“I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”

Maybe it was the eerie calm in DelPrego’s voice. Jenks nodded and handed the Colt to DelPrego.

Valentine thumbed two shells into the double-barreled shotgun. “I know a way downstairs. Follow me.”

They followed Valentine out of the office, zigzagged the crazy turns of the fifth floor, and stopped at a door with the word ELECTRICAL on it.

“Here?” asked Jenks.

Valentine opened the door, and Jenks recognized the fireman’s pole he’d helped the custodian carry. It descended through a wide hole in the floor. Before Jenks could say anything, Valentine leapt on the pole and slid down.

Jenks followed.

The fourth floor whipped past and the pole ended. There was an alarming second of free fall, and Jenks landed on a dusty mattress. It was the third floor.

Morgan landed on top of him.

“Get the fuck off.”

“Excuse me, Batman,” Morgan said. “I don’t have a lot of pole experience.”

They managed to roll out of the way right before DelPrego hit. The four of them were in an abandoned classroom. Valentine cracked the door to the hall, took a peek.

“I don’t see anyone,” Valentine said. “The stairs are directly at the end of the hall. We go down to the first floor, and there’s an exit outside right there.”

“Let’s go,” Jenks said.

They filled the corridor, stalked the hall with long, determined strides toward the stairs, guns at their sides, jaws set, eyes hard.

The door to the stairwell flew open and three gangsters filled the other end of the hall. Jenks recognized Red Zach’s men. They saw Jenks and the professors, and their hands went into their coats.

Valentine, Jenks, and DelPrego lifted their guns as one. The gangsters fired at the same time. The hallway erupted, shook with gunfire. Dust fell from the ceiling, plaster flying where lead hit.

Morgan hunched against the wall, arms over his head. He felt his coat jerk where a slug ripped through the fabric. He heard yelling, realized it was him.

Birdshot from Valentine’s twenty-gauge sprayed the first gangster. He dropped his gun, screamed. The other two fired back. Jenks fired three times. The first bullet went wide. The next two struck home.

The gangster who’d been sprayed with the birdshot lifted off his feet, a new red hole in his chest. The thug next to him fell back, his head spraying blood. He twitched on the ground a long second before going still.

The last of Zach’s men bolted back for the stairs, firing wildly over his shoulder. The door banged shut behind him, and he was gone.

Smoke and cordite hung in the air.

“Dear God,” Morgan said.

“We got to move,” Jenks said. “They heard the shots.”

They ran for the stairs.

DelPrego paused over the bodies of the dead black men. He stuck the Colt in his belt and picked up the two fallen pistols, heavy automatics, one nickel-plated.

Jenks looked back. “Fuck that shit, Wayne. Let’s go!”

They flew down the stairs, feet barely touching each step.

The exit led them out to the blizzard. It still howled, wind flinging snow and sleet.

“Where’s DelPrego?” Morgan shouted over the wind.

Jenks turned around, saw DelPrego wasn’t behind him. “Shit.”

These were the men who’d killed Timothy Lancaster.

DelPrego held the pistols like white-knuckled death. He’d scour Albatross Hall, and all would fall before him. Nothing mattered but his white-hot vengeance.

He found them on the second floor. They stood in a cluster, a half dozen of them, one gesticulating the story of the shooting on the floor above. DelPrego ran toward them, picking up speed with each step, arms extended and guns leading the way.

Their faces turned, eyes wide, screaming. They pointed guns back at him. Curses. DelPrego didn’t hear. There was only the hot buzzing, blood pressure pounding hot in his ears. He squeezed the triggers as fast as he could.

The hail of lead shredded the group, one gritting teeth, grabbing an arm. Another pitched forward. Two ran. Three returned fire, big automatics spitting fire.

DelPrego caught a slug in the leg, he screamed, went down, but twisted to keep his pistols aimed at the group. He kept squeezing the triggers even after his gun was empty. His head swam, stomach heaving. Another bullet plowed a deep groove into his left shoulder. Blood gushed with each heartbeat.

He lay on his side, dropped the empty pistols, and pulled the Colt from his belt. He cocked it, fired along the tile floor, and shattered the ankle of one of the gangsters. The gangster screamed, collapsed to the floor, squirming to get ahold of his ruined ankle. The puddle that formed under his shoe was thick and red and spread rapidly.

Two more bullets smacked into DelPrego’s chest. He no longer felt the pain, only the dull impact. He fired the Colt one more time, but the bullet went wild.

He was shot again. Again. His eyes looked up, dull and unblinking. The smile was faint and oddly peaceful.

forty-five

The three of them huddled against the blizzard, looked back at the door they’d used to escape Albatross Hall. DelPrego did not come out.

“Maybe he took a wrong turn,” Morgan shouted over the blizzard.

“H-he was r-r-right b-behind us.” Valentine had fled the building with only a light jacket. He was turning blue.

“His eyes,” Jenks said. “He had a crazy look. I think he’s going to do something.”

“Can someone please tell me what in the hell just happened?” Morgan asked.

“Get himself killed,” Jenks said, still thinking of DelPrego. “I better find him before-”

“D-don’t be a f-fool,” Valentine said. “You can’t go back in-”

Valentine’s head jerked around. Morgan and Jenks followed his gaze.

Distantly, figures took shape. They manifested out of the fog like floating stones, great, hard, square chunks of granite. Shoulders. Hands deep into the pockets of their long dark coats, hats pulled low to cover eyes. A ragged line of them moving forward, taking form as they stepped into the feeble lamplight. They did not heed wind or cold, only advanced like a silent, grim tide. Eight of them; no, ten. A dozen square-jawed ghosts.

“Jesus,” Morgan said.

“He ain’t going to help you.” Jenks’s hand tightened on his pistol.

Valentine clutched the shotgun to his chest. “No shells l-left.”

They marched toward Morgan, Jenks, and Valentine. Behind the line of men came another figure. He was small, bent against the cutting wind, thin hand holding a cloth cap on his bald head. He held on to the arm of one of the bruisers. The small man came within three feet of Morgan and stopped.

“The reading went well,” Fred Jones said. “I should kick your ass, but I enjoyed it.”

“Who are these men?” Morgan asked.

A blast of wind sprayed the group with sleet. Bob Smith had to use both hands to keep Jones from flying away. Jones’s thugs continued to march past.

“The kid told me about his troubles.” Jones nodded at Jenks. “I called a few old pals to come help.”

Jones turned to Valentine. “A guy from University of Arkansas Press was there. Asked me if I had enough stuff for a whole book.”

Morgan’s mouth fell open.

“That’s m-most fortunate,” Valentine said.

“You’re going to freeze your balls off,” Jones said. “Bob, bring the car around and pick us up.”

“Right, boss.” Smith lumbered back into the blizzard.

“The weather’s going to keep the cops off our backs for a little bit, but we got to move fast,” Jones said. “My guys will finish here. They know what to do.”

Jenks yanked on Morgan’s sleeve. “Wayne.”

Morgan said, “One of my students is still in there.”

“I got to look for him,” Jenks told Jones.

“Nunzio!” Jones waved over one of the long coats.

The guy had big, red cheeks, black eyes. “Mr. Jones?”