10:43 P.M.
JACK
MY TEMPLE THROBS in time with my heartbeat, but I manage to get both feet under me one more time, supporting Latham on my back.
More shots are fired, but the outside lights stay on. I stagger the remaining few steps to the bathroom, and Mom meets me in the hallway, helping to drag Latham inside. We lean him against the sink. I flip on the overhead light and gently peel back his shirt, getting my first look at his injury. An ugly black hole, just above his armpit. No exit wound. The bleeding is minimal.
“I think you’re going to make it,” I tell him, my mouth near his.
“Good. I was worried you carried me all the way here for nothing.”
I put my hands on his face, stare into his eyes. “I love you, Latham.”
“I love you, Jack.”
“I love you more.”
“No, I love you more.”
We briefly touch lips.
“So he doesn’t need any of my blood, right?”
I pull away from Latham, frowning. “You’re safe for the moment, Harry.”
“Actually, I’m not.” Harry motions for me to come closer.
“What?”
“It’s important, Jackie. Come here.”
I get within whisper range.
“I have to go,” he says.
“It was great seeing you. Come back soon.”
Harry makes a face. “The beer I had, Jackie. It wants to be set free.”
I blink. “You have to go to the bathroom?”
“Yeah. So can you, like, distract Mom while I piss in the sink?”
“You are not urinating in my sink.”
“Fine. Just open up the toilet and I’ll aim for it.”
I glance over my shoulder. The toilet is five feet away.
“Absolutely not.”
“I can hit it. I’ll arc the stream.”
“I don’t have time for this, Harry.”
“I’m going to wet my pants.”
“Not my problem.”
“Fine. I want my blood back.”
I consider my sink, realize I’d never use it again if Harry violates it, but don’t see any other alternative. I cross my arms.
“Okay, Harry. Make it quick.”
“Stand between me and Mom. I don’t want to sully her high opinion of me.”
I hit the lights and play blocker. More shots, outside. But no familiar tinkling of window glass, or slugs impacting the fridge.
“I need help with my fly,” Harry says.
“No way in hell.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“Come on. I haven’t had a single obscene thought about you since I found out we’re related.”
I turn, pat his cheek. “Bad news, bro. You’re going to have to wet your pants.”
Mom is taping and gauzing Latham’s wound, her hands so gnarled that he has to help. More shooting. No sounds from inside the house. What are they firing at? Each other?
“I have to check something out,” I say. I pick up the rifle and sneak into the hallway.
The remaining outside lights still glow brightly. I move slowly, hunching over, peering out the living room window, trying to find the snipers’ locations. Another shot. They’ve moved closer, to within a hundred yards. I check to see what they’re aiming at, see the wreck that is my car. And in the car…
Herb!
I run to the front door, second-guess myself, and backtrack to the garage. I swing it open, hitting the garage door opener button on the wall, planting both of my feet, and snugging the rifle up against my shoulder.
“Herb!” I scream.
I fire my first round across the street, aiming where I’d seen the muzzle flash. I immediately load the second round and shoot again.
Herb doesn’t waste time. He slides face-first into my garage before the door even gets halfway up. I hit the button again, and Herb rolls to the left, bumping up against the wall of cardboard boxes. Two bullets ping off the garage floor, chewing hunks out of the concrete. I rush over to Herb, hooking my elbow around his, straining to get him back to his feet.
He bellows. Herb’s hands flutter around his knee, as if indecisive about whether or not to touch it. My partner had hit the ground hard—especially hard considering his age and weight. His pants are bloody, but I don’t know if his earlier gunshot wound has opened up or if this is a new injury.
“Did you get shot again?”
He shakes his head, his jowls flapping. “Knee!”
“Broken?”
He replies through his teeth—a keening cry that makes my stomach vibrate.
A round punches through my garage door, making a hole the size of my fist.
Then another. And another.
I have to get Herb out of here.
“We need to get you in the house.”
“Leave me here.”
Bullets continue to ventilate my garage door, and the light coming in from the holes dims. They’re shooting the outside lights again. Once those are gone, they’ll switch back to night vision.
Then we’re screwed.
“On three,” I say. I set down the rifle and take hold of his collar. “One…two…three!”
Herb moans deep in his throat, and I pull while he uses his three functional limbs to drag his broken one. We reach the doorway into my house, then I collapse next to him, both of us breathing like asthmatics at a hay festival.
“There’s a saw.” Herb points to the workbench at the back of the garage. “Cut my leg off. That will hurt less.”
My chest heaves. “At least you still have your sense of humor.”
“No joke. I’ll pay you twenty thousand bucks to saw off my leg.”
I blink away the motes, wipe some sweat from my forehead. “Let’s go again.”
“Please, no.”
“On three.”
“Why do you hate me so much?”
“One…two…three!”
Another strangled cry from Herb, but we make it into the house, across the living room, and to the front of the hallway before fatigue drops me to my knees.
“Here is good,” Herb wheezes. He’s directly in front of the bay windows. The only possible way he could be an easier target is if he had antlers.
“We…we have to get you to…to the bathroom.”
“I…I like it here.”
Another shot. The last of my outside lights blows out.
“On three.”
“Jack…if I…if I don’t make it…”
“No time for this now, Herb. One…”
“I just want to say…”
“Two…”
“That I’m cutting you out of my will…”
“Three!”
Herb cries out again, but he gives it his all, and so do I, and even though my knees are rug burned and even though he can barely move and even though bullets tear up the carpeting around us, we make it all the way to the refrigerator, and to the bathroom.
Safe. For the moment.
“Did you?” I gasp at Harry, pointing at the sink.
He shakes his head.
“Where?” I ask.
Harry reaches into the fridge and removes a pickle jar.
“Remember to throw this away later,” he says.
I stick my face under the faucet and take gulps of water so big they hurt going down. Mom fusses over Herb, winding an Ace bandage around his knee. I eventually catch my breath, and give Herb half a dozen Dixie cups’ worth of water.
“Now what?” Mom says.
The five of us are crammed into the bathroom pretty tight. We couldn’t have fit someone else in here if we buttered them. I stand near the sink, next to Harry. Latham sits on the toilet. Mom leans over Herb, who occupies most of the floor. The temperature in here is ten degrees warmer than the rest of the house.
“Anyone up for charades?” Harry asks. He points at Herb. “Lemme guess…Moby-Dick!”
Herb and Harry don’t get along, from way back.
“How’s the pain?” I ask my partner.
“Hurts,” Herb says.
“One to ten?”
“Ten. Blew the knee out. And the medication has worn off from my gunshot wound.” His face is pouring sweat. “I’m hoping I pass out.”
Mom uses scissors to gently cut up a side of Herb’s pants leg. His stitches have ripped open, and his knee is swelled up to the size of a honeydew.
“Does anyone know you’re here?” I ask.
He shakes his head, wincing from the movement. “No. The Grouch, he wanted to talk to you. Threatened to go to your old apartment. I came here to find you.”
“So you didn’t call for backup?” Harry asks. “Smooth move, Iron-side.”
“Nice fridge,” Herb says. “Maybe you’d like me to cram your head in the crisper.”
“Quiet,” I tell them.
I rub my eyes, trying to force a brilliant thought.
Amazingly, one comes.
“I’ve got one rifle round left. In the garage, there’s a pull-down ladder to the attic. I can get up there, get on the roof, and take out one of the snipers from a vantage point.”
“You can’t get from the attic to the roof,” Herb says. “That’s not how houses are built.”
“You sure?” Harry asks.
“You want to drag your refrigerator up there and double-check?”
“Why don’t you go check, Jumbo? I’ve got a buddy with a crane.”
“Enough,” I say. “How else can I get up to the roof?”
“Do you have a ladder?” Latham asks.
“No good,” Herb says. “They’ll see the ladder, know she’s up there.”
“One of us could take the ladder away,” Latham says.
“Who?”
Herb has a point. No one in the room is in any shape to help out.
“Why don’t we just set the house on fire?” McGlade asks. “Cops will come, and bring reinforcements.”
“Good idea,” Herb says. “We’ll start with that shag rug on your chest.”
“Sis, the mean fat man is picking on me.”
Herb raises an eyebrow. “Did he just call you sis?”
“Long story. And we’re not setting the house on fire.”
Harry appears crestfallen.
“Can’t we wait them out?” Latham suggests. “Maybe they’ll leave when the sun comes up.”
I shake my head. “They’ll rush the house before then. Or set fire to it themselves, and pick us off when we run outside.”
“How about a decoy?” Harry says. “We’ll kick Alex outside, and while they’re shooting her you can run for help.”
“Alex?” Herb asks. “I thought she was dead.”
“Another long story,” I tell him. “And we’re not kicking anyone outside. The snipers are surrounding the house. There’s nowhere to run.”
Herb tries his cell phone. Harry found half a bottle of Grey Goose vodka in my freezer and he takes a swig. Latham has his arm around Mom. I wonder if I can get on the roof by climbing onto the veranda in back. Maybe I can stand on the patio table and pull myself up. But even if I manage, I’ll probably be seen doing it.
“I was saving this, because I wanted to keep a clear head,” Mom says. “But I think we could all use a couple.”
She holds up a bottle of OxyContin—her prescription arthritis pain medication. It has an extra-large cap, and she spins it off like a pro.
“Who needs a hit?” she asks.
Herb takes four. Latham takes two. Mom takes two. I decline—opiates aren’t wise with a head injury. Harry takes two, and washes them down with a swig of Grey Goose.
“You shouldn’t mix codeine and alcohol,” Mom chides. “It intensifies the effect.”
“I sure as hell hope so.”
Harry passes Mom the bottle. She takes a nip, as do Latham and Herb. I get it last, and since I’m not mixing it with drugs, I take the biggest swallow. It burns going down, and sits in my empty stomach like a lump of charcoal.
We’re all quiet for a moment. It isn’t hard to read everyone’s thoughts, because we each have the same one: We’re all going to die.
“Okay,” I say. “I bet I can pick one of them off from the living room.”
“That will still leave two,” Herb says.
“But it will be tougher for two to watch the whole house. If I get one, then I’ll have a better chance at getting away, getting help.”
No one argues. I pull out my Kimber, offer it to Harry.
“If they get in,” I say.
“You know I suck lefty.”
“Latham’s never shot a gun, Mom can’t fit her fingers in the trigger guard, and Herb just took enough codeine to kill Keith Richards.”
Harry takes the gun.
“You’ve got five rounds left. Use them wisely.”
Harry nods, then says, “When we get out of this. I want to go to one of those department store portrait studios. Get a family photo. I’ve never been in a family photo.”
I consider making some sort of comment about waiting for the DNA test first, but instead I pat his shoulder.
“Hematoma!” he yelps.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I say. “Everyone stay put.”
Then I slip out into the hallway.
10:42 P.M.
KORK
I GIVE THE DRAIN JOINT one last turn and it comes loose. My fingers are torn and bloody, and my hands feel like lead weights. I raise them up, pull the handcuff chain between the sink and the pipe, and then I’m free.
I don’t waste time celebrating the victory. Jack had turned off the lights in the kitchen, so it’s tough to see, but I locate the utensil drawer from memory. I feel forks and spoons and assorted cooking supplies until I find what I’m after—a lever action corkscrew. The curly end fits nicely into the keyhole of my cuffs, and I have them off within a few seconds.
Even if the house wasn’t surrounded by snipers, running wouldn’t be an option. Before I leave here, Jack Daniels, and everyone in this house, must die.
I bump against the counter and spread my hands over the top, seeking out the knife rack.
10:46 P.M.
SWANSON
SWANSON IS TEMPTED to move farther away. Those two shots the woman cop fired from the garage came very near him, kicking up dirt just a few feet in front of his face. But he’s the one who gave the order to get in closer, so he’s determined to stick it out.
He and Pessolano shoot the last of the outside lights, then change back to night scopes. The constant juggling of scopes bugs Swanson. A lot of things about this situation bug Swanson. But this will all be over soon. When the cop fires her last rifle round, he’s going to order his men to break into the house and finish the job point-blank. Enough of this long-distance bullshit.
In concept, The Urban Hunting Club was brilliant. Dazzle the police and the media with three sex offenders who all die at the same time. Do it from a distance, so there’s less likelihood of witnesses, and no personal contact with the targets. Kill three more offenders a few days later, to make it seem like the targets are random. Write a note to the newspapers, explaining the goal of ridding Chicago of perverts. Then disappear into legend.
Swanson even thought about the far future, forty years from now, making a deathbed confession and stunning the world. Explaining he did it all for his precious Jen. Making a grand speech about how it is every private citizen’s duty to protect the people he loves. Along with the right to bear arms, there is a responsibility to use those arms for truth, justice, and the American way.
It would have been a damn good speech.
But Munchel had to fuck everything up. Now TUHC are cop killers. Instead of being admired by millions, they’ll be hunted forever, chased to the ends of the earth. They’ll be called psychos instead of vigilantes. In the TV movie, Swanson will be played by Harvey Keitel or Christopher Walken, instead of Ben Affleck or Bruce Willis.
It’s all gone to hell. Best to get it over with as quick
ly as possible.
Swanson sights down the night-vision scope, looking into the dark house through the front bay window. He’s moved ten feet to the right, away from the spot where the cop came close to hitting him. The stretch of grass he’s on is slightly elevated. Not quite a knoll, but raised enough so he can see into the living room and look down from a slight angle.
He sees green. A world of blurry, indistinct, phosphorescent green.
Though he doesn’t admit it to the guys, the starlight scope isn’t the easiest thing to use. With Swanson’s whole field of vision monochromatic, the only way to identify people is by shape and movement. Earlier in the night, Swanson put three rounds into a chair, thinking it was a crouching body. And he also discovered that the house has a cat in it, which kept darting back and forth, messing up his concentration and his aim.
The ever-increasing wind has also been a factor, throwing off several shots that were otherwise on the money. That fat cop should be dead three times over. Swanson knew Pessolano felt the same frustration, because the Desert Storm vet had been only fifteen yards away, and Swanson heard him swear after every miss.
Swanson also knows he’s jerking the trigger. Every shot, the butt of the TPG-1 slams into his shoulder. The area has been tender for several weeks, from all of the practice, and the bruise hasn’t ever healed. After the dozens of rounds fired to night, it hurts like crazy. Swanson flinches every time he fires, and this tiny movement is throwing off his aim.
Add in the pressure of getting done quickly, and the fact that Swanson isn’t a very good marksman to begin with, and it’s no wonder he hasn’t been able to hit anything.
But that is all about to change. The next person who appears in Swanson’s scope is going to die. He can feel it.
Swanson blinks, takes a deep breath, and adjusts his grip on the TPG-1. He aims the starlight scope on the hallway, ready to shoot the first thing that moves.
Something blurs past his line of fire. Swanson adjusts, finding the figure again, watching it disappear into the garage. He holds there…holds…holds…holds…
The figure appears again.
Swanson fires.
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