You Do What You Have To - 80

 

Micky stared at the pistol. I guess he wasn't as certain we were safe as he said.

 

"Don't move," Robin ordered as he half-stood to search the dimly-lit lot for their assailant. "At least whoever's out there is a lousy shot," he muttered.

 

Micky scrunched down between the van and the car next to it, whispering, "Two people. I heard shots from both sides of us."

 

"Yep. I don't suppose you know how to use one of these," Robin replied just as quietly, handing Micky the gun he kept in his boot.

 

"Aim and pull the trigger."

 

Barely smiling, Robin showed him the safety. "Stay here. If you see anyone, shoot."

 

"What if it's…?"

 

"I'm sure no sane customer is going to walk out after hearing gunfire."

 

Micky hoped that was true as he watched Robin creep forward, then vanish from sight around the front of the van. Holding the gun tightly with both hands to try to keep it steady, Micky leaned against the van, his head swiveling left and right as he looked for any sign of movement. 

 

Seconds later, there was a shot, instantly followed by a muffled cry. Please, please, don't let that be Robin. Micky inched to the front of the van, peering around it in the direction Robin had gone. He didn't see anything, or anyone. Where are they? Where are you, Robin?

 

He thought he heard something move behind him and whirled around as best as he could from his crouching position. A figure stood a few feet away, backlit by the light over the restaurant's rear door. Micky hesitated, his finger on the trigger. The last thing he wanted was to shoot Robin. But he'd have said it was him. He pulled the trigger. His hand jerked up from the recoil, which startled him—although not as much as the fact he must have hit the man, if the cry of pain was any indication. The man fell, firing back as he did. Micky felt a searing pain, in almost the same place where Darren had slashed his bicep. For a second he flashed on what had been done to him. Then, wiping away the memory, he crawled slowly toward the man sprawled on the pavement, blood flowing from a chest wound. Warily, Micky stood, looking down at his victim. Not a victim, a killer who wanted me dead.  He carefully took the man's gun from his hand, just as sirens sounded in the distance.

 

Moments later headlights lit the lot as two patrol cars entered. One screeched to a stop a yard from where Micky stood. Two officers jumped out, guns drawn, while the second car roared past them toward the far side of the lot.

 

"Drop your weapon, hands behind your head," one officer called out. Micky instantly complied.

 

The second officer came close enough to look down at the body on the pavement and then at Micky. "Name?" he asked.

 

"Mine? Michael Payne. I don't know who that is, but he wanted me dead."

 

The officer nodded, calling in for an ambulance. His partner remained where he was, his gun still trained on Micky. He cocked his head briefly, listening to his shoulder radio, then said, "There's another body. Parker has the shooter. He's bringing him over while Northrop stays with the vic."

 

Robin. Oh God, don't let the dead man be Robin.