Thick plumes of smoke churned from his wheels as Lenny popped the clutch, geared up to fifth and braced for impact.
He came to in the lobby in a mess of twisted steel, broken glass and people screaming. His was sheeting blood from a broad gash across his forehead. He wiped the mess from his eyes, grabbed the steering lock from under his seat and shoulder-barged the driver’s side door until it came loose.
The crowd parted like the red sea around him as he lurched across the dancefloor, his face inhuman with rage. He kicked the door to the back office open in a shower of splinters and stood framed in the crimson light.
Hallas was waiting. He drew on Lenny, flames bursting from the barrel of his nine mil as he emptied the clip. Two slugs found their mark, one in Lenny’s thigh and one in his side. He roared and charged Hallas, rugby-tackling him through a glass table, the ancient kettle drums of war thundering in Lenny’s ears as he raised the steering lock above his head.
He swung the steering lock down in short, brutal arcs. Hallas tried to shield his face from the blows, but Lenny landed them with bone-shattering force until Hallas left the opening Lenny had been waiting for and Lenny began working in earnest to crack Hallas’ skull open.
On trial, Lenny would say that he remembered none of it – the screaming, the blood, the mess he made of Hallas – all he remembered was finding Susan.
All he remembered was how cold she felt clutched against him.
-ST
