The Easy Way Out

16

A police officer stood at the edge of mayhem, a tight grimace on his face, waving the Lincoln past the accident scene. Karas slowed at the sight of flashing lights, smoke, and EMT personnel surrounding the burning wreckage and Damon's mangled pickup. Pieces of autoplastic and glass pellets littered the wet pavement.

"Looks like a bad one," said Pat. "One minute, a guy's on his way home with a pizza and a six-pack, next minute the poor bastard's lying under a sheet in the middle of the road."

Karas lowered the window and craned his neck, trying to see around the back end of a slow-moving SUV. He glanced toward the accident scene, watching two figures in helmets and face shields, dousing the flames with suppressant foam. "Timing." He shook his head. "I don't know why I always think about that."

"Huh?"

"Fifteen seconds earlier or later, at least one of them goes to bed tonight never knowing how lucky they are."

########

McQuaid jogged down the driveway, his takeout bag swinging. By his calculations, he had fifteen minutes to wolf down his meatloaf and mashed potatoes before the pickup crew arrived. He entered the security code, then unlocked the heavy door, grunting as he pulled it open. When he stepped into the garage, he spotted the raised bay door and the Honda idling outside. His brain temporarily short-circuited before sending his hand to the light switch.

Horrified when fluorescent light filled the hallway, Blake froze, gym bag in hand.

McQuaid called out, "Who's there?"

Blake retreated, crunching slivers of broken glass.

McQuaid drew a gun, wielding it like it was the first time he'd ever held a firearm with the intention of using it. He grabbed his cell phone and dialed. No signal. He cursed, treading carefully toward the hallway, waving his gun indiscriminately. Discovering the shattered frosted glass, he shouted, "Come on outta there! Come on! Cops are on their way."

In the pitch-dark office, Blake flattened himself against the wall flanking the door, his chest heaving, the hammer gripped in his hand.

########

Behind the bar, Rachel obsessively checked her phone. No missed calls or texts. She dialed Damon. The phone rang then rolled to voicemail. She jumped when Lou snapped her butt with a bar towel.

"Move that sweet ass of yours," he said loudly. "Customers are thirsty."

"You trying to make me stab you?" she growled.

Patrons at the bar cracked up.

"Put down the damn phone and get back to work."

########

In a blind panic, Blake broke from the garage. The heavy bag he dragged upset his balance, the floor suddenly going crooked. His bulging eyes, desperate for orientation, swung upward to where the sky should be. Landing awkwardly on his hip, hysterical, he lunged for the Honda's door, his trembling hand flailing for the door handle. Up onto one knee, he found it on the second attempt and pulled. He tasted his scalding breath as he muscled the bag into the car, snot running from his nose.

BANG! A gunshot rang out from inside the garage.

He clenched his eyes when he felt the bullet whiz past his neck. He dove behind the wheel, yanked the door shut, then caught a glimpse of McQuaid staggering out of the garage, his pistol raised.

Blake ducked, piloted the car around the side of the building past McQuaid's parked car, and up the gravel driveway toward the used car lot. He ripped off the ski mask, tossed it onto the seat, then wiped the sticky residue from his face. As his car sped to the crest of the driveway, he was blinded by headlight beams.