I held the gun steady on the boy. When he looked at me, I felt my life turn to ash. Marcus had another shell chambered, and I wasn’t going to shoot him. And he knew it.
“Drop it,” he said.
“Maybe you’re gonna have to shoot me.”
Marcus shrugged. Instead of firing he picked up the gun they were going to kill him with and put it in his belt. Then he turned the shotgun around and offered it to me.
“Take it,” Marcus said.
“Why?”
“ ’Cuz if you don’t, I’m gonna pop you in the knee and call the brothers over here to show ’em how you killed Ray Ray.”
“And if I do?”
“You take the gun and split.”
“It looks like I killed the three of them. And you’re the hero who fought me off.”
“You getting it. And this time it’ll work. Now take the pump.”
“Why don’t I just shoot you?”
“Ain’t got the grit, old man.” Marcus paused. Then pulled a purple notebook from his back pocket. “Take this, too. Now get your ass moving. They gonna be here soon.”
He was right. I was out of conversation and time. I took a last look at Ray Sampson, sprawled and crooked in the church’s sainted shadow, life leaked out of his eyes. Marcus had picked up the gang leader’s NBC mask. He’d also taken one off Jace. Now he stood over them both, counting bullets. The King was dead. Long live the King.
I left the street of cobbles and didn’t look back.