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He was wandering among the six-foot-high shelves and passing the hemorrhoid treatments when he heard a harsh voice behind him.
"Keep movin, yo. Alla way to the back."
Jack looked and saw a big, steroidal black guy in a red tank top. The overhead fluorescents gleamed off his shaven scalp. He had a fat scar ru
Jack kept his cool and held his ground. "What's up?"
The guy raised the gun, holding it sideways like in the movies, the way no one who knew squat about pistols would hold it.
"Ay yo, get yo ass in gear fore I bust one in yo face."
Jack waited a couple more seconds to see if the guy would move closer and put the pistol within reach. But he didn't. Too experienced maybe.
Not good. The big question was whether this was personal or not. When he saw the gaggle of frightened-looking people-the white-coated ones obviously pharmacists-kneeling before the pharmacy counter with their hands behind their necks, he figured it wasn't.
A relief…sort of.
He spotted Mr. Ecuador standing over them with a gleaming nickel-plated.357 revolver. Robbery.
Okay, just keep your head down to stay off the cameras and off these bozos' radar, and you'll walk away with the rest of them. The black guy pushed him from behind. "Assume the position, asshole."
Jack spotted two cameras trained on the pharmacy area. He knelt at the left end of the line, intertwined his fingers behind his neck and kept his eyes on the floor.
He glanced up when he heard a commotion to his left. A scrawny little Sammy Davis-size Rasta man with his hair packed into a red-yellow-and-green-striped knit cap showed up packing a sawed-off pump-action twelve and driving another half a dozen people before him. A frightened-looking Loretta was among them.
And then a fourth-Christ, how many were there? This one had dirty, sloppy, light brown dreads, piercings up the wazoo, and was humping the whole hip-hop catalog: wide baggy jeans, huge New York Giants jersey, peak-askew cap.
He pointed another special as he propelled a dark-ski
Both the newcomers had glazed eyes, too. All stoned. Maybe it would make them mellow.
What a crew. Probably met in Rikers. Or maybe the Tombs.
"Got Mr. Manager," the white guy singsonged.
Ecuador looked at him. "You lock the front door?"
Whitey jangled a crowded key chain and tossed it on the counter.
"Yep. All locked in safe and sound."
" Bueno. Get back up there and watch in case we miss somebody. Don't wan nobody getting out."
"Yeah, in a minute. Somethin I gotta do first."
He shoved the manager forward, then slipped behind the counter and disappeared into the pharmacy shelves.
"Wilkins! I tol you, get up front!"
Wilkins reappeared, carrying three large plastic stock bottles. He plopped them down on the counter. Jack spotted Percocet and Oxy-Contin on the labels.
"These babies are mine. Don't nobody touch em."
Ecuador spoke through his teeth. "Up front!"
"I'm gone," Wilkins said, and headed away.
Scarbrow grabbed the manager by the jacket and shook him.
"The combination, mofo-give it up."
Jack noticed the guy's name tag: J. Patel. His dark skin went a couple of shades lighter. The poor guy looked ready to faint. "I do not know it!"
Rasta man raised his shotgun and pressed the muzzle against Patel's quaking throat.
"You tell de mon what he want to know. You tell him now! "
Jack saw a wet stain spreading from Patel's crotch.
"The manager's ou-out. I d-don't know the combination."
Ecuador stepped forward. "Then you not much use to us, eh?"
Patel sagged to his knees and held up his hands. "Please! I have a wife, children!"
"You wan see them again, you tell me. I know you got armored-car pickup every Tuesday. I been watchin. Today is Tuesday, so give."
"But I do not-!"
Ecuador slammed his pistol barrel against the side of Patel's head, knocking him down.
"You wan die to save you boss's money? You wan see what happen when you get shot i
Shit.
Ecuador grabbed her by the front of her dress and pulled, making her knee-walk out from the rest. When she'd moved half a dozen feet he released her.
"Turn roun, bitch."
Without getting off her knees, she swiveled to face her fellow captives. Her lower lip quivered with terror. She made eye contact with Jack, silently pleading for him to do something, anything, please!
Couldn't let this happen.
His mind raced through scenarios, moves he might make to save her, but none of them worked.
As Ecuador raised the.357 and pointed it at the back of Loretta's head, Jack remembered the security cameras.
He raised his voice. "You really want to do that on TV?"
Ecuador swung the pistol toward Jack.
"What the fuck?"
Without looking around, Jack pointed toward the pharmacy security cameras. "You're on 'Candid Camera.'" "The fuck you care?"
Jack put on a sheepish grin. "Nothing. Just thought I'd share. Done some boosting in my day and caught a jolt in Riker's for not noticing one of them things. Now I notice-believe me, I notice."
Ecuador looked up at the cameras and said, "Fuck."
He turned to Rasta man and pointed. Rasta smiled, revealing a row of gold-framed teeth, and raised his shotgun.
Jack started moving with the first booming report, when all eyes were on the exploding camera. With the second boom he reached cover and streaked down an aisle.
Behind him he heard Ecuador shout, "Ay! Where the fuck he go? Wilkins! Somebody comin you way!"
The white guy's voice called back, "I'm ready, dog!"
Jack had hoped to surprise Wilkins and grab his pistol, but that wasn't going to happen now. Christ! On any other day he'd have a couple dozen 9mm hollowpoints loaded and ready.
He'd have to improvise.
As he zigged and zagged along the aisles, he sent out a silent thank-you to the maniac who'd laid out these shelves. If they'd run straight, front to back, he wouldn't last a minute. He felt like a mouse hunting for cheese, but this weird, mazelike configuration gave him a chance.
He hurried along, looking for something, anything, to use against them. Didn't even have his knife, dammit.
Batteries… notebooks… markers… pens… gum… greeting cards…
No help.
He saw a comb with a pointed handle and grabbed it. Without stopping, he ripped it open and stuck it in his back pocket.
He heard Ecuador yelling about how he was going this way and Jamal should go that way, and Demont should stay with the people.
Band-Aids.ice cream.curling iron-could he use that? Nah. Hair color…humidifiers…Cheetos…beef jerky- Come on!
He turned a corner and came to a summer-cookout section. Chairs-no help. Umbrella-no help. Heavy-duty spatula- grabbed it and hefted it. Nice weight, stainless-steel blade, serrated on one edge. Might be able to do a little damage with this. Spotted a grouping of butane matches. Grabbed one. Never hurt to have fire.
Fire.he looked up and saw the sprinkler system. Every store in New York had to have one. A fire would set off the sprinklers, sending an alert to the NYFD.
Do it.
He grabbed a can of lighter fluid and began spraying the shelves. When he'd emptied half of it and the fluid was puddling on the floor, he reached for the butane match-
A shot. A whizzz! past his head. A quick glance down the aisle to where Scarbrow-who had to be the "Jamal" Ecuador had called to-stood ten yards away, leveling his.38 for another go.
"Ay yo, I found him! Over here!"