“I’ll try the pool hall I’ve seen him at,” Jack blurts out. “I need to call information.”
“If you dial 911, you watch your mother die.”
Jack wisely chooses 411, asks the computer voice for Joe’s Pool Hall in Chicago, and gets connected.
“Pool hall,” the phone says.
“I need to speak to a guy there. Name is Phin Troutt. Blond, crew cut, probably wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. Tell him it’s Jack, and it’s an emergency.”
“Hold on.”
We wait, listening to the background noise.
“Hey, Jackie!” Harry, from the kitchen. “Does this mean we’re not gonna have sex?”
I think back to the last time I killed several people at once. A family. Mom, Dad, teenage girl. I couldn’t remember the reason. But did I ever need a reason?
“Hello?”
“Phin!” The relief in Jack’s voice is obvious. “I need you to come to my house. Right away.”
“You don’t need another wedding date, do you? The last time didn’t work out well for me.”
“I… need your help.”
Jack gives Phin the address. Phin doesn’t answer.
“Hello? Hello? The call got dropped.” She presses a few buttons. “It isn’t working.”
“Let’s try Harry’s phone,” I say.
“How about instead, you try eating that gun, you freak-of-nature gargoyle!”
I make a mental note to cut out Harry’s tongue when I go back into the kitchen. Then I toss Jack the cell.
She presses some buttons then says, “No ser vice.”
I pick up the cordless phone on a table. No dial tone. Latham’s phone doesn’t work either. How strange. It’s almost as if someone is blocking the—
A bullet comes through the front window and the revolver jerks from my hand, flying across the room. I see the blood on my fingers, feel a sting, and realize that someone has shot me. My previous military experience makes me drop to the floor and elbow-crawl away from the window.
Jack yells, “Get down!” and she drags Latham to the floor. Then she inchworms over to Mom and pushes her chair over. Another shot hits the TV, causing the screen to explode.
“What the hell is going on!” Harry cries from the kitchen.
I see terror on Jack’s face. She says, “I think my work followed me home.”
9:03 P.M.
SWANSON
“HOLD YOUR FIRE!” Swanson barks into the radio. Some moron, probably Munchel, started shooting before he gave the signal. Swanson isn’t in place yet. Munchel’s rounds could cut through the whole house and come out on his end. Getting shot isn’t on Swanson’s list of things to do before he dies. Especially getting shot by friendly fire.
They’d tracked the GPS Munchel put on the cop’s bumper to this secluded house in Bensenville. The setup is good. Lots of trees, no neighbors, nice and dark. The plan is to form a triangle around the house, keep an eye on doors and windows, and wait until the cop shows her face. But everyone needs to get into position first.
Munchel’s voice comes through the radio. “Just zeroing out my scope.”
“Can’t you do that without shooting?”
“Yeah, but it isn’t as much fun.”
The radios, like the rifles, the scopes, the suppressors, the GPS, the portable cell phone jammer, and various other bits of military and spy gear belong to Pessolano. Pessolano also crept up to the house earlier and cut the phone line and cable connection, so the cop can’t call for help using the Internet.
So far, so good, but Swanson is still nervous as hell. The targets they’d eliminated a few hours ago had been easy, Munchel’s rampage aside. But that had been the result of weeks of training, planning, and surveillance. Even with Pessolano’s equipment and experience, this all seems slapped together at the last minute.
If given the choice, Swanson would have fled. But he fears that running might project a certain lack of trust, and then his handpicked teammates would feel the need to eliminate him as well.
So here he is, crouching behind a tree two hundred yards away from a woman cop’s house, ready to kill for the second time this night. Just to save his own ass.
The lights in the house are on, and he has a view into the living room from a forty-five-degree angle. Besides the large bay window in front, there are ten other windows around the house, and none have drapes or shades or blinds. There’s also a front door, a side door by the garage, and glass patio doors around back, which lead into the kitchen.
Swanson focuses the Leupold scope and squints through it, searching the living room.
It appears empty. Then he notices a foot protruding from behind a couch. That dumb-ass Munchel — his shot made the cop take cover. Swanson fumbles for the radio.
“Is everyone in position?” he asks. There’s no answer. He realizes he’s pressing the wrong button, finds the correct one, and asks the question again.
“Affirmative,” says Pessolano.
“Yeah,” says Munchel. “I see where two of them are hiding.”
Two of them?
“The cop is with someone?” Swanson asks.
“She’s with four other people.”
Five people? This keeps getting worse and worse. While the authorities did a piss-poor job keeping his wife’s attacker behind bars, they still caught him in the first place. They’re the good guys. Swanson wants to be one of the good guys too. He doesn’t see how killing cops and their families can be considered good.
Swanson hits the talk button and says, “Who is with her?”
“One of them is a chick with a gun. Another is a grandmother. And two men. One is sitting next to the refrigerator, the other is tied up.”
“Why is he tied up?”
“Don’t you ever tie up your old lady, Swanson?”
Swanson does a slow burn. He’s told Munchel what happened to Jen. Munchel is either so ignorant that he forgot, or he is throwing it in Swanson’s face.
Swanson lets it go. The sooner they get out of here, the better. He presses the talk button.
“We’re just going for the woman cop. The others are innocents.”
“Bullshit they are,” Munchel says. “I’m shooting anything that moves. I’m not leaving witnesses alive to come after me.”
“This is my team!” Swanson shouts into the radio. “I say we leave the civilians out of this!”
“You may have put this team together, but this here is a democracy. I say we vote on it. What do you think, Pessolano?”
There’s a pause. Then Pessolano says, “We kill them all.”
Swanson wonders how far he’ll get if he climbs into the car and just takes off. Will he make it to Mexico? Will these jokers track him down? Over the previous weeks, meeting and planning and training, Munchel and Pessolano had become his friends. But now they seemed like entirely different people. Crazy people.
“Fine,” Swanson says. He doesn’t have a choice. “We go on my mark. Get ready.”
Swanson squints through the scope, guesses where the head is in relation to the shoe he sees. The suppressor screwed into the barrel makes the rifle almost a foot longer, and more than a little unbalanced. Pessolano lectured them during the car ride over, saying that the suppressor won’t silence all of the noise. Silencers are fictional, because nothing can completely muffle a gunshot. The suppressors will also throw off the aim and reduce the bullet’s speed.
Earlier to night, they wanted the gunshots to be heard. They wanted the media attention. Now, working as quietly as possible is the way to go, because they have no idea how long this is going to take.
“One…” Swanson says, “two…”
Someone fires before he reaches three. That asshole Munchel. Then Pessolano is firing too. Swanson takes aim and squeezes the trigger.
The shot is off. Way off. And it’s still pretty loud, even with the suppressor. He loads another round, searches for a target, and can’t find any. He seeks out the radio.
“We
get them?”
“Negative,” says Pessolano.
But Munchel hoots, so loud he can be heard without the radio.
“I think I nailed me a grandmother!”
9:07 P.M.
JACK
“WHEN ARE WE GOING to go shopping for drapes?”
Mom has been asking me that since we moved in. But whenever free time came along we used it to see a movie, go out to dinner, or catch up on the TV shows we recorded. I always assumed that Mom didn’t push the issue because she liked seeing woods on all sides of her.
Now I wish she had pushed the issue.
After the first two shots rip through the house, I tip Mom’s chair over, intent on dragging her into the hallway. While our house has a lot of windows, the hall bathroom boasts the smallest one, and the glass is frosted for privacy.
“Save Latham first,” Mom says.
I look at my fiancé, see he’s taken cover behind the sofa. The large bay window offers a wide view of the entire living room. I can’t get to him without making myself an easy target.
“He’s in the line of fire,” I tell her. Then I grab her chair leg and pull.
The chair doesn’t come easy. It keeps catching on the carpeting, and my movements are restricted by my bindings. But I find a rhythm and inch by inch I drag Mom out of the living room.
Halfway to the hall, all hell breaks loose. Bullets tear through the couch Latham is hiding behind. Windows shatter. Walls shake, the plasterboard throwing off powder like smoke. I cover Mom’s body with my own, realize that makes us a bigger target, and get on my knees and pull for all I’m worth.
I feel the impact vibration in my hands, know that Mom has been hit, and a moan/growl leaves my throat. Shots whistle past my head, and I tug Mom all the way into that bathroom, afraid to look at her, afraid not to look at her.
“Mom! Are you hit?”
Her eyes are closed. I can’t tell if she’s breathing.
I find scissors in the medicine cabinet, hack away at the duct tape, see the smoking bullet hole in the chair’s wooden seat.
“I think I’ve got splinters in my keister,” Mom says.
I cry in relief, give Mom a hug. The shooting stops.
“Latham!” At the top of my lungs.
“I’m okay!”
Thank God.
“I’m okay too!” Harry yells. “If anyone cares!”
I use a Dixie cup to get my mom some water from the sink. Then I holler at Harry, “Where’s Alex?”
“Don’t you care that I’m okay?”
I use the scissors on my legs, cutting away the tape.
“Dammit, Harry, do you see her?”
“I don’t see her. But her gun is in pieces.”
I stare down at my wrists. My handcuff keys are in my purse, in the kitchen. But I have extra handcuff keys, and an extra gun, in my bedroom. Unfortunately, it’s a handgun, and won’t help against the psychos outside. But it will help against the psycho in the house.
“Stay here!” I order my mother.
Then I rush out into the hallway, and bump right into Alex.
She stands there, hand bleeding, eyes wild, apparently unconcerned that she might get shot at any moment.
I still have the scissors. I thrust them at her, and she grabs my wrist with one hand and swings at me with the other, a round house punch. I bunch up and take it on the shoulder, then jerk my head forward, aiming for her nose.
I connect solidly, and Alex releases me, staggering back, hitting the hallway wall directly behind her. We face each other. A bullet whips through the small space between us.
“Lock the door!” I scream at my mother.
“Jack…”
“Dammit, Mom! Listen to me!”
I hear the door close, feel it press against my back. A bullet digs into the ceiling, raining bits of plaster on Alex and me. Her face twists in a half smile.
“What are you going to do with those scissors?” she asks. “Give me a haircut?”
I have other ideas. Gripping the scissors with both hands, I hold them before me like a sword, and feint a poke. She moves to dodge the fake attack, and I launch my real attack — a spin kick aimed at her ribs. Alex spins away and I miss, my foot making a dent in the wall.
“Jack!” Harry yells. “I think Alex is in the hall!”
I turn around, feel a breeze, and blink as a bullet passes in front of my face. Alex kicks my wrists and the scissors go flying. I throw myself at her, driving my shoulder into her side, using all of my 135 pounds.
Alex stumbles, falls. I sprint for my bedroom at the end of the hall. I open the door and see my cat, Mr. Friskers, sitting on the remains of a down pillow, surrounded by feathers. We keep him locked up in the bedroom because he has the tendency to destroy things and attack people. The shooting must have agitated him, because all the hair on his back is sticking straight up, as is his tail.
I keep one eye on the kitty — he isn’t an animal you turn your back on — and head for the closet.
Alex tackles me from behind, driving me to the floor. She lands on top, and she forces her arm under my chin, around my neck, and begins to squeeze.
It’s like having my head in a noose. I can’t take a breath and everything gets blurry. I look to my right, see Mr. Friskers staring. Apparently my looming death doesn’t interest him, because he trots out of the room. I look left, see a bunch of stuff under my bed, all of it covered with dust, none of it useful.
Alex lets up a bit on the choke hold — I guess she doesn’t want to kill me yet. I still can’t pull free, but I’m able to lower my chin just enough to clamp my jaws on her forearm.
She yelps. I bite. She pulls away. I twist onto my side, make my fingers stiff, and shove them into her kidney.
Alex grunts, rolling off of me. We both get to our feet, Alex cradling her bleeding arm. I’ve bitten pretty deep. Her eyes narrow to slits, and her scar tissue flushes bright pink.
“Is that what you got your black belt in?” Alex says. “Biting?”
“No.”
I pivot my hips, whip my leg around, and reverse-kick her upside the head. She staggers, but doesn’t fall. I follow it up with a flying kick, knocking her backward over my bed.
“Hey, Jackie!” Harry calls. “Is your cat friendly?”
My extra handcuff keys are in the jewelry box, on the dresser behind her. My gun is in the closet, zippered up in my shooting bag. If I go for the gun, there’s a chance Alex might wrestle it away from me before I get it out. But if I leave the room, she might go searching for it.
Alex stands up. I tug open the closet door, grab the bag, and head for the door.
“JESUS CHRIST! THE CAT HAS MY JOHNSON!”
A shot comes through my bedroom window, making a hole in my sleeve but missing my arm. Alex and I both drop to the floor. I take the opportunity to unzip my bag, and Alex gets onto all fours, poised to come at me. I toss the bag onto the bed, into the line of fire. The sniper proves my hypothesis by shooting the bag. Alex doesn’t reach for it. Neither do I. Instead, I scramble for the door.
“HE’S BITING ME! HE’S BITING ME!”
I feel her hand brush my ankle. I twist free and run in a crouch. Through the doorway. Down the hall. Into the kitchen.
Mr. Friskers has latched on to Harry’s crotch. Harry is unsuccessfully trying to yank him off.
“Don’t pull,” I say, running past. “It just makes him dig in.”
“HE’S GOT THE TWINS!”
Harry tugs on the cat’s tail, which Mr. Friskers really hates. He becomes a blur of fur and claws, hissing and scratching as Harry screams.
I search the floor for my purse, find it, dump the contents.
My handcuff key. I snatch it up just as Alex appears in the kitchen.
Two more shots ping through the windows, both of them hitting the fridge. Rather than duck down, it looks like Harry is trying to stick his groin in front of the bullets.
Then Alex pounces, coming at me low, arms outstretched and
eyes crazed.
I go at her even lower, aiming for her ankles. I hook my elbow around her foot, tripping her, then roll to the side, bumping up against the dishwasher. I still have the handcuff key. I fumble with it, trying to find the keyhole.
Another shot, very close to Harry. Mr. Friskers screeches, jumping high enough to hit the ceiling. He lands on the floor and streaks out of the kitchen, apparently having had enough. Harry, bleeding and pissed off, points a finger at me.
“Why would you have a cat like that? Why?”
I get the key in, turn it.
My hand pops free. I yank open the dishwasher, intent on grabbing a knife.
Alex kicks the dishwasher door closed, and I barely escape with my arm. I thrust the knife, stabbing at her leg, and realize I have a spoon instead. She hits me with a right cross that brings the stars out, but I’ve been hit harder and I gather up a handful of her shirt and deliver an uppercut that sends the bitch staggering.
Then I’m on my feet. On my feet, hands free, angry as hell. I swing lefty, not making a fist, catching her just above the eyes with the handcuffs hanging from my wrist. I open up a gash on her forehead, and the blood trickles into her eyes, making it hard for Alex to see.
I scan the countertop, see the apple pie. I pick it up, still steaming hot, and chuck it at Alex’s head.
She ducks. The pie hits Harry, in the groin.
“JESUS CHRIST, IT BURNS!”
He slaps at the apples, which must only add to his discomfort. I fly back to the counter, grab the coffeemaker, and bounce it off Alex’s chest. Then I tug the toaster from the wall and swing the appliance around my head like a lasso. I’m not aiming to knock her out. I’m aiming to knock off her fucking head.
I release the cord. Alex puts up her hand to protect her head, and both her hand and the toaster smash into her face. Somehow she stays on her feet. I charge at her, snarling, ready to tear her throat out with my bare hands.
But before I can get to her the kitchen becomes a firing range, bullets zinging into cabinets and countertops. Glasses and plates shatter, pots and pans ding-dong with ricochets. Alex and I kneel on the ground and cover our heads, and McGlade pulls food and drawers and shelves out of the refrigerator as fast as he can, trying to fit himself inside, which is like trying to stuff a pot roast into a tube sock.
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