A Loco shouted: “I got him, I got him.”
Dodson, Sedrick, and Omari crouched behind the demolition rubble and returned fire, bullets exploding off the concrete, whanging off the rebar, and ripping into the old lumber. Kinkee was on the side of the restaurant sticking his gun around the corner and blasting away. It was shock and awe, a full-on gunfight: .9s, .38s, .45s, and .357s going off in salvos, both sides emptying clips through a haze of smoke.
A Loco was hit. “They got me,” he said, “they fucking got me.”
A round smashed into Omari’s temple, his brains spraying out the other side.
“Oh shit,” Sedrick said, “Omari’s fucked up.”
“Enough of this shit,” Kinkee said. He stepped out from behind the building and did his Denzel impression, walking toward the Locos holding two guns sideways and firing them at the same time. He looked cool until he caught one in the thigh and had to hop back to safety.
Another Loco went down. “They got Frankie,” a Loco said. “Somebody help him.”
Dodson was behind a chunk of foundation firing a Saturday-night special he’d bought after ditching the revolver. He was missing on purpose. If a Loco got killed the spent rounds couldn’t be matched to his gun unless the police dug them out of the Porsche Panamera he was aiming at.
The Locos were advancing, ducking and dodging and shooting as they came over the chain. Kinkee had run out of ammo and hobbled away. Dodson and Sedrick got up and ran.
“They’re running!” a Loco shouted. “Get those fucking cowards.”
Dodson raced around the restaurant and took off down the street, relieved he wasn’t hit. Gunshots popped behind him, the windshield of a car in front of him shattered. The Locos were chasing him. Dodson sprinted for the end of the block. Get around the corner and he could wait, shoot them if they followed. But the pain and weed were slowing him down. His lungs were scorched, a stitch stabbing him in the kidney. The Locos were getting closer, their gunshots getting louder. Dodson was about to stop and go down fighting when he saw an OPEN sign hanging in the window of a taquería. He burst through the door, streaked through the dining room and out the back, gunshots and breaking glass behind him.
Only the lamp was on, the 25-watt bulb like a single candle, darkness all around. Isaiah was sitting on the floor with his back against the bed. The news was on.
“Two rival gangs shot it out behind the Hot Dog Heaven in Hurston today,” the anchorman said. “Police say it’s the latest skirmish in what they’re describing as an all-out war. As many as fifteen gang members exchanged dozens of rounds. Four of the combatants were killed. One suspect was found dead in a dumpster. He hadn’t fired a shot, and another victim was only fourteen years old. Three others were wounded and transported to local hospitals. But the story doesn’t end there, I’m afraid. Police say a gang member who was involved in the shootout was escaping from rival gang members and ran through the Los Amigos Taquería. The first gang member got away but the owners of the restaurant, Selena and Héctor Ruiz, were killed in the crossfire and pronounced dead at the scene. Equally, if not more tragic, their ten-year-old son was struck once in the head. The boy was taken to Hurston Community Hospital and is listed in critical condition. The boy’s surgeon, Dr. Amelia Lopez, told reporters the boy suffered severe brain trauma and underwent surgery. His chances of surviving are unknown, but if he does make it, he’ll be facing the awful news that his parents are dead.”
Isaiah got up, walked in a circle, and stood with his forehead against a wall. How could this happen? Those people were killed? Killed? The boy has brain trauma? This is insane. The war did this. The war Dodson started. Dodson. Fucking Dodson.
He couldn’t stay in the room anymore and walked aimlessly. This mess is all his fault, the idiot. How fucking stupid do you have to be to try something like that? Now where am I? What am I going to do? Fucking Dodson. I never should have let him in the apartment.