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Payne saw an arm extend from the open door of the van, a large black pistol in its hand.
Payne pushed Lane to the ground behind the heavy stone pillar, then pulled his Colt .45 from his shoulder holster.
As the gunman in the minivan began firing rapidly, Payne went down to one knee beside the pillar and took aim. He had a clear view of the driver and squeezed off two shots, then, as the van passed, finally had a full view of the shooter in the back—and emptied the magazine.
The horn of the minivan began blowing steadily, and the van swerved, striking a light pole. The impact crushed the front end, the sudden stop causing the sliding door to slam shut.
Payne, running at a crouch toward the van, kept focused on it while automatically ejecting and pocketing the magazine from the Colt, inserting a fresh one, then dropping the locked-open slide to chamber a round.
As he approached the minivan, he saw a pistol laying in the shadows at the curb—and, a few feet from it, a severed hand.
Payne went to the driver’s side, scanning the interior of the vehicle as he went. There was no movement.
He threw open the driver’s door—and found a middle-aged male slumped over the console, blood and gray matter from his head wound soaking the front seats.
Payne fought back his gag reflex and looked in the backseat. The shooter wasn’t moving, either.
Payne heard the thunderous sound of multiple heavy footfalls. He looked and saw a small army of officers running toward him.
He thumbed the hammer lock upward on his Colt and slid the weapon back in his shoulder holster.
A young blue shirt came around the rear of the minivan.
“You gonna need a paramedic?” he said. When Payne looked at him, the officer added, “An ambulance?”
“Driver’s dead. Check the shooter in back.”
“No, I mean for you,” he said, gesturing toward Payne’s midsection.
Payne looked down and saw a circle of blood.
“Shit,” he said, and as he pulled back his jacket he realized that his hands were shaking. He now felt an ache from under his bandage, but there were no new holes in his clothing. “I’m good.”
“I’ll say,” the blue shirt said, opening the sliding door on the left side, then reaching in to feel for a pulse. “Man, you’re really good. Two for two.”
—
“Well, I think I just signed, sealed, and delivered my departure, Peter,” Matt said as they stood watching yellow police tape being strung up. “It’s not been twelve hours since Uncle Denny said to keep my nose clean. Carlucci is going to blow his cork.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much. Carlucci is busy putting out other fires.”
“Yeah, and the clever sonofabitch will use this to deflect from the pay for play. ‘Today, I fired Wyatt Earp.’”
The undercover officer came out with the teenage waiter in handcuffs.
“He had a flip phone,” Payne said.
The undercover officer handed it to Payne, who scrolled to the most recent texts.
“I needed the money,” the teenager said. “I didn’t know this was going to happen.”
“What did you think was going to happen?” Payne said.
The kid shrugged. “They said they were going to have a surprise for Councilman Lane.”
Payne snorted. “And, boy, did they.”
Payne hit the key that dialed the number. A telephone began ringing on the floorboard of the front seat.
