Sheridan tried to sit up again and speak, but was overcome by his lungs slowly filling up with blood and succumbed to a horrible series of coughs. From somewhere behind that terrible sound came that of a helicopter â€” maybe two â€” coming into range, and getting louder.
“Ah,” Sheridan sighed with a crooked smile, “reinforcements.”
“The police?” Harris asked, and Sheridan chuckled.
“Hardly,” he said and with some pained effort rolled himself to his side and propped himself up on an elbow to look directly at Harris. “You fought your way in here very well and very effectively. Killed eight of my men â€”.”
“Don’t forget the dog,” Harris said.
“Ah yes,” Sheridan let loose a wet, hacking cough and wiped blood from his lips. “The dog, too. But in the process it looks like we’ve left you with a couple of parting gifts, as well.”
Harris shifted and winced when his wounded shoulder balked at the move.
“They might hinder your effectiveness now that you’re going to have to fight your way back out.”
The sound of the copters, definitely two, indicated they were close.
“Pity I won’t be there to see you die.” Sheridan offered.
And Harris thought of Jessica, slipping from his grasp on the Vincent Thomas Bridge. And Ross, his best friend, dying under the wheels of the Metro Redline. And his daughter Siena. All dead, and all because of Sheridan, and he refilled with a rage that allowed him to sight his gun right between his father’s beady little eyes.
“Make that two dogs,” he said and pulled the trigger.