Free Reap by James Frey Page B

getting nicked by the sword. But the Nabataean was on the defensive, backing up as the Harappan was advancing.
    John fired, hitting the Harappan in the chest—he fell back onto the stone. The Nabataean turned back to see us, and he ran for the cover of a newsstand. John and I fired at him as he ran, but he was fast and out of view almost immediately. A motorcycle cop appeared at the end of the road—John took a couple of shots in his direction, and the bike slid out from underneath him. The cop crawled for the cover of a parked car.
    I couldn’t see anyone from where I was—the Harappan had disappeared under the shrubbery, and the Nabataean was well hidden.
    â€œBoth of you,” John said, “go to the far side and work your way up.”
    â€œThe Nabataean’s the last,” I said, and nodded. That side was where the newsstand was.
    â€œI don’t know,” John said. “Did you hear the ping? The Harappan’swearing a barrier vest. Bulletproof, I think.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?” I asked. We’d never practiced shooting at targets with bulletproof vests.
    â€œIt means I wish I still had my Kalashnikov. Pistols at this range won’t penetrate. Either get closer, or shoot for the head.”
    â€œOkay,” I said.
    â€œWhat about the cop?” Kat asked.
    â€œWill you just get going?”
    Kat glanced at my face, and our eyes met for a moment; then we crossed the street, running in a low crouch. The road was lined with shops with large front windows. I kept my shoulder against the glass as I moved up, looking for a sign of either Player.
    The cop shouted something in German that I didn’t understand.
    â€œDo I have to know what that was?” I asked Kat without turning to look at her.
    â€œâ€˜Stop’ and ‘surrender,’ I think. High school German didn’t cover this kind of vocabulary.”
    John was opposite us, on the other side of the street, moving cautiously, his gun in a solid two-hand grip. He moved with confidence. He looked like a soldier. I imagined I looked like an idiot. I looked like a target.
    Suddenly the Harappan was on his feet again, throwing something at John. John fired back at him, and glass on our side of the street exploded into a million little pieces. I ducked and scrambled to take cover by a lamppost. I lined up my sights on the Harappan—John was downrange, but not in my sight line, and I decided to take the shot.
    Without a noise I was smashed to the ground.
    The Nabataean had swung his heavy spear like a seven-foot-long baseball bat, and it had knocked me to the sidewalk.
    Dazed, I saw Kat fire wildly with her pistol—her left hand shook despite trying to hold it steady with her wounded arm. But as I lay on the ground, I saw the big man pause and reach for his chest. Blood was dribbling down from his sternum, soaking his shirt.
    He raised the spear one last time, threw it, and fell to his knees. He said something in a foreign language and then collapsed to the street.
    The cop was up, gun out, yelling at the Harappan and John.
    I turned back to Kat.

CHAPTER NINE
    The spear had buried itself deep into Kat’s chest, exiting through her back so that she was halfway sitting up. Blood was everywhere. So fast, it was pouring from her body. So much blood.
    â€œKat,” I called, and scrambled through the broken glass to get to her. “Kat, no.”
    She was gone. There was no life in her eyes, and I grabbed her throat to feel for a pulse, but there was nothing. The spear had gone straight through her heart, piercing her like she was a piece of paper.
    No last words. No good-byes.
    She had killed him and he had killed her.
    And there was nothing left of me.

CHAPTER TEN
    I could hear shooting, distant and unimportant.
    I touched Kat’s face. She was so pale, all color rushing out of her as she bled.
    â€œKat,” I said again, wanting to put my arms around her, but blocked by