Free Dead Wrong by Allen Wyler

Instead, he heard a Sikes yell, “Washington. Listen up. I got the sombitch.”
    Washington didn’t answer.
    Hmmm, a ploy to trick him into moving and giving away his position? But that groan, so real, so full of agony—and those thumps so familiar. Then it clicked: He’d heard those thumps when Washington shot Maria.
    Jesus, had Sikes accidentally … No, it couldn’t be.
    He cocked his head to listen harder but only heard water trickling through a nearby pipe and the humming of the same fluorescent light fixture. The passage he just crawled through remained only dark shadows and no movement. The back of his head prickled, urging him to get going in spite of being afraid of a trap.
    “Hey, Elroy. Sound off.” Sikes again.
    No answer.
    Sikes sounded what? Angry? Concerned? Whatever it was, it struck him as genuine. Something had happened. Okay, so now what? Keep moving in the same direction or double back? Instinct said to move as far away as possible. Logic told him that Washington’s gun was probably not more than fifteen feet away. If the man was injured or dead, could he retrieve it before Sikes did?
    He crawled back to the right-angle turn and cautiously poked his head around the corner enough to see Washington lying face down and motionless, right arm draped over the same pipe that had ripped Tom’s pants. He stretched out and tapped Washington’s hand. The man didn’t move. Tom quickly grasped the wrist. Flaccid. He felt for a pulse but felt none. More confident now, he slid forward enough to do the same with Washington’s neck. No carotid pulse either. The man was seriously dead.
    Another search revealed Washington’s gun inches from his hand and a small LED flashlight further to the left. Tom grabbed both, tucking the light into his pocket and the gun under his waistband. The weapon made him feel less vulnerable and in possession of more options—although he wasn’t sure what those might be.
    Who were these guys? Real government agents or something else?
    Yeah? Like what?
    He ran his hand over Washington’s suit coat, felt a hard rectangle in the right pocket, and pulled out a full clip of ammunition, which he pocketed.
    “Washington, goddamn it man, answer me.” Sikes’s voice was closer now. Time to go.
    McCarthy scrambled back behind the ventilation duct and turned to watch the opening where Washington had entered the crawl space.
    Sikes’s head poked into view, Washington’s feet inches from his face. Sikes muttered, “Fuck me!”
    Tom turned away from Sikes to disguise where his voice came from and called, “Nice shooting, Sikes. You nailed your own man.”
    Sikes shook Washington’s ankle. “Elroy, get the fuck up, man!” The rage in Sikes’s voice made Tom’s skin crawl.
    Sikes stared in Tom’s direction for several seconds, radiating anger. “ You are responsible for this, McCarthy.”
    McCarthy pulled Washington’s gun from his waistband. “The hell you talking about? You shot him, Sikes.”
    “You have his weapon?”
    Tom’s fingers tightened on the grip and realized that no answer gave him a slight advantage.
    “You shouldn’t have done that, McCarthy.”
    “Done what?” He crept a few inches away from the corner, retracing his original route, trying for as much distance—and sheet metal—between himself and Sikes as possible.
    “Shoot your girl and Washington.”
    He backed up a few more inches, slow and carefully, making certain to make no sound. He was pretty sure Sikes couldn’t actually see him but was talking in his direction by assumption.
    Sikes continued. “You started the day in serious trouble, boy. But then, to make matters worse, soon as we identified ourselves, you freaked and grab Elroy’s gun and shot him down like a dog. See? You’re not only guilty of spying, but you murdered two innocent, helpless people in an attempt to flee. You realize, of course, this leaves me no choice but to shoot you down.”
    Tom’s right knee slipped. Reflexively, he