Rico Stays

Chapter One-2

He was a killer, but not your run-of-the mill killer. He was exceptional at what he did, but he was not only that. He was also a killer with a conscience. He didn't kill kids, he killed women only as a last resort, and he only killed people who “had it coming.” Or at least that was what he told himself, because sometimes it was a close call. But at least he tried. And that made him unique, as nobody else in his business gave a hit a second thought.

Cosgrove tried to turn to face him, but with just one hand holding his wrist, Rico prevented him from even budging. After Cosgrove stopped squirming, Rico twisted the man's arm behind his back and wrenched it upward until he yelped in pain. Then he thrust his free forearm under Cosgrove's chin and applied just enough pressure so that Cosgrove, with some effort, could still breathe and talk. Just.

Cosgrove squealed, “What the –”

“Shut up,” Rico said, and turned to Jean who was helping Koblentz to his feet. “You all right?”

“Fine.” Her worried eyes met Koblentz's. She smiled. “Are you okay?”

Gingerly wiping the blood from his face, he nodded and smiled back.

“Wait in the car,” Rico said.

“What are you gonna do with him?” Jean asked, a little apprehensively.

“Wait in the car.”

Jean started to press him but by now she knew the drill. She collected her shopping cart and she and Koblentz headed for the car. The boy, still on his back resting on his elbows, scrambled to his feet and stood staring at Rico in awe. Rico said, “Kid, get outta here.” Dejected, the boy slowly started to walk away. Raising his voice an octave, Rico said to the other gawkers, “That goes for everybody else, too.”

The edge in his voice did the trick. No one objected and no one lingered. Except the boy. He turned around after he'd taken a few steps and, in a voice just above a whisper, said, “Thanks, mister.”

The slightest hint of a smile appeared on Rico's face. “Nice catch, kid.” That brought a grin to the boy's face. He pounded the ball in his glove and hurried away.

Rico scanned the area in a 360-degree arc and, seeing no one besides the steadily retreating onlookers, released the choke hold on Cosgrove's neck but maintained his grip on his wrist. Then he placed his free hand on the back of Cosgrove's neck and, mimicking what Cosgrove had done to Koblentz moments earlier, he slowly guided him to the ground, face down. Rico knelt beside him.

Cosgrove coughed and drew in several sweet breaths of air now that the pressure on his windpipe had been relieved. “Your a*s is mine, motherfucker,” he hissed under his breath.

“I don't think so,” Rico said as he patted Cosgrove down. “I'm pretty attached to it.”

The pat-down yielded a Smith and Wesson Model 10 .38 revolver in Cosgrove's belt under his jacket. Searching him had been a basic precaution, yet Rico hadn't expected to find a g*n and when he did, he immediately regretted leaving his own in his apartment.

“s**t,” he said out loud, but it was in the same tone of voice he might have used if he'd walked down three flights of stairs only to find that he'd left his cell phone upstairs in his apartment. In other words, he was irritated but not alarmed – yet. After all, this was only one guy with a .38 – no, one guy who used to have a .38. And so far, there was no evidence that he had company.

But there was no evidence that he was alone, either.

Rico tucked the g*n in his own belt next to his belly, and with his free hand he reached down and turned Cosgrove's face toward him. He had a question. He knew he couldn't trust Cosgrove's answer but the inflexion in his voice might give him a clue. “You alone, smart a*s?”

Cosgrove said nothing.

Rico increased the upward pressure on Cosgrove's arm which was still pinned behind his back. Cosgrove gritted his teeth. Rico increased the pressure again until Cosgrove could stand it no longer. He yelled, “Help!”

Maybe it was just a primal cry to the heavens, but Rico thought it was directed toward someone. Maybe more than one person. Who knew? He relaxed the pressure on Cosgrove's arm but continued to hold his wrist in a vice-like grip. With his other hand he checked the .38, engaging the cylinder release, snapping the cylinder free, spinning it with his thumb, then snapping it back in place. It was fully loaded. Six rounds. A picture of his Sig Sauer with its twelve-round capacity magazine flashed across his mind. 'This will have to do.'

Rico looked around. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man rapidly advancing toward him and leveling a sawed-off shotgun in his direction. 'Must have been waiting in a car in the parking lot.' Then he saw another man coming toward him, and another, both pointing .45's at him. 'Two more – at least.' As they advanced, they spread out, the two men with handguns flanking him on either side and the man wielding the sawed-off shotgun directly in front of him.

The men were proceeding down a lane approximately twenty feet wide with parked cars to their left and right. The lines of parked cars ended some fifty feet in front of the spot where Rico and Cosgrove were. There were no parked cars to Rico's right or left, only open space, and the street the outfielder had crossed minutes earlier lay some thirty feet behind him. In short, running for cover was not an option. The three men had cover in the form of parked cars to their left and right. Rico had none.

He eyed the man with the shotgun. 'He can do the most damage, but he has to get closer than the other two to hit anything.' Rico decided he would save him for last.

That left the remaining two. 'Which would be first? The tougher shot.' His motto was: all things being equal, tackle the hardest job first. That way, whatever is left will always be easier and, therefore, relatively speaking, something to look forward to. The tougher shot would be the gunman on his left. He planned to wait until the last possible moment to start shooting so that neither of the three would know which of them was his first target until it was too late for either of the remaining two to do much about it. That meant he couldn't turn his body toward the shooter on his left ahead of time. So, with minimal time to aim, he would have to shoot across his body while kneeling beside Cosgrove, almost like a quarterback running to his right and passing to his left. A tough pass and a tougher shot. He waited.

Once Rico fired the first shot, the other two men would react in a split second, two at most. During that time each would have a decision to make. Rico figured they would have at least three choices: immediately return fire from a standing or crouching position; fall to the ground and then start firing; or take cover behind a car and open fire from there. Whatever each man did, he would have to aim first, which would consume at least an additional second tacked on to reaction time. That analysis gave Rico a minimum of two seconds to wheel around, take aim, and nail the shooter to his right – whether he was standing, crouching, lying down, or racing for cover – and then quickly take out the man with the shotgun before he inched close enough to hit anything.

The success of this plan, devised by Rico in less than three seconds, depended on everything going right, but a lot could go wrong, too. To start with, the man on the right might make it to a parked car and take cover behind it before Rico could get a shot off. If he moved quickly enough, he might just have enough time. Rico wasn't worried about the man in the middle, though. Whether he ran to his left or right, he would have to cover too much ground. And Rico was simply too fast for him to make it to either side. Of course, maybe neither man would run for cover, and maybe either or both might have faster reflexes than Rico thought.

There was a lot more that could go wrong. But that was all Rico had time to think about.

As the three gunmen continued their approach toward him, he searched their eyes for a sign. They were all cold and unyielding. Not encouraging, but Rico had something in mind that was worth a try.

“Hold it!” Rico yelled. “You wanna talk about this before somebody gets hurt?”

The men stopped in their tracks, uncertain of their next move.

Rashly, Cosgrove yelled, “Hell no!”

Instantly, the men resumed their march, now at a brisk pace. The man on Rico's left unknowingly cooperated with Rico's plan. He knelt and took aim. Rico fired a shot at him just as he'd planned, but he hadn't fired a .38 in a long time and, of course, he'd never fired this particular one. His shot went wide and grazed the left side of the man's chest. 'One thing that went wrong.' Rico took a second to adjust his aim, but this gave the man time to fire two shots, one of which struck Rico in the thigh. 'Another thing that went wrong.' Rico's second shot was true, though, as he adjusted for the unfamiliar g*n, and passed straight through the man's heart.

The man with the shotgun, recognizing that he was out of range, began a slow trot forward. Rico ignored him. He turned to his right to sight his target, but before he could take aim, two bullets from the man's .45 slammed into his body, one piercing his chest and the other his left shoulder. 'Three things that went wrong – so far.'

Having to fire twice at the first man had cost Rico dearly. The two bullets from the .45 had knocked him out of his kneeling position and onto his back. Meanwhile, the man, kneeling and clutching the .45 with both hands, kept shooting. Rico rolled over and, ignoring the pain and the bullets whizzing past him, propped himself up on his elbows and fired twice. The man stopped shooting. The two bullets from Rico's .38 had entered his heart.

Rico quickly scooted his body leftward and spotted the man with the shotgun, who had just slowed his trot to a walk and was leveling the shotgun toward Rico. By now Rico was thoroughly familiar with the .38 but his eyes were blurry, his arms were heavy, and his chest, thigh, and shoulder burned as though someone was stabbing him with a hot poker. He had to force all of that out of his consciousness, though, because he was out of time. The man with the shotgun closed the distance. He emptied both barrels. 'The last thing that went wrong.' Almost simultaneously Rico squeezed off the last two rounds in the .38. Then he collapsed onto the pavement.

The man with the shotgun did, too. One bullet had entered his forehead and the other had passed through his throat.

Cosgrove, afraid to get caught in the crossfire, had lain frozen still until the shooting stopped. Now he got to his feet and pried his .38 out of Rico's hand. He pointed the g*n at Rico's head and pulled the trigger. There was a “click.” He pulled the trigger again and there was another “click.” He had lost count. The g*n was empty. He tucked it in his belt, turned his back on the bodies of his dead comrades and sprinted away.

Jean and Koblentz arrived in time to glimpse Cosgrove's back before it faded into the distance. Jean sat on the pavement and cradled Rico's head in her lap. Unable to banish the thought that somehow this was all his fault, Koblentz called 911 and then looked on helplessly.

After a moment Rico came to. Jean regarded him, a mixture of horror and sadness on her face. “Rico, Rico, please don't die.”

“Who won the game?” he asked groggily.

“Oh, Rico, I wasn't listening. Please try not to talk.”

“No, not that game. The one in the vacant lot across the street…”

That brought a tearful smile to her face. She glanced down at him and slowly shook her head. He met her glance and passed out.