Marcus had killed two in as many minutes. The first was lying in a hallway filled with haze, crawling toward a door filled with light. Marcus came through the door and put a shell in his chest. The second was wearing a New York Yankees hat, lying against a wall in a bedroom. He had a gun in his hand but couldn’t gather the strength to lift it. Marcus kicked the gun away. The banger’s eyes fluttered open. Marcus closed them for good.
Ray Ray had told them to hit the Six Aces where they lived. Burn ’em out. Bust ’em out. Then he told them how. Young ones came through with red paint first, marking an X on doors where leaders from the Aces slept. They were followed by teams of two, carrying cans of gasoline and nail guns. One would soak the stairwells and rugs. The other nailed the doors and windows shut. The first would toss a match. Then they’d sit on the curb and watch the building burn until it put itself out. They’d listen for screams, try to guess who was who. Marcus’s job was to shoot anyone who made it to the street. When the rubble had cooled, he’d do a final walk-through. Finish off the ones inside.
Marcus slipped the mask they’d given him up on his head and wiped his face. His hand ached. He kept it cradled close to his chest and scooted through a lot full of wind and weeds. Ray Ray should have killed him when he had the chance. Instead, he broke Marcus’s fingers and gave him a shotgun. The boy racked another shell, one handed, into the chamber and wondered about that.
Up ahead, a crease of daylight opened up a street of cracked cobblestones. Silhouetted at the other end was an old church with washed walls. Standing on the church’s steps, a tall figure with a gun. Marcus ducked into a shadow. He knew who it was, just by the way he shifted in his boots.
Marcus crept between two buildings, gun up, damp finger on the trigger. Ray Ray turned a fraction, face lit by a fresh stream of light from the east. The boy’s heart slowed; blood ran cool to cold. Marcus was a natural hunter, patient for his age, but young. Callow. It never occurred to him that he might be hunted himself. Until it was too late.