In a split second that lasted an eternity, José saw the gun of his old friend coming up in his peripheral vision, but it was too late to catch the weapon. And yes, it turned out that the old wives’ stories were true: Your life did flash before your eyes right before you died. In a quick series of heart-wrenching images, he saw himself and his wife on their wedding day, and at the births of their children. He visualized holidays and weekends, and Christmases and Fourths of July.
It was everything that Stan didn’t have and had decided he’d been cheated of, as if some robber had come into his life and taken at gunpoint all of the stuff he’d been due solely by reason of him being alive, character and responsibility and commitment having nothing to do with any of that end result.
God, José didn’t want it all to be over. And not like this.
Knowing he was fucked, José winced and got ready for pain. Or maybe it would happen so quick, he would feel nothing.
He’d been so close to getting out of the CPD alive—
The discharge was so loud because it was right by his ear, and he felt heat, a flash of heat, right by his cheek—
Ping!
The metallic ring was a surprise until he realized it was the lead slug passing through his brain and going into the car’s steel panel. And now came the collapse. He’d seen enough gunshot victims in the immediate aftermath of impact to know that he was going to do what Stan had just done: Slump to the side. Probably knock into the car, too. Then maybe he’d land on Stan’s legs.
After that, lack of consciousness. Followed by death.
And finally, the pearly gates, hopefully—thanks to all those novenas and Hail Marys—
José’s eyes flipped wide—and he fell backward onto his ass, but not because he was dead: A tremendous man dressed in black leather, with black hair, icy white eyes, and a goatee, was standing next to Stan . . . and holding Stan’s gun.
Somehow, the harsh-looking savior had come out of nowhere and taken control of Stan’s gun just in the nick of time, diverting the discharge into the car.
Instead of into José’s head.
José lifted his hands and felt around himself for injury. Opened his jacket wide. Pushed at his neck, his cheeks. Ran fingers through his hair, down to his scalp.
Then he focused on the strange man, a cold wash of awareness going through him.
“I know you,” José breathed.
“Yeah, you do, but only in your dreams.”
Stan made a clicking sound and a groan—and the man with the goatee transferred his attention to the guy who was actually dying. There was a split second of pause . . . and then that menace in black leather crouched down, bared his enormous teeth—Jesus, were those fangs?—and hissed at Stan.
Who promptly seized up in terror and started grabbing for his chest, like he was having a heart attack. A mortal struggle went on for a moment or two, and then . . . Stan Carmichael breathed his last breath.
The man in leather chuckled a little and relaxed his mouth, his upper lip lowering to cover those tremendous teeth.
“You know,” he said conversationally, “I’ve been accused of scaring people to death before. Now I’ve actually done it. I’m so adding this to my résumé.”
Those icy eyes swung back around, and José noticed that there were tattoos at one of his temples. Also noted that there were weapons around his waist, and undoubtedly inside the jacket given all the bulges.
Yet José felt no fear, and not just because he was in shock.
“In my dreams,” he said as a headache flared under his skull. “I’ve seen you in my dreams.”
“Butch says hi.”
“He does?” God, he felt so confused. And yet also totally clear. “Really? He’s still okay?”
“Yeah.” The man glanced at Stan. “He would have been here in person, but he couldn’t keep up with your car on foot. So I’m his standin.”
“You saved my life.”
“I did, true.”
“Thank you.”
The man stared at him for a long time. Then tilted his head. “You know, you’re welcome. And there was no way I was going to let you die. It’d break my roommate’s heart and I can’t let that happen.”
“Butch is your roommate?” When the man nodded, José smiled a little. “So you’d really know if he was okay. Good.”
“Yeah. Well, I gotta go. You got any message for Butch?”
“Tell him to go to church.”
“He does. Midnight mass, Wednesdays and Saturdays, without fail. We moved the work schedule around to make sure he could go.”
“Church is important.” José rubbed over his eyebrow. “You’re going to take my memories now, aren’t you.”
“It’s for the best—”
“How did you know this was going to happen?”
There was a pause. “It’s my curse. To know the how, but rarely the where, and never when. So in most cases, I just have to follow my gut.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, my guy—”
“Wait.” José put his palm up. “Keep taking care of Butch, will you? I tried to. I failed. But I think . . . I think you’re doing a much better job than I ever did, aren’t you.”
The man got really serious for a second. But then he smiled a little and nodded.
“You’re a good man, José de la Cruz. And let’s just keep this between ourselves, shall we? I’ve heard that true Good Samaritans don’t need their deeds to be known, and although I’ve never been much for that whole savior shit before—and probably never will be—I got a soft spot for the Boston cop we both respect so much. Besides, he’d get all emotional when he thanked me and really, who needs that.”
The stranger who was not really a stranger stood up, and José found himself bracing for a familiar sting—
“One week?” the man in leather said. “No, you take that pretty wife of yours away for two weeks. You guys go and enjoy yourselves. Happy retirement—”
We have to make some noise. Sorry—”
Before Rio could ask what Luke was talking about, a gunshot rang out and then the guard dropped to the terrace and didn’t move.
“I thought I told you not to shoot him!”
“I didn’t,” he hissed.
Meanwhile, an alarm started to go off inside, shrill and very loud, and the countdown to police arrival got rolling.
“I just knocked him out,” Luke said. “Before I shot the lock.”
Okay, that explained why one of the French doors was lolling open.