Kendra threw a fist straight into Mann’s eye—her good one. She knew how to put as much weight as possible behind a punch, how to keep the line of her hand even with the line of her forearm. The blow connected with a satisfying POP, and Mann stumbled backwards into the back door.
You were expecting to deal with one set of psychos.
Now it appeared you had to deal with a completely different set.
You jog up Fox Chase Road in stealth mode, watching in part-admiration and part-horror as Mr. Bow and Arrow does your work for you—pinning one of Mann’s team members to the front door of the house. Then the assailant disappears. You watch as the guy stuck on the door squirms briefly and dies.
You reach Mann’s surveillance van and find another team member with his head barely hanging on the rest of his body. Glass shards, blood everywhere. Two down, probably just Mann to go. Who are these people? Who’d sent them?
And, fuck, were they already inside the house with Kendra and CJ?
There is another player on the board, which worries you. Who sent these assassins to kill the primary assassins? And why? The NSA, knowing he was going to double-cross them? No, they’d have a squad of ex-linebackers in Kevlar descending on this neighborhood, locking down everything tight. They wouldn’t send some goofy guy with a quiver of arrows.
Who, why … it doesn’t matter now.
What matters is you stopping them before they kill your new family.
Bad move, Ms. Hardie, Mann thought.
I’m already having a bad night, the capper to a pretty fucking bad decade. I’m not about to lose another eye and be fucking blind because of your asshole family. No. Just not going to happen.
Mann could barely see at the moment, but she could reach into her jacket pocket and pull out the wasp pistol.
And spray it in the general vicinity of where she heard Kendra Hardie moving.
“Good night, Ms. Hardie.”
Kendra had simple goals: Pull her son down into the basement. Barricade the door shut. Open her husband’s steamer trunk. Find his gun. Pray there were bullets.
Point and shoot at anyone who tried to come through the door.
She was halfway through Goal #1 when a burst of something cold and wet hit her in the face.
“Good night, Ms. Hardie.”
Possibly she was imagining it, her nerves amped up to an insane degree, but the droplets of mist seemed to burn her skin, and then her chest seized up and her vision blurred and …
Siege was conscious for all of it and raged against his useless body, screaming at it, pleading with it, trying to command it to wake the fuck up already and save his mom.
But he was helpless as he watched Mom deck that one-eyed bitch (good shot, Mom) and the one-eyed bitch retaliate with a spray of some kind of poison gas. Mom was struggling to pull him down the basement stairs when she fell unconscious. Landing on top of him. Sending both of them tumbling down the stairs (carpeted, thankfully) into the half-finished basement.
As promised, Siege could feel every bump on the way down. He was sure his mom could, too. And both couldn’t do a thing about it. Two of them, mother and son, at the whim of psychopaths. He couldn’t even turn his head to look at that evil one-eyed bitch, even though he could hear her calling down to them.
“I’ll be back for you guys in a little while. Don’t go anywhere, okay?”
Mann slammed the basement door shut. Family taken care of. Now to see about the psychopaths outside.
And finally, at long last, Mann experienced a moment of déjà vu. Why hadn’t she seen it earlier? We have a suburban home, prone family members, Charlie Hardie ready to emerge on the scene …
Jesus on a cross she hated sequels.
28
My daddy’ll kick your daddy’s ass all the way from here to China, Japan, wherever the hell you from and all up that Great Wall too.
—Chris Tucker, Rush Hour
YOU DUCK AROUND a front hedge, giving you a better view of the poor bastard stuck to the front door with arrows. Bet he thought he’d hit the big time, working for a legend like Mann. Been there, been fooled by that. There but for the grace of the NSA could go … you.
You make your way around the Hardie rental house, feeling like you sort of know the place from all of the surveillance photos you’ve been fed over the past year. Kind of like how you obsess over a photo gallery of a resort hotel in anticipation of a trip.
Making your way around to the back of the house, you see the guy with the bow and arrow.
Pointed right at you.
“Wow, the famous Charlie Hardie,” the guy says with genuine amusement on his face. He’s like a kid meeting a celebrity. It’s that boyish smirk that enables you to recognize him: Phillip Kindred, professional psycho.
Not the actor who portrayed him seven years ago during the botched Hunter hit. No, this was the real thing. Whoever wanted Mann and her team dead cared enough to send the very best.
“I get to be the one who kills the Unkillable Chuck. Isn’t that what they call you?”
Crazy Phil’s got an arrow loaded with your name on it.
Fortunately, you’ve brought a gun to a bow-and-arrow fight. You smile and lift the gun and begin to squeeze the trigger.
Point and shoot, baby.
Unfortunately Phil’s anticipated this. A fraction of a second ago he released the string, sending all of that stored-up elastic energy into the shaft of the arrow. The arrow cuts through the space between you then hits into your upper right arm with a meaty-sounding
TWOK
and pops out the other side. Your right arm is useless. Immobilized. The gun tumbles out of your trembling hand, and blood is already gushing down around your elbow. Now you’ve been shot before. Injected. Cut. Punched. Thrown. Never shot with an arrow in the arm.
Crazy Phil reloads his bow, almost laughing out loud at you. He won’t stop until you’re a St. Sebastian.
“Wonder how many arrows it takes to take down Unkillable Chuck?”
More than anything else—more than the pain, even—you’re feeling the rage.
You’re also feeling the grip of the second gun you’ve brought with you, tucked in the waistband of your pants. You pull it out now and in one fluid motion squeeze the trigger.
Crazy Phil releases the second arrow, but a fraction of a second too late. His face explodes.
He’s not laughing now, is he.
In fact, his face is never going to register another emotion ever again.
Sadly for you, the second arrow slices right through your love handle and stays there, wobbling a little. You’ve got two arrows in you now. You stagger back, smoking Glock still in your left hand, wondering what the hell you can do about the two arrows in your body. Somewhat absurdly, your very first thought is: How the hell am I supposed to drive? You won’t be able to close the driver’s side door with that arrow sticking out of your side. And if you try to turn the steering wheel, you’ll rip that sweet leather interior of the coma car.
But this is the least of your worries.
Topping the worry list, right this very moment:
The girl who’s rushing forward, silent scream on her mouth, who is ready to utterly destroy you, because you just killed her brother/lover/partner.
Mann stepped out of the fake California house preparing to engage in the fight of her life. Instead she was greeted with a vision of pure delight:
Charlie Hardie, shot up with arrows, and being clawed apart by hooked fingers of the creepy girl.
Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!
Mann knew there was another assassin out here. Pausing in the kitchen, ear to the back door, she heard a male voice: Isn’t that what they call you? She braced herself for the reality that she was alone out here, her team dead, with two killers who had obviously been dispatched by enemies of the Cabal. Like all of the other Accident People, Mann had heard the rumors that the Cabal was at war with forces that had been unleashed by Charlie Hard
ie himself. For years, they’d stuck their enemies into a secret prison, but Hardie had managed to escape along with the worst of them. The Cabal had been paying for it ever since. There were even rumors of internecine struggles for control.
But that didn’t matter now because
WAH-HOOOOOOO
Charlie Hardie was shot up with arrows and was now on his knees being savaged.
One glance to the right and Mann understood Creepy Girl’s fury. Her partner was splayed out in the grass with a particularly messy gunshot wound to the face. There was, strangely, a bow in his hand. What, had they hired Robin Hood and his surgical resident girlfriend to kill them?
Mann watched her work and couldn’t help but be amused. Hey, honey, I’m with you. Dude has done me wrong more times than I care to think about. You take your time. You make it hurt.
Mann couldn’t let this go on forever, of course. Besides, she wasn’t about to let this sorority girl claim her prize. Charlie Hardie was hers.
She reached for the scalpel inside her jacket pocket, pulled it out. Cleared the distance as quickly and quietly as possible. She had to use her left arm, which wasn’t as strong or sure as her right—but her right was sliced open and dangling rather uselessly at her side.
Then Mann let the Creepy Girl have it all up and down her spine with jackrabbit stabs. She convulsed and threw her arms out immediately, like a cat who’s been thrown from a fifth-story landing. Throughout the brutal stabbing the girl said nothing—but then again, she didn’t seem to be much of a talker.
Mann finally pulled her off, let her drop backwards to the ground, then crouched down to give her a final slash across the throat. Meanwhile, Charlie Hardie tumbled forward awkwardly, snapping one of the arrows in half. He cried out. Hang on, buddy, she thought. Mann felt the girl’s wrist. The pulses were faint and slow. She was on her way out. Mann did the same for Robin Hood, though that was easier. There was no pulse at all.
Satisfied that the two assassins weren’t going to be pulling a last-minute resurrection (those were apparently all the rage), Mann walked over to Hardie’s shaking, moaning body and used the tip of her boot to flip him over.
“Hello, Charlie.”
Ooh, you passed out for a minute there. That was not good. You didn’t even see the face of the person who had been attacking you, ripping your hair out by the fistful, gouging at your face with nails like fishhooks.
Your eyes pop open to see an old friend.
Your old boss, from your previous life.
“Such a waste,” Mann says. “All of these years, all of this effort, to end here. How does that make you feel?”
She sits on your chest, legs squeezing your torso, which already feels like it’s three times its normal size and on fire.
“I wish I could stop time. Or just slow it. Because I’ve been waiting seven long years to kill you, and I don’t want it to be over.”
She reaches down and for a moment you think she’s going to pluck out one of your eyeballs just so she’ll be able to drop it into a cocktail glass later that evening. Instead, she wipes the blood from your cheek. You didn’t realize your face was bleeding so much.
“Fortunately, we do have one last piece of business to attend to.”
She shows you the scalpel, taps the nonbusiness end against your forehead three times.
tap
tap
tap
You take stock of your situation. Your right arm: immobilized. There’s the remnants of an arrow sticking out of it. Somehow, when you fell, you snapped the back end of it off. Lucky the damned thing didn’t rip your entire arm open. Lucky. Heh. Yeah, that’s you, Mr. Luck. In the process of becoming Charlie Hardie you’ve inherited his knack of being at the wrong place at the wrong time, as well as the general failure to see the big picture.
Your left arm: pinned down by Mann’s right knee.
You can move your legs, but that’s not going to do you much good, because Mann’s full body weight is pressed against your aching torso, along with the length of arrow wedge through your side.
And now she’s coming at your face with the scalpel.
“There’s something in your head that I need to dig out. They sort of told me where it was, but I’ll admit, in all of the confusion, I might have to do a little searching. You don’t mind, do you?”
Fuck.
She knows, then. How does she know? You only figured it out back at that cheap motel when you were wrapping up the previous Charlie Hardie’s head. You saw the scar and it answered the question of why you didn’t find the maguffin inside the satellite. Despite the fact that you had a sensor specifically looking for it, and you searched every last corner of the craft.
They put the maguffin in his fucking head.
And while you were searching for it inside the craft, it was safely tucked away in Hardie’s skull inside the gun-lined tube.
The only reason you didn’t kill Hardie right then and rip it out of his head was because you didn’t know if there was a kill switch or not. The host body dies, the information on that chip could be instantly erased.
Kind of brilliant, really. A double (triple axel) fake-out.
So then how did Mann know?
You need time. Keep her talking. Take advantage of the fact that this is personal for her. Just like it is for you.
“Where’s my wife and son?” you ask.
The smile on her face is pure fucking evil. She’s absolutely relishing this.
“Their bodies are in the basement. Had a nice chat with your boy. He’s just like you, in a lot of ways. You should be proud.”
You do the only thing you can do, the most Charlie Hardie thing you can do.
You start giggling. “I’m sorry.”
Mann doesn’t take the bait. “You wouldn’t be giggling if you walked down into the basement and saw what I did to them. Maybe I should drag you down there and carve open your skull in front of them.”
“Let’s find out.”
Which would give you a fighting chance as she dragged your pincushion body to the house and down the flight of basement stairs that only exist as images in your mind. At the very least, you’d like to see the interior of your family’s house before you die.
Mann, to her credit, seems to think it over. “So tempting, but that wouldn’t be professional of me. My orders are simple. Take the device out of your head and then finish all of you off. You. Your wife. And that darling boy of yours for last.”
You start giggling again. “Really, I’m sorry.”
No reply from Mann this time. Instead she grabs you by the hair and jerks your head to the left, which sends fresh new spasms of pain up and down your body.
“Right or left, right or left. You know, they told me there would be a scar, but I’m not seeing anything. Guess you heal fast, since you can’t be killed and all.”
Then she jerks your head to the right. Crazy intense explosions of agony all over, your body signaling all of its complaints in an urgent, frenzied, desperate way. To think that at one point, in your previous life, you fantasized a few times about sticking your penis into this woman. You have the desperate need to hurt her back, but you can’t, because you’re immobilized and in so much pain you can barely think. The tip of her blade presses into your scalp.
“Gotta start somewhere.”
Then you realize something that would hurt her the most.
Two things, actually.
“Before you start digging around my skull,” you tell her, “there’s something important you should know.”
“What’s that, my dear?” she asks half-distractedly as she pulls the blade across your scalp.
“I’m not really Charlie Hardie.”
29
You remember when we were in training? They always told us, You can’t be a good cop if you’re a dead cop. Here’s your chance to prove them wrong.
—Joe Piscopo, Dead Heat
SIEGE COULD MOVE his fingers. At first he thought it was an involuntary tw
itch, like your body jolting after a bad dream. But then he tried to repeat the jolt and he realized it was him consciously doing it, not some automatic part of his brain. The one-eyed bitch had said they’d be paralyzed for an hour! Well, she lied obviously. She lied about a lot of things. He focused on each finger individually. Pointer. Middle. Ring. Pinky. Back to the middle. If nothing else, Siege wanted to be able to shoot the bird to whoever came down here to kill them.
“Mmmmm,” he said, trying out his mouth, trying to say “Mom,” surprised to hear any sound at all.
“You’re telling me you’re not Charlie Hardie,” Mann says, genuine amusement on her face.
“Nope,” you say.
Mann pulls the blade from your scalp. There’s already a lot of blood on it. Head wounds bleed a lot. She jabs the tip of the blade under your chin. You feel it cut into your flesh so deep you’re worried she’s made it all the way to the underside of your tongue.
“So,” Mann says, “this is obviously a mask, and if I just cut here a little, I’ll be able to rip it off and discover your true identity.”
You need to be able to speak to convince her. So you start speaking:
“Moorpark, June, the school activist and his family, swimming pool electrocution. Barstow, July, the actor and the producer, car crash. Big Sur, also July, the money manager, car crash. Phoenix, again July, the writer, drug overdose.”
As you blurt out the bullet points of your resume with Mann’s team—starting from the very first assignment you worked together—you see it instantly sink in. There’s no one who could know that information. Not unless you were Gedney, Doyle, or Abrams. Or you were a member of Mann’s team.
Which you were. In a previous life.
“O’Neal!?”
“Yep.”
“No. No fucking way,” Mann murmurs, the fury burning in her eyes like jellied fire, and for a moment you think she’s going to slit your throat out of sheer rage.
Point and Shoot Page 18