She sighted the dark shape of the driver over the end of her gun.
That was a ski mask he was wearing.
It was, right?
She moved her finger to the trigger. She watched the side door of the van. She pictured the guys crouched behind it, imagined them in camouflage hunting gear, ski masks over their faces, their gleaming weapons at the ready. Like rapists, drooling on themselves, pulling at their big shiny belt buckles. Cowards. Disguised, hiding. They’d start shooting before the door was even all the way open. More rounds per second than she could possibly return. Bullets coming so fast they’d touch off flames where they landed. The gunfire thunder would be deafening, if she lived long enough to hear it. If she wasn’t perforated where she stood like a paper target.
Her thighs ached from holding the crouch. Her ankle throbbed. The only good shot she’d have would be the first shot.
So pull it, Maureen, she thought. Pull it and be done with it. Pull the trigger on these motherfuckers. These cop-hating, cop-killing motherfuckers. Fuck being the one to shoot back. Be the one to shoot first. Make sure you’re the last one breathing.
She followed the form of the driver with her gun, gritting her teeth, breathing hard through her nose, her palms slick with sweat.
And what if it isn’t the Watchmen? she thought. What if you’re wrong? What if it’s some knucklehead in a dirty old van full of tools? Some poor dope in the wrong place at the wrong time.
She watched that side door. She watched the driver’s-side window, waiting for the glass to slide down, for the barrel of a gun to appear over the top of the door.
If that door moves, if that glass moves, I’m shooting.
And what if he’s rolling down his window to spit out his gum? Or flick away his cigarette butt? And you blow his head open for him because of it?
Look my way, driver, she thought. Look my way.
“Look at me. Look at me, look at me,” she whispered.
Show me who you are, she thought. Because I don’t wanna die here but I don’t wanna kill an innocent person, either. Because if I kill the wrong person, everything is over. For him and for me. Everything. My career. My life. The great New Orleans experiment. Everything. Shot to hell. I’ll die in prison for this mistake, she thought. That’s if I don’t jump in the Mississippi River first for killing an innocent bystander.
Am I gonna go out like that, she thought, because I let those bully militia limp-dick fucks scare me so badly I ran out into the street shooting at people like a madwoman?
That’s what these fuckers want, she told herself. That’s their power. This is how terrorists win. With you standing in the street, terrified, a gun in your hand, looking for someone, anyone, to shoot. Doing their killing for them, brainwashed and murderous, no better than a suicide bomber. If you make that fucking awful mistake, she thought, it’s them that got you. It’ll be them that fucked you, them that killed you and everything you wanted and were and would be.
Don’t shoot, she thought. Don’t pull that trigger. Stand your ground.
She lowered her gun and walked out into the street.
She heard Detillier calling her name from what seemed a mile away. The van window rolled down, glinting in the sun as it moved. The driver was revealed. He was a smiling guy with a bushy beard in a blue watch cap and a camouflage hunting jacket. No ski mask over his hairy face. He blew Maureen a kiss. She almost shot him for it.
The van picked up speed and headed down Esplanade toward the I-10. Maureen memorized the plate number. She’d give it to Detillier. He’d call it in. Shooting the guy was one thing. Pulling him over and putting him through the ringer—hell, he’d never realize what a favor she’d done him. She heard Detillier calling her name from closer. He was heading toward her. She figured she should turn and look for him, but she didn’t. Each thought she had seemed to take a long time to form and compute, like skywriting.
Maureen felt stunned by the quiet around her, to be standing in it, realizing how convinced she’d been that the air would roar with gunfire. A car, one of those tiny toylike Smart cars, rolled right up to her, the driver leaning on her horn, her phone at her ear. Maureen’s reverie broke. She glanced down at her gun, then raised her eyes to meet the driver’s. She saw the driver see the gun. The woman shrieked and threw her hands in the air, which Maureen enjoyed. She stood there in the street, staring down the driver until Detillier caught up to her.
He seemed afraid to come any closer and called her name from the sidewalk. Finally, she stepped back to the curb. The Smart car sped away.