Blood splattered on the wall behind Jamie after George shot him through the shoulder. He could see it drip down the wall, into the cracks, and make octopus-legged patterns on the cement. George collapsed backward, hit his head on the wall, and sank into the ground. Open beer cans, cigarette butts, and grocery store receipts surrounded him. George’s eyes glazed over as he stared into a copy of M.A.D. Magazine six inches from his face.
Jamie looked around him at the Detroit intersection. No one seemed to have noticed what went down between the two of them. So what if he’d managed to get the coke without forking over his life’s savings? He had it made now, no question about it, now he could buy that Boca Raton condo his mother always wanted to have, just as soon as he managed to unload –
He heard the click of the revolver behind him.
“Don’t make a move, buddy. Drop the gun. Hands up in the air.”
Jamie turned around and saw the six-foot tall cop with the Clark Kent jawline and Superman physique. Perhaps fifteen feet away. Maybe he’d miss if Jamie ran in the other direction, maybe Jamie could get the shot off first. But then he saw the other guy, the partner with the wavy blond hair who grabbed his own gun out of its holster. And pointed it at Jamie.
He remembered the condo in Boca Raton, just outside his grasp.
So he crouched down, turned around, and ran for the side of the building. The last he remembered was this crushing pressure in his upper back. And then it all stopped.
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