“Yeah, that’s right,” he said. Reaching into his back pocket, he extracted a K-bar knife, the model instantly recognizable, the kind some of the guys I served with used to trade Marines for, finding it far preferable to the stuff we were issued. “I’m the one that carved that old man up like a Christmas ham.”
Jabbing the knife out in front of him, he gave it a toggle in either direction, a swashbuckling gesture meant only to rankle me.
Not that such a thing was necessary.
Gritting my teeth, I managed to shove myself to full height, a renewed spasm traveling through my body as just a fraction of my weight landed on my left leg. Seeing bits of light pop before me, I swayed uneasily, staring back at him.
“So that’s what this is?” I asked. “I took your daddy away from you, so you had to take my uncle from me?”
Extending a hand around to my back pocket, I pulled the hawksbill blade free, flipping it open.
Smaller than the K-bar being brandished a short distance away, the curved face of it was much better suited for close quarters, better at slashing without getting bogged down, never a concern for snags or tears.
Looking at it, some of the previous malevolence came back to Pyle’s features, though whether it was the blade or the comment spurring him on, I couldn’t know.
Did not give a single damn either way.
“What the hell do you think you’re going to do with that?” Pyle asked. “You can barely stand. Maybe I should just wait you out, let you topple over, then do what I want.”
“True,” I conceded. “You’ve been waiting six years to get even for what I did. What’s another few minutes, right?”
There was no way this man could carry the venom I did, could stand any chance against me in a fair fight, but right now, that wasn’t the case. I was severely hobbled, which meant I had to use the one advantage I had.
Psychology.
“All that time, a damn orphan, floating around without a home. Nobody to tuck you in at night, tell you everything was going to be alright.”
Hopping a few steps to the side, I feigned as if circling right, wanting him to come with me.
That he would let his anger consume him, overriding his sense of place, drawing his focus to my words and them alone.
Matching my step, he squeezed the knife tight, staring straight at me.
Of everything I remembered from being in that court, from watching the proceedings from a separate room, what stood out most was the way Pyle had ebbed and flowed with every word said. Wearing his emotions plainly, it was clear to all that he had a vested interest with Baxter.
What they didn’t know was that he was the second man in the alley that night, the one who arguably was probably the one meant to pull the trigger.
Making everything that happened as much his fault as mine.
“You shut the hell up,” he muttered. “Right now, if you know what’s good for you.”
Taking another hop to the right, I didn’t dare look away, could not even think of giving away my intention, the end destination for where this was going.
“What’s good for me?” I asked. “Did big Eric teach you those kinds of things? Did he tell you to brush your teeth and eat your vegetables too?”
Stopping any movement, I watched as Pyle forced down a swallow, a spasm rippling through his neck, his upper body jerking slightly to the side.
“Oh, am I going to enjoy this.”
“The way you enjoyed letting him take the fall for your screw up?” I asked.
It was the last thing either one of us would say, both moving in tandem.
Pyle started by rushing straight ahead, the knife before him, wanting to shove it clean through my body, his arm thrust out before him.
At the same instant, I managed to balance my weight entirely on my right foot. Bracing off it, I flung my body toward the ground, my circling having cut the distance from me to the Beretta by half.
Just far enough for a one-legged lunge to hopefully be enough.
Pyle let out a scream, a deep braying tinged with hatred that echoed in my ears as I hung suspended in the air. Landing on a shoulder, I felt every last bit of dirt and gravel still embedded from the fall outside bite into my skin, my body sliding forward.
With fingers splayed out, I held my breath, willing my body forward, watching as they passed over the gnarled grip of the Beretta, the stock sliding back firm into the crook between my thumb and forefinger.
Using the last of my momentum, I rolled flat on my back, drawing the gun up in front of me just seconds before Pyle arrived.
With the K-bar pulled high over his shoulder, the tip pointed down at me, ready to be plunged into center mass, his entire core was left open.
A perfect canvas as I pulled the trigger three quick times in succession, following the same pattern he had on those boys back at the farmhouse.
Chest. Chest. Forehead.
The first two shots struck into the center of his chest plates, small red circles opening up, glistening beneath the lights.
Given the angle, the third seemed to travel directly up the length of his nose, hitting home in the center of his forehead, blowing the top of his skull out, a pink mist erupting behind him.
Like a life-size marionette, his body swayed for a moment, muscle memory and nerve endings keeping him in place, before gravity won out, his body collapsing into a heap on the ground, a pool of blood steadily pushing out away from him.
Keeping the gun trained on him a moment longer, making sure he was truly gone, I slowly rocked my head back, letting it rest against the cool concrete beneath me.
Chapter Eighty-Seven
The sound of tires bouncing across the floor, the enormous rubber implements scattering in every direction, echoed out as Talula Davis shoved herself to her feet. Feeling the sting of the trench cut into her arm, she shot forward, dodging through tires like an old-time football player doing an agility drill.
Moving hard, she aimed her focus on the spot where the muzzle flashes had originated, churning as fast as her body would allow.
Halfway there, she heard what she was looking for, a muted garble of muttered cursing, a body flailing across the concrete.
Bending forward at the waist, she hooked a hand inside the smallest of the tires lying nearby, the item weighing no more than ten pounds as she carried it perpendicular to her hip, swinging out wide around the half-finished hull of a car.
As she came to the opposite side, she could see her attacker for the first time, a thirty-something man in jeans and a sleeveless shirt. Weighing somewhere between her and Tim, he seemed to be cut from nothing but bone and sinew, his skin like cling wrap, showing every single indentation.
And making the twisted piece of metal protruding from his arm all the more noticeable.
Ditto for the mangled leg extended at a crooked angle beside him, unable to support even the slightest of his weight.
Fighting his way free from the tangle of tires that had fallen on him, it was clear half of his body was worthless, his right side trying to work his way free, a Glock clutched in his hand.
Turning sideways, Davis whipped the tire in her hand at him, twisting her hips, using centrifugal force to fling it like a discus.
Wobbling only slightly, the impromptu projectile hung in the air for an instant, absorbing a single shot from the Glock before colliding square with it.
Wrenching it free from the man’s grasp, both the gun and tire went flying, the man paying them no mind as he stared at her, fighting his way upright.
Somehow making it to his feet, he managed to draw both hands up into a fighter’s stance, his left arm barely bent, little more than a bit of protection.
Which was more than could be said for his leg.
Staring back at her, venom was etched on his face, his intentions for her every bit as sinister as what she felt toward him.
Sliding her hands down into the pockets of her pants, Davis pushed her fingers over the solid objects wedged in ti
ght against her thighs, drawing them out.
Fitting the twin pair of brass knuckles down over her fingers, she curled her own hands into fists.
The look on the man’s face bulged a bit, staring at the objects as if she were cheating, violating some form of long-held ritual to always fight fair.
A look that only heightened the anger she felt.
The men who shot her father in the back hadn’t exactly been fighting fair.
Seeing the resolve on her face, the posture she was taking, the man pulled his attention from the brass knuckles to her face. Nodding once, he nudged a few inches forward, sliding his way between the tires still strewn around.
Turning his body to the side, he used the left arm as a cover, firing off a right cross that drew nothing but air, following it up closely with another.
Easily ducking both, Davis bounced light on the balls of her feet. Waiting for a third one to come in, she paused until it was just inches from her face before throwing a hard right hook, her goal not his face or even his body, but the outstretched hand in front of her.
It was the first time she’d ever thrown such a punch, catching him just short of the wrist, the thick metal connecting solidly with the protruding bump of his ulnar bone.
Under normal conditions, she would have whiffed. If he’d had both hands, or even reasonable balance on two good feet, it would have been an easy dodge. Just one of several early feelers, both sides getting to know the other.
In this instance, it was more than enough to catch him, doing exactly what she hoped it would.
On contact, the bone gave way with a satisfying crack, a matching sound sliding from the man’s throat as his arm fell limp, the lower half jutting off at an obtuse angle.
The instant it did, Davis slid in closer, rattling off a jab-cross combo, a quick one-two, snapping the man’s head back.
Blood spurted from his left nostril and his top lip, his skin no match for the molded metal grips.
Even at that, he took both with a grim expression, his anger visible at the situation, at his body failing him now, in the worst of possible moments.
Caring not at all, Davis continued to move forward, to not let his backward momentum widen the gap between them, shooting out a hard left followed by a right uppercut.
The left barely grazed him, a glancing blow that would have missed entirely if not for the extra reach of the brass knuckles.
But it served as just enough to leave him open for the uppercut, a shot that connected square beneath his jaw. Feeling the impact with the bone, Davis drove her fist upward, the follow through lifting the man from his feet.
In one unending curve, his body twisted up and away from her, landing in a heap.
Standing there, looking down at him, her first impulse was to rush forward. To continue with the brass knuckles, mashing his face, his head, his body, into a pulp.
Beating out every ounce of frustration that she had carried over the past years.
Even if she never knew who actually killed her father, this man was a close enough approximation, a symbol for Baxter and his enterprise.
Just as fast, she let that realization settle in.
Baxter.
As good as it would feel to end this man with her fists, to put all that time in the basement with the punching bag to good use, it would only detract from the real reason she was there at the moment.
From a reason so much bigger than just she and her family.
Vic Baxter had to be stopped.
Leaving the man where he lay, Davis turned her attention to the side. Kicking aside a pair of tires, she traced her gaze over the ground, finally finding what she was looking for having slid up flush against the block supporting the body of the car the man had been hiding behind.
Working the brass knuckles from her hands, she snatched up the Glock, turning back, ready to face the man, to finish him and move upstairs to their real target.
Turning just in time to see Tim step up to the man, take aim, and fire.
In the wake of the shot, the smell of gunpowder was thick in the air, a tendril of smoke rising from the tip of Tim’s Beretta. Her eyes bulging, Davis looked between the weapon and the man lying on the floor before it, his forehead caved in from the round fired at close range, the glossy pool of blood spreading in an even circle beneath him.
With no friction from the smooth floor, it flowed fast and even, leaving no doubt as to the man’s fate.
For an instant, there were no words, the adrenaline of the moment still surging through Davis’s system. With her mouth sagging open, she tried to find the proper response, grasping for the right words.
“Wha...” she managed. “What did you do?”
With the weapon still extended before him, Tim turned his chin over a shoulder toward her.
“You’re welcome.”
At the sound of his voice, the previous concentration she held, the focus aimed solely at her opponent, bled away. In its place, incredulity seeped in, the gun dropping a few inches by her side.
“I’m welcome?!” she snapped. “This was over. I had him. All I had to do was-“
“That’s not what I mean.”
Chapter Eighty-Eight
“Cut the lights,” Deputy Marshal Abby Lipski barked. Perched on the front edge of the passenger seat, her weight balanced precariously, she could feel her heartbeat thundering in her chest. Alternating glances between the road and the GPS on the dash, she said, “Cut the lights, damn it!”
Beside her, Marshal Colvin looked over twice, his face pale, the look accented by the fact that with the arrival of nightfall he had finally removed the ridiculous dark glasses he’d been wearing since they met.
“Now!” Lipski screamed, a hint of shrill creeping in, sending the sound reverberating through the car.
Visibly flinching, Colvin jerked his attention back to the road, reaching out and flipping off the front lamps.
The moment he did so, all extraneous illumination bled away, the moonlight and a handful of sporadic reflector strips the sole things guiding them.
On either side, the forest pushed in hard, creating a clear tunnel, a direct line toward their destination just over a mile in the distance.
The drive down from Tennessee had been hard, every minute of it spent imploring Colvin to go faster, yelling at drivers that didn’t heed their sirens or lights, lingering too long before drifting to the side.
In between, Lipski fielded calls from her team in the air, updating them on their position, conglomerating as much information as possible about their destination.
The call from Director Knoth she let go to voicemail, knowing avoiding him would annoy the man to no end, but not ready to speak with him just yet.
With any luck, the events of the next couple of hours would exonerate her, or at the very least provide some of the answers she knew he was calling in search of.
Until then, the blowhard bastard would have to wait like everybody else.
“You guys good?” Lipski asked, twisting her head to peer at Marshals Burrows and Marlucci in the backseat. Both already strapped into Kevlar vests with the U.S. Marshal logo imprinted on the front, Burrows gave a terse nod, mouth drawn into a straight line.
His cohort, meanwhile, looked like there was a decent chance she might start hyperventilating at any moment, her visage every bit as pale as Colvin’s.
Not exactly what Lipski would deem the A-team, but for the time being, it was all she had.
Turning back to face forward, she drew her sidearm and racked a round into the chamber, the sound of it as loud as a shot within the confines of the SUV. Pressing the barrel tight against her thigh, she used her off hand to brace herself, continuing to alternate her gaze.
Ahead, the faint glow of a structure could be seen, just barely peeking above the treetops.
“Faster,” she whispered, an extension of the same mantra she’d been muttering for what seemed days now.
Tim Scarberry was a pain in the ass, but this was
far beyond that at this point. Years before, she had sworn an oath to the Marshal Service, had opted to dedicate her life to protecting those that went out on a limb to help others.
For the first time, that oath was being put to serious question. If ever she was going to continue forward with her career, be able to truly believe in herself or the mission of the agency she worked for, she had to see this through.
One way or another, the quest that started with a phone call days before was about to reach a conclusion.
She just had to make sure she was there in time.
“Faster.”
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Sitting with his back to the windows, Vic Baxter couldn’t see exactly what was going on below, but he could hear every bit of it in excruciating detail. Tucked up tight against the bottom of his desk, he was using the heavy wooden implement as a blockade, his rolling chair pulled over far enough to cover the bottom half of him.
The jolt of electricity that had surged through his body the moment that damned car had first driven into his shop had only grown with each passing second, jumping multiple steps when the vehicle exploded, a few more when automatic fire sprayed the interior of the building, shattering the windows lining the back end of his office.
Since then, he had been sequestered beneath his desk, waiting.
Down below were two of the most capable men he had ever known. One handpicked by himself, the other his brother before him, nothing short of an army could get through them.
Trusting that Scarberry would have no such thing at his disposal, he knew that all he needed to do was sit and wait for the all-clear sign, the spates of sporadic fire below bringing a thin smile to his face.
Most of the evening, he had sat behind his desk, wondering if he had done the right thing. If he should have brought in more men, turned the place into a veritable bunker, dared someone to come near him.
The decision against it was steeped in the same reasons he hadn’t sent more people to Tennessee, the very same thing his brother had tried to drill into him repeatedly.
The Subway ; The Debt ; Catastrophic Page 30