LITMIR.BIZ

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the shards of glass raining down to the floor.

      Mckenzie knew that he had only bought a second or two in which to act. He stepped around the corner exposing himself to full view. The whiner was just to his side, the cheap pistol in his hand actually pointed toward the floor. Instinctively, Mckenzie knew that this one was not the main threat. The man with the roaring, heavily accented voice was almost fifteen feet away, standing between Mckenzie and the Stewarts. His weapon had been aimed at them but the crash of breaking glass had distracted him, causing him to half turn and point his gun off into space.

      “Peter!!” Mckenzie shouted. “Get her down, now!!”

      Existence went into slow motion. Peter wrapped his arms around Brenda as he pulled her to the floor and rolled until his body covered hers. Behind the counter a terrified young man also dove toward the fragile security of the floor. Donnie Scarborough stared in amazement at this latest shock to his master criminal scheme, while Strelkski turned to face the unexpected threat.

      “San Francisco Police” Alex shouted. “Drop your weapons.” What had a second before been slow motion switched to fast forward. Donnie Scarborough completely forgot the gun in his own hand and ran past Mckenzie toward the door. His panicked dash produced a collision with Strelkski just as the big Russian tried to fire a shot. The bullet sailed off harmlessly into space as Strelkski furiously pushed Scarborough away. The force of the shove threw Donnie crashing into the far wall where he slid stunned to the floor.

      This looks like the third option, Mckenzie thought. He and the big man were the only ones still standing and from the madness gleaming in his eyes, Mckenzie knew that the Russian was not going to surrender. The Stewarts were temporarily out of the line of fire, but they would only be safe if he could bring his opponent down.

      CHAPTER 7

      The gunfire began as a staccato rhythm that merged into a thunderous roar. Lying prone on the floor, his arm wrapped around Brenda, his head pressed against her, Peter resisted a fierce urge to look up. The best protection he could give her now was his body, interposed between her and the murderous specter who had come raging out of the night. Only Alex, who seemed to have conjured himself into existence, could stop the threat.

      Peter heard the scream - an animalistic wail of pain and then the crash as a heavy body fell back against a metal rack of snack foods. The unexpected silence felt as ominous as the crash of gunfire it had just replaced. He was able to hear a gasp, a desperate quest for oxygen that abruptly ended. The floor vibrated as a large weight thumped against it.

      Cautiously raising his head, he looked around with a sense of wonder and relief. The man with the Russian accent, who moments before had been screaming that Peter had recognized him, lay sprawled on the floor. A dark pool of blood was forming on the floor near his head. The other would-be hold-up man was still crumbled against the wall where he had landed after his accomplice shoved him away. Alex stood a few feet away as the hand holding his gun slowly dipped to his side. He looked at them with that faintly enigmatic grin that he often displayed when frustrating a defense attorney’s efforts to cross examine him at trial. Then he began to tumble forward like a great tree, its roots ripped from the earth by the driving force of an unrelenting hurricane.

      From the moment he made eye contact with Strelkski, Mckenzie had experienced an anachronistic sensation of being in an old fashioned duel-men of jealous honor and prickly pride facing each other across a grassy field as the morning sun arose behind them. The fantasy had quickly faded before reality. They did not wield muzzle loading pistols or swords. His adversary held an automatic pistol with far more bullets than the five in his thirty-eight. In this confrontation they would not fire one shot each, declare honor satisfied, and drink a brandy together. One of them had to die. Perhaps both.

      Mckenzie turned to present his profile rather than a full frontal target. It shouldn’t matter at this point blank range but the Russian was allowing his fury to overcome any knowledge he possessed about firearms. Shooting frantically without bracing his hands meant that his Glock recoiled wildly after each shot. In response, Mckenzie displayed the cold certainty of a trained marksman. Each shot was preceded by a deep breath and an unshakeable concentration on his target. Each shot Mckenzie fired struck Strelkski squarely in the body.

      For the briefest of moments, Strelkski allowed his gun hand to droop as he looked down at the blossoming red splotches spreading across his jacket. He could feel the excruciating pain as it pushed past the barrier of shock. He looked at the policeman, this killing force that had materialized out of the ether, and saw nothing in the man’s face but death, his death. The rage that had driven Pioter Strelkski much of his adult life made one last feverish attempt. He tried to lift the gun and fire again at his relentless tormentor, but the policeman was already shifting his aim toward his forehead. The Russian screamed, a cry that mixed fury, despair, pain,and frustration. He fired one last shot before the bullet from the thirty-eight hit him just above his left eye.

      Once again time altered its rhythmic pace. Every moment, every action took place in an atmosphere where the air itself had become thick and clinging. The tiniest gesture, the briefest spoken word required an interminable period. The universe seemed unwilling to let the events of the last few minutes pass on.

      For Mckenzie, the wait for Peter and then Brenda to look from the floor and demonstrate that they were alive, unhurt was almost unbearable. As they finally raised their heads, Mckenzie felt a burst of relief and intense triumph. He smiled and stepped toward them.

      Actually, he only tried to move in the direction of his young friends. His body resisted, his legs refused his brain’s command. He strained to break free of an invisible grasp that had frozen him in place. He felt a sharp, thrusting pain in his side. His leather jacket was unzipped and he looked down in surprise to see the pool of crimson spreading across his white shirt.

      That doesn’t look good, he thought. It appeared that the third option was speeding its way toward its fatal conclusion. As he tried once more to move, he felt his knees buckle. He reached out with his left hand to grasp a shelf to steady himself, but his strength had deserted him. The swift natural flow of time reasserted itself as he fell to the floor.

      Voices of a man and a woman called out his name. He would have answered - they sounded so sympathetic, but he could not generate an audible reply. His lips moved as he stared up at the ceiling but he could not break his own silence.

      There were hands on his chest now, opening his jacket, unbuttoning his shirt. He could sense urgency in the way the hands moved; yet always with a gentle and caring touch. Without looking away from the ceiling, he knew it was Brenda, the experienced nurse, kneeling beside him. Although he felt comforted, he suspected that even her medical expertise would not be enough this time.

      An all pervasive silence briefly descended on him before he was overwhelmed by a cacophony of sound. Voices, some yelling, others giving commands, while cutting through the chaos, he could make out Brenda’s voice, cool and professional. “Peter, get me those towels from the counter.” Moments later he felt other hands pressing against his side. Again, Brenda’s voice was commanding and encouraging. “That’s right, constant, even pressure right there.”

      He should be in pain but to his surprise Mckenzie realized he felt nothing except the pushing sensation that Brenda had ordered. He tried to turn his head to look away from the dabbled oil stained acoustic tile of the ceiling. His vision blurred momentarily before clearing again as he blinked his eyes. Peter Stewart was on his knees on one side of him, both hands pressing against his wounds, an expression of stricken anguish twisting his face. As Alex looked at Stewart, he could hear him growl the question “Where is the God-damned ambulance?” A responsive voice outside Mckenzie’s line of vision responded encouragingly.

      “It’s on its way, just a matter of minutes.”

      A hand softly touched his check and slowing turned his head to the right.

      “Alex, can you hear me?” Brenda was leaning forward, her face just inches from his. She looked calm, focused and completely professional, but Mckenzie could see the tears slowly ebbing from her dark eyes.

      He tried to answer but his

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