Dying Breath

by J. A. Konrath

  “Confucius also said, silence is a good friend, who never betrays.”

  McGlade was quiet. Maybe the quote worked.

  “Bullshit,” he eventually said. “Confucius was a dick.”

  “Question still remains. Do we let these guys walk away?”

  McGlade opened the candy bar I’d given him and took a bite. “Have you ever killed someone in cold blood? Not self-defense. Not in the heat of the moment. But when they were unarmed, and you were in full control of your emotions?”

  Harry really got right to the point. So I answered bluntly.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Was it easy?”

  Easy?

  Stepping on a bug is easy. But killing a man?

  I grew up with violence. I used violence. I didn’t like it, but I was good at it.

  Some people needed killing. There weren’t a lot of people who could do work like that.

  I could.

  “It was… necessary.”

  “Killing Cline and Shears and McConnroy. Would you consider that necessary? Or would you be okay with sending them all to prison?”

  “You sound like you don’t want to dig a grave for your morals.”

  “I don’t want to dig any graves, period. Digging sucks. And I’m not ruling anything out. I believe those guys are killers. They aren’t planting pine trees because they’re nature lovers. Those are graves.”

  “I thought the same thing.”

  “So what’s your plan? Hang out until nighttime, break in, and slit their throats while they sleep?”

  I reached into my duffle, took out the AR-7.

  “I didn’t know they made rifles in a snack-size version,” Harry said.

  “It’s a .22.”

  “It looks like a toy. My dick is bigger than that gun.”

  “Can your dick take down a deer?”

  “The only way that little thing would drop a deer is if the deer let you walk up to it and put the barrel in its mouth.”

  “So what was your plan? Talk the guys to death?”

  “See this?” Harry pulled a gun from his shoulder holster. “I just bought it. I know; a hunk of junk, right? But it doesn’t have a history. No serial number. I got it so I could ditch it if I needed to. But now I’m looking at it, and I’m not sure what I was thinking.”

  I was losing him. “They tried to kill you, Harry. You’re thinking about returning the favor.”

  “There’s more to it than that. These are very bad men, Phin. They’re like a cancer on society.” He stared at his gun. “But you don’t fight cancer with more cancer.”

  Maybe it was the metaphor, but that hit home for me. Who could have ever guessed that Harry McGlade would become my moral compass?

  “So what is it you want to do, McGlade? There could be two women being held hostage in that house.”

  “I’m going to wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “Wait for Jack.” Harry leaned back and stretched out his legs. “Jack will make the right move. She always knows what to do.”

  JACK

  I had no idea what to do.

  I moved slow and low through the woods, watching for cameras, watching for ticks, making sure I didn’t drop my camouflage binoculars and lose them forever, and by the time I finally made it close enough to the house to see what was going on, there was nothing to see; just four guys around a BBQ grill, drinking beer and laughing. Shears and the guy wearing glasses had their shirts off. Cline and McConnroy were in bathing suits and tees. They were acting like a bunch of normal dudes, not like the Motel Mauler. No sign of any women. No indication that they were planning a double homicide. None of them were armed. Two of them didn’t even have shirts on.

  From the tree line, on my belly, I studied the house. It looked secure; steel bars and security doors and more cameras. But it also looked pretty normal. Not the dungeon of depravity I’d been expecting.

  I began to doubt myself. I’d called the FBI, twice, probably sounding like a paranoid hysteric, and the only immediate threat here was one of these guys drinking too much and drowning in the lake.

  The shades were drawn over the windows, so I couldn’t see inside. I held my breath and listened hard but didn’t hear any screaming or cries for help.

  Which left me with three choices, none of them desirable.

  I could admit I was wrong, call it quits, and go home, humiliated.

  I could hang out in the tick-infested forest, waiting for something to happen.

  Or I could walk over there and ask these guys a few questions.

  The boys had moved from the backyard to the porch, which was closer to my hiding spot. I caught snippets of conversation, and it focused on sports. Baseball, not hockey.

  The threat level kept getting lower and lower, until I began to feel ridiculous crouching in the woods in Harry’s Kevlar, like some kid playing commando.

  I had to go talk to them.

  I considered my walkie-talkie. Tell Harry my plan?

  Yes. No point in having back-up if you didn’t let them know what you were doing.

  I made sure the volume was down, then pressed the send button and said, “Nothing happening here. I’m going to go talk to them. Over.”

  I waited for a response. None came.

  “Harry, can you read me? Over.”

  Nothing.

  Maybe he wasn’t in position yet? Or something happened to his radio?

  I couldn’t quite see the lake from my position, so I couldn’t tell if he’d been able to launch his stolen boat. Which made my decision for me. I had to move to see if Harry was there, so I might as well talk to the boys.

  Just in case it was a radio problem, I texted Harry my intentions, waited thirty seconds for a response, didn’t get one, and then stood up and began walking toward the house.

  HARRY

  Jack was walking toward the house.

  “What the hell is she doing?” I said, reaching for the walkie-talkie I’d clipped to my belt.

  My soaking wet walkie-talkie.

  Shit. I’d drowned it when I waded into the lake to unhook the boat.

  I slapped at my pocket, tugging out my iPhone.

  It didn’t turn on. I’d bricked it as well.

  Electronics, thy nemesis is water.

  “They’ve got at least one MAC-10 in the house,” Phin said. “You still want to wait?”

  With Jack walking right into danger?

  “Hell no. Let’s go help our friend.”

  JACK

  I didn’t want to sneak up on them, especially while wearing body armor. They might get the wrong impression.

  At the same time, I didn’t want to take the body armor off.

  So I concocted a story in my head, and by the time I walked out of the woods I knew what to do.

  “Gentlemen,” I called to them.

  Their laughter stopped, and all four guys stared at me.

  I had my badge in my hand. “Is one of you the property owner? Theodore Cline?”

  After a moment where no on replied, Eddie said, “I’m his son.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Edward. What’s this about, officer?”

  Shears and McConnroy stood up.

  “Have a seat, gentlemen. This doesn’t concern you.”

  They continued to stand.

  I heard a motor start in the distance, and I could finally see the lake. I saw a boat. No… two boats. Side by side.

  Was that Harry? What the hell was he doing?

  “Mr. Cline, there was a bank robbery in Minneapolis yesterday. We have reason to believe the suspects are in this area, and we’re conducting a search. Do you know all of these men?”

  “They’re my friends,” Eddie said. “Since high school.”

  “Other than your friends, has anyone else been on this property since yesterday?”

  “How would I know?”

  “You have several security cameras on the premises.” I was really playing up the c
opspeak. “Do they record?”

  “No. They’re for hunting.”

  “Hunting?”

  “If a deer or bear gets too close, I want to know about it.”

  McConnroy began to walk toward the house.

  “Sir, I told you to sit down.”

  He stopped and looked at me like I was something unpleasant he’d stepped in. “Are you asking me, officer. Or ordering me?”

  The guy knew his rights. Police officers always tried to make it sound like an order, but it was almost always just a request.

  Almost always.

  “That’s an order, sir.”

  “You’re not allowed to order me to sit.”

  “Yes, I am, if I decide you’re interfering with my ability to perform my official duties. Now sit.”

  The motorboat sound came closer, but I didn’t want to take my eyes off of these four. I could feel their hostility, their distrust, and the threat level had gone way up.

  “Sir, I’ll say it once more. Interfering with a peace officer is a crime. Sit your ass down.”

  He sat.

  “Is there anyone in the house, Mr. Cline?”

  “No. It’s just us.”

  “Four men, all alone? No women?”

  “No women.” He laughed, and it sounded forced. “But we’re hoping things turn around before the vacation is over.”

  “If there are no women here, why did I find a woman’s shoe on the corner of your property?”

  No one answered for a moment, and then Eddie took the bait. “That must be my sister’s.”

  “You said there were no women.”

  “My mistake. Kid sister. I don’t think of her as a woman.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “Eighteen, and none of you think of her as a woman?”

  Group silence. I kept pressing. “Your sister is staying here with you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you call her outside? I’d like to ask her some questions.”

  Eddie still didn’t know I was bluffing, and he looked like he wanted to kill me. “She went to the store.”

  “She went to the store without her shoe?”

  Eddie was silent. The boat got closer. I still didn’t have enough to justify making a move.

  And that’s when I heard a female scream.

  It wasn’t my jurisdiction, but that constituted probable cause, and just as I cleared leather with my .38 the boys all scattered in opposite directions.

  Tucker Shears ran for the woods.

  Eddie Cline ran for the pier.

  Garrett McConnroy ran for the house.

  The fourth guy ran into the garage.

  I went after Garrett.

  He was the one who rented the truck.

  He was the Motel Mauler.

  He was the one I had to catch.

  HARRY

  Phin started the motor, and since his boat was bigger I hopped into his and unhooked the rope from mine, taking my bag with me. He gunned it, almost knocking both of us overboard, and then we evened out and were making good time toward Cline’s house to assist Jack.

  We were almost at the dock, and then Eddie Cline came charging across it and hopped into his probably-very-fast speedboat.

  “Shotgun!” Phin yelled.

  I dug into his bag, found his over and under, and held it in my good hand. It was cut down to nothing, and as much as I didn’t want Cline to get away, I was afraid that if I fired it the piece of crap would blow up. It was tough enough wiping my ass with one hand. If I had two prosthetic hands, I might as well just hire a guy to follow me around with toilet paper.

  “Shoot him!”

  We were coming up on the dock fast. Too fast. I took aim best as I could, my own safety be damned, and pulled the trigger just as Phin throttled down.

  On a boat, that had the same effect as putting on the brakes.

  I fell forward with the shotgun just as it fired. The shot tore into the lake’s surface, and the shotgun bucked out of my hand and plopped into the drink a moment later, my palm stinging like I’d jammed it in a beehive and tried to play grab the queen.

  Cline started his boat, his motor rumbling low and mean like my Corvette, and then he punched it, instant speed, hauling ass across the surface of the water.

  “You take Cline,” Phin ordered above the noise. “I’ll cover Jack.”

  I wondered if Phin really would cover Jack, or if his revenge hard-on for Tucker Shears was his primary motivator. Truthfully, my hunger for Cline was pretty strong, too. Cline had ordered his buddy to shoot me, and if he got away, would do it again. He’d also pull that same phony talent agent scam with more women, who would probably wind up buried under pine trees.

  Cline was a cancer, like I’d mentioned earlier.

  Someone needed to excise the tumor.

  And Jack…

  Well, Jack could take care of herself. And after she did, she’d probably wind up saving me and Phin. That was how she rolled.

  “I can’t catch him,” I said. “Gimme your toy rifle.”

  “Take it,” he answered as we hit the dock. I grabbed the AR-7 and Phin jumped out of the boat, lugging his duffle bag.

  I turned the boat around and gunned it, my bow lifting up forty-five degrees, and I almost fell off my seat. I let off the gas to compensate, evened out, and then tried it again, heading after him.

  Phin’s big motor was eating up the lake, blowing my hair back, but it was no match for Cline’s speedboat. Even as I hit top speed, probably around twenty-five miles an hour, he was still pulling away, heading for the boat landing on the other side of the lake.

  I’d been in one or two car chases in my life. They were dramatic and exciting, with moments of white knuckled terror, uncertainty, and cold-as-steel heroics.

  This boat chase was anything but. Cline was a third of the way across the lake, getting further and further ahead. I followed in a straight line. It wouldn’t make a very exciting conclusion to a movie.

  I quickly took my good hand off the throttle grip to see if it maintained speed without any pressure, and it did. Then I picked up the AR-7, which, honestly, was about the size of the Red Rider BB gun that Ralphie wanted in A Christmas Story.

  But this was my movie. And I was the hero. And the hero always saved the day.

  So I took careful aim, compensating for the motion of the boat, balancing the rifle on my prosthetic hand, and aimed for the back of that son of a bitch’s head, firing as fast as I could pull the trigger, expecting some ridiculous, gigantic, Hollywood explosion.

  But I didn’t hit shit.

  JACK

  I ran up to the front door of Cline’s house, my .38 in hand, opening the door and ducking inside in a quick, fluid motion.

  I entered a kitchen, saw the standard appliances, fridge, oven, microwave, and one odd addition; a bank of closed circuit monitors. To my left, patio doors, with a view of the lake. To my right, a hallway. It smelled like a frat house, cigarette smoke and stale beer and body odor.

  No sign of McConnroy.

  I took the hallway, staying low.

  Outside, I heard the BOOM! of a gunshot. Then a boat starting up.

  Ahead of me was a doorway on the right. I dropped to one knee and peered inside, using the jamb for cover, keeping my head at waist level.

  Bathroom. Empty.

  Another door, this one closed, on the left. I crept to it, acutely aware of the floor under my feet, making sure I stayed quiet, and I reached for the door handle, turning it and shoving forward at the same time.

  A bedroom. Plastic sheets on the king-size bed. A dresser. A closet.

  In the closet, two girls. They were bound with duct tape, their mouths covered. One of them opened her eyes and looked at me, sleepily. No fear. No awareness.

  Drugged.

  No one else in the room, so I continued down the hall, coming to a turn. I paused, listening hard.

  I didn’t hear anything inside.

 
; I knew Garrett had run inside, but where had he gone? The house was big, at least big enough to sleep four. Maybe he was in one of the other bedrooms. Or maybe the house had a basement. Or a back door, and he had already run off.

  I sucked in a breath, then took a peek around the corner.

  Another hallway, and three more doors.

  Outside, there was some kind of explosion. But I had to deal with the current situation.

  I went over my options.

  Harry was obviously outside. I put the odds of him calling the cops at fifty-fifty. Maybe less. My number one priority was protecting myself, and a close number two was saving those girls. Let the locals, and the Feebies, track down McConnroy and his buddies. As McGlade said, this wasn’t my jurisdiction.

  Keeping my right hand on my Colt, I eased my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed the three digits that everyone knows.

  “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

  “I’m a police officer, and I’m at the Theodore Cline house on Lake Violet. There are officers down and four armed assailants. There are also two women, hostages.”

  “What is your name, officer?”

  And that’s when Garrett McConnroy leapt into the hallway with a machinegun and sprayed lead everywhere.

  PHIN

  My 9mm in one hand, duffle bag in the other, I ran up the dock and chased down Tucker Shears, who ran straight into the woods.

  He had twenty meters on me, and could run like hell. Being caught is a powerful motivator.

  But so is revenge.

  I stopped once to fire two quick shots at his back, neither of which hit home, and then he was gone. The perpetual shade and the hundreds of trees swallowed him up.

  I stopped. Listened. He was panting, clomping, swearing, making enough noise for a blind man to follow. I’d take a few dozen steps, stop, get a new fix on his location, and continue with my pursuit.

  After a minute of running he seemed to catch on to what I was doing. The next time I stopped and listened, I only heard forest sounds. No cursing or scurrying or heavy breathing.

  I fired a shot directly into the trees in front of me, hoping to flush him out. It worked, and again I heard the crashing and stomping through the foliage, as easy to track as footprints. But right after the noise began, it stopped again, leaving me without direction.