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As Matt dove for cover at the foot of the steps leading upstairs, he thought, Did he step in the way on purpose?
He did! He took those damn bullets for me!
Matt saw Charley Bell peering around a corner at the back end of the hall. The shooter did, too, and fired three shots at him. Two struck the wall at the corner, sending Sheetrock flying. The third found Bell’s forearm.
“Fuck! I’m hit!” he shouted.
Curtis fell forward and grabbed the Glock he’d been told to drop, then remarkably squeezed off five shots in the direction of the shooter.
Then Will Curtis finally collapsed, blood from his wounds beginning to pool around him.
The long-haired black male was now cowering behind Payne, lying flat on the floor against the wall.
Payne carefully looked past the edge of the stairs toward the basement entrance, trying to get a clear line of fire on the shooter.
He saw the entrance but not the shooter.
Sonofabitch!
Keeping low, he stepped into the hallway and moved toward the basement entrance. The worn wooden flooring squeaked under his weight.
“You okay, Charley?” Payne called out.
“Get that sonofabitch, Matt!”
Payne looked back at the black male. He was still cowering against the wall, but now he stared wide-eyed at the old man lying in the pool of blood.
As Payne moved closer to the basement entrance, Tony Harris appeared from around the bullet-pocked corner. He motioned toward the basement, then motioned that he’d cover Matt. Matt nodded.
When Payne got to the top of the stairs, he saw a heavy blood trail leading down the wooden treads.
Will Curtis hit the bastard.
“Police!” Matt yelled down the steps. “Drop your weapons!”
Payne and Harris slowly descended the stairs.
When they reached the bottom, there were two rooms. They cleared the first, then followed the blood trail to the door of the second. A light was on inside it, and when Payne looked around the edge of the door frame, he saw two black males—both dead.
One was on the floor at the end of the heavy blood trail. The shooter had at least one enormous hole through his neck. The semiautomatic 9-millimeter Baretta was still in his right hand. The other dead male was lying on an old twin bed. He had been strangled. Two foot-long plastic zip ties strung end-to-end cut deeply into his bruised neck.
A black duffel bag with stacks of banded cash and clear plastic bags full of pills was on the floor.
Matt and Tony then heard fast footfalls on the wooden flooring above their heads.
Then they heard Charley Bell yell, “Stop! Police!”
Payne exchanged a fast glance wi
th Harris, then bolted up the steps.
At the top, Payne turned toward the open front door as he heard the minivan starting and then its tires spinning as it squealed away.
He looked toward the back of the house and saw Bell standing with what looked like a dirty dish towel wrapped around his left forearm. It was blood-soaked.
“The sonofabitch grabbed the old man’s keys,” Bell said. “And got his Glock, too!”
Matt looked at the towel.
