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hands, instead a silver handgun.  
    He aimed the handgun right at Carver.  
    Shot him once in the face.  
    “No!” I shouted, my back against the fire door, completely paralyzed in that moment.  
    I meant to bring up the Glock, to run back and shoot the fucker in the head.  
    But the man was faster.  
    He had his gun up even before I could, and then he was firing, the shots somehow deafening but somehow wide too, because miraculously I wasn’t hit as I sprinted down the steps toward what I hoped was safety.

 
     
     
    12

    Ronny heard the entire thing. His attention had mainly been focused on securing the Racist and checking to make sure he didn’t have any tracking devices on him, but the transmitter in his ear kept him in constant radio communication with Carver and Ben. So he, just like Ian, heard the shooting. He heard the shouting. He heard Carver dying.  
    Ian looked up at Ronny, his eyes wide. “Holy shit.”  
    Ronny checked the backseat where the Racist was completely passed out. Then he reached under his seat for his spare piece—a Ruger SR9c—and opened his door.  
    Ian asked, “Where are you going?”  
    Ronny was already stepping out, the Ruger in one hand, reaching for the piece he had holstered with his other hand. He looked hard at Ian and saw the fear in his eyes and knew the young man was worthless—more than worthless—but didn’t have time to berate him right now.  
    “Giving them backup,” he said. “Stay here and keep an eye out.”  
    “For what?”  
    “Anything.”  
    He used his elbow to slam the door shut and then hurried toward the entrance, a gun in each hand. He didn’t care who might see him. Carver was dying, and Ben very well may be too. Ronny wasn’t going to just stand by and let it happen.  
    The glass doors slid open and he strode purposely through the clutter-strewn lobby—thinking, Where is everyone? —when a door burst open.

    •     •     •

    I SLAMMED THROUGH the fire door at top speed, running as fast as I could, and at first I thought the man aiming at me was another one of Simon’s. Then, an instant later, I recognized Ronny and ran straight toward him. I saw he had two guns. I threw mine aside and shouted, “Gun!” Ronny tossed me one of his pieces. I caught it in the air and spun around and lowered myself onto one knee, keeping the gun aimed right at the fire door.  
    Ronny stood only a few feet away, keeping his piece aimed at the door too.  
    Nothing happened. Besides the blood pounding in my ears, the lobby was silent.  
    Ronny whispered, “How many?”  
    “Only one. He came out of nowhere.”  
    “Do you think there’s more?”  
    “I wouldn’t doubt it.”  
    “We should go.”  
    “No.”  
    “Yes,” Ronny said, stepping forward and grabbing my shoulder, “we should go now. Carver would want it that way.”  
    I didn’t move. I kept my aim on the fire door, knowing that at any second the shooter would reveal himself.  
    Ronny’s hand stayed on my shoulder. “Ben, come on.”  
    I counted in my head—one, two, three, four, five—and then took a breath, murmured, “Fuck,” and stood up and ran toward the glass entrance doors, Ronny close behind me.

    •     •     •

    T HE FIRST THING Ian said was, “What happened?”  
    Neither of us answered. I slid into the backseat next to the Racist. Ronny threw the SUV in drive and stomped on the gas. He took a hard right out of the parking lot back onto Collins Avenue and floored it.  
    “What happened ?” Ian said again.  
    Ronny shot him an annoyed look. “Call the Kid.”  
    “What?”  
    “Call and let him know what happened.”  
    Ian still looked lost. “But I still don’t know what happened.”  
    “Don’t worry about it,” I said, pulling the vibrating iPhone from my pocket. “He’s calling me now.” I placed it on speaker. “Carver’s dead.”  
    “ Fuck .” Then the Kid was quiet for a moment before saying, “I