he knew. The blond guy with the ponytail — Brady. And the other two. Conklin and Boxer, who had brought him into the Hall.
How had they found him?
They’d been inside the unmarked car on Golden Gate Avenue and had seen him, followed him, that was how.
There was screaming on both sides of the street, Lesko yelling for help, pedestrians freaking, cops shouting, “Drop your gun! Hands in the air!”
Will turned toward the cops, waved his gun, and shouted, “I know what I’m doing. Clear out of here. Don’t make me shoot.”
A cop yelled, “Drop your gun now!”
