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He reaches up, grabs my arm with his left hand.
“No, you’re not. I can’t cover you.”
I take his hand and press it against his shoulder.
“Yes. This might be our one shot at him. And the asshole just shot you.”
Lights are coming on in the neighborhood as I start running hard after him, Glock pressed to my chest the way Jimmy taught me. Thinking this is a different kind of biathlon now. Just with real bullets this time.
Bigger stakes.
I can hear my father’s voice, my father the Marine, telling me to attack now.You back up in any kind of fight, you’ve already lost it.
The guy—I assume it’s a guy—makes a right onto Abraham’s Path, heading for the railroad tracks. Still too far away for me to get off a good shot at him. I’m worried that if I do start shooting, somebody else who can’t sleep might be out for a late-night stroll and walk right into the crossfire.
I’m running easily, though. And feeling as if I’m making up ground, the guy still visible up ahead.
No cancer tonight.
He makes a right when he gets to the other side of the tracks. I get a better look at him now, silhouetted against the night sky, running past the horse farm I know is to his left. Big guy.
Did Jimmy say Champi was big?
I’m ready if he stops and turns and takes a shot at me.
He does not.
Not yet, anyway.
He’s starting to slow.
I’m not.
Both of us running on gravel now, me on one side of the tracks, him on the other.
I hear the blast of the train whistle.
Eastbound train in the night. I love the sound of that train, even when it wakes me up sometimes.
Just not tonight.
I see the headlights.
The lights distract me enough, briefly blind me enough, that I stumble on the gravel, putting my free hand down to keep myself from falling.
The train is getting closer.
I feel as if there is a spotlight on me now. On both of us. I look up the tracks. He has what looks to be a blue ball cap pulled down tight over his eyes.
I start to raise my gun.
Too late.
His is already up.
Two hands on it, classic shooting pose.
Clear shot.
