Hollow Point

by Robert Swartwood

  The boys groaned their annoyance, but they were grinning. They loved when decisions were made with the game.

  Matthew and Max chimed in together—“Rock, Paper, Scissors, go!”—and Max ended up trumping Matthew’s rock with his paper.

  Matthew blurted, “Best out of three!”

  Tina laughed and shook her head.

  “Oh, no. Fate has spoken. Go get yourself a shower.”

  Matthew groaned again, only this time it wasn’t in as much jest. He grabbed his tablet and started out of the kitchen.

  Tina said, “Tablet stays behind.”

  “But—”

  She cut him off.

  “No buts, mister.”

  Max giggled and shouted, “Mister No Butts!”

  After some more whining on Matthew’s end, he finally gave up the tablet and sulked away. She would try to keep an ear out for the shower because there was a good chance Matthew would get distracted by the computer in his room. One thing that could be said about her boys, they were great procrastinators. They got that from Ryan’s side of the family.

  A half hour later, Matthew thundered down the steps, his hair not totally dry, and he immediately grabbed his tablet and wandered off into the living room.

  Tina called out, “Max, your turn!”

  Max, playing video games in the living room, shouted, “I don’t need a shower!”

  Tina closed her eyes, took a deep breath. Gave it a moment, and called out again.

  “If you don’t head upstairs in the next five seconds, I’ll take every single video game in this house and throw them in the river.”

  An idle threat, maybe, but her tone was severe enough, and in three seconds Max was running up the steps.

  She had just heard the shower start when the doorbell started ringing. Not once or twice but several times.

  Ding ding ding ding ding.

  Matthew, in the living room, called, “I’ll get it!”

  There was something about the incessant ringing, especially so early in the morning—in their neighborhood where soliciting was illegal—that caused a finger of dread to touch her spine.

  She shouted, “Stay where you are!”

  Matthew was already up, halfway to the door, but he sensed the urgency in his mother’s voice enough to turn and head back to the living room.

  The doorbell had quieted, and now there came a banging at the door—bang bang bang bang bang—and her first thought was that it was somebody crazy outside, some whacko who might go away if ignored long enough, but then just as quickly she worried that if nobody answered, the person might never go away.

  She peered through the window in the side. A man stood on the doorstep, a tall black man in his mid-twenties, wearing khakis and a black T-shirt, a man Tina had never seen before. He pounded his fist against the door as he kept looking back over his shoulder.

  Tina shouted, “We’re not interested!”

  The man paused, checked the street once more, then stepped back to address her.

  “Please open the door. Your sister Holly sent me.”

  Her dread instantly snapped into panic. She knew she should ask this man more questions—how did he know Holly? where was she?—but before she knew it she unlocked the door and pulled it open, and that was when she saw the gun in the man’s right hand, and her first thought was her sons, how all they wanted to do was see The Rock’s new movie, and now this man was going to kill them.

  But the man didn’t raise the gun, didn’t point it at her, and instead spoke in a calm, measured voice.

  “You and your boys need to come with me right now.”

  She thought, How does he know about the boys?

  But before she could voice the question, she heard the car coming their way, coming fast, coming too fast.

  The man heard it, too. He turned his head to the street and the car coming their way. Not just down the street, but swerving toward the house.

  The man lunged forward, pushing her back into the foyer, right as the car jumped the curb and tore over the lawn and crashed through the front door.

  Forty-One

  “Mom? Mom!”

  Matthew’s voice, mixed somewhere in the crush of noise—pieces of the house falling around her, the car’s engine ticking, blood thrumming in her ears—and the man was on top of her, shielding her with his body, and his voice was hot on her ear as he shouted.

  “Get out of here!”

  The next thing she knew the man rolled away, brought up his gun, and started shooting at the car. The driver attempted to open his door, but the car had smashed into the house too close to the wall, which meant the door wouldn’t open far enough.

  Tina didn’t see what happened next because she scrambled to her feet and swung her focus toward Matthew standing in the living room entryway, frozen, his eyes wide, tablet held at his side, and she screamed at him—“Run!”—and at first it didn’t look like he was going to move, stuck there as if hypnotized, but one of the bullets ricocheted into the wall only a few feet away from him, and like that he blinked and looked at her as Tina ran toward him, grabbed his hand, and yanked him deeper into the house.

  A volley of gunfire erupted behind them, the man who pushed her inside shooting at the driver and the driver shooting back, and now Matthew was racing beside her, running awkwardly because she wouldn’t let go of his hand, but that was okay, that was fine, she wouldn’t let him go, would never let him go, and she saw the back door ahead of them, the morning light shining through it, and the backyard was there, the swing set and sandbox the boys never used anymore, but more importantly, there was escape, and she was so intent on getting the two of them out of there when she suddenly remembered Max.

  She pivoted at the stairs, yanking Matthew with her, all at once regretting the decision—she should have let him go, pushed him forward toward the backyard, toward safety—but he was with her now, racing up the stairs too, and she could hear the shower still going in the bathroom, but she also heard Max’s voice, calling out to her, shouting mommy mommy mommy!

  “Where are you going?”

  She thought it was Matthew’s voice at first, though it was deeper than she remembered, much lower bass, and in her delirium she glanced down at him and saw he was looking back over his shoulder, and that was when she shifted her focus and saw the man on the first step, the gun at his side, his face awash in confusion.

  Before she could respond, bits of plaster exploded around the man, and an instant later she heard more gunshots and kept running, pulling Matthew along, faintly aware that the man was firing back at the driver while he hurried up the stairs after them.

  Max met them at the top of the steps, and he was soaked and naked, having jumped straight out of the shower when he heard all the noise, and she let go of Matthew so she could pick Max up with both hands, just scooped him up like he was a toddler again, and his weight slowed her down but she didn’t care and just kept running, straight for the master bedroom.

  The man followed, walking backward up the steps, firing intermittently at the driver.

  The bedroom overlooked the backyard, and one of the windows was right above the patio, and though the overhang was slanted she knew it would be possible for the boys to squeeze through the window, and yes, she knew they might get hurt in their fall to the grass below, but it wouldn’t hurt like a bullet in the head would, and her thoughts were so jumbled she suddenly wondered what The Rock would do in a situation like this, how he would fight back against the bad guy, and she tried to open the window but it wouldn’t budge, no matter how much she pushed and pulled, and it didn’t occur to her until a few seconds later that it was locked and so she flicked off the locks and pushed open the window, fresh air blowing in on her face, Max now crying beside her, Matthew shouting something, and the bedroom door banging open as the man ran through.

  He saw what she was doing, stared for a moment, then slammed the door shut and frantically scanned the bedroom for something to barricade the door with, and it was
the dresser that was closest, the dresser Ryan’s parents bought them when they moved into the house, and he shoved at the dresser, its legs tearing the carpet as it stubbornly moved closer and closer to the door, and she realized the dresser was the only thing that could save them, that could give them a few extra seconds, and so she ran over to help him, the little perfumes and candles on top of the dresser tipping over and falling to the floor.

  The driver attempted to kick the door open right as they put the dresser in place, and the driver started shooting at the door, bullets tearing through the dresser, and the window was directly across from the door, one of the bullets shattering the glass, and she knew that as long as the driver kept shooting there was no way they were going to escape through the window, no way at all.

  The closet—that’s where they needed to go, where they needed to hide, because it suddenly occurred to Tina that they weren’t going to survive this, that the driver would manage to burst through the door and would kill them all, even the man she didn’t know, the man who said her sister sent him.

  She grabbed Max’s arm and yanked him to the closet, flinging open the door and shoving him inside, and she shouted at Matthew to come too, Matthew who was now flat on the carpet, his hands on top of his head, trying to keep out the noise, and at first she didn’t think Matthew heard her or if he did he wasn’t going to listen, but then he jumped to his feet and raced to her, tears streaming down his face.

  The closet was small, filled mostly with her clothes, some of Ryan’s, and she backed into the farthest corner, her butt on the carpet, her back against the wall, and held both boys, all of them crying, while the driver out in the hallway kept shooting and kicking at the door.

  The man stood in the closet doorway for a moment, stared down at them, and then stepped back out and closed the door, enveloping them in darkness.

  “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!”

  She didn’t know if it was Max or Matthew or both of them, sobbing into her, shouting it again and again, and she squeezed them tight, kissed both of their heads, telling them that it was okay, that everything was okay.

  For a couple seconds there was silence, and then she heard the driver kick at the bedroom door again, a hard, solid kick, and she knew the door had opened wide enough for the driver to slip through.

  The man fired at the driver but the driver fired back—she saw it all in her head, the men exchanging gunfire—until suddenly there was no longer a volley but only the sound of one gun firing bullets, and she saw the man get shot when she heard him shout something but his words were unintelligible, just gibberish, and besides, all she wanted to focus on now were her boys, both of them clinging to her as she kept kissing their heads.

  The closet door opened.

  The driver stepped inside.

  Tina opened her eyes and saw him standing there, a tall Hispanic man dressed in slacks and a suit jacket. The man reloaded his gun as he stared down at them, his eyes dark and hard as he observed them in their final moments.

  The man pulled back on the slide, began to raise the gun at them—and that was all Tina saw, her eyes now squeezed shut, holding the boys tighter than she’d ever held them before.

  Two sudden gunshots—boom boom—and Tina jumped with each one, screaming, certain that both of her boys were now dead.

  She opened her eyes and saw the man still standing in the doorway. He dropped to his knees, half his face gone, and stared at her with just the one eye before he fell over dead into several of her blouses.

  The man—the man she had pictured shot and killed, the one her sister sent—must have done it. He was the one Tina expected to see, but the man who stepped forward was a big white man with a beard.

  He had a gun in his hands, aimed at the driver, and once he was satisfied that the driver was dead, he looked at them cowering in the corner of the closet.

  “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  Tina didn’t answer at first—she couldn’t—but she ran her hands over both boys, searching for blood, and when she thankfully didn’t find anything she shook her head at the man.

  The gun now at his side, the man pulled out a cell phone and placed the phone to his ear.

  “Family’s secure. Target’s down. And Erik—shit, we need an ambulance here ASAP!”

  Forty-Two

  Louis sets the backpack with the disassembled sniper rifle on the bed closest to the window, opens it up, and starts taking out the pieces.

  I ask, “Can I do that?”

  Tweedledee and Tweedledum have moved to separate corners, Berettas held at the ready. I might not have possession of the assembled rifle yet, but they aren’t taking any chances.

  Louis glances at the men for a beat, then shrugs.

  “Be my guest.”

  I stand up from the chair and hold out my bound wrists. Louis motions at Tweedledee, and the freelancer slips his knife from his pocket as he approaches, slices apart the zip-ties, and then retreats to his corner.

  Louis has the fob in his hand now, and motions at the bag.

  “Get to it.”

  I begin picking out the pieces—the stock, bipod, barrel, suppression, everything—and put the Valkyrie together. The magazine is empty, so I don’t insert it, and instead shoot a questioning glance at Louis.

  He says, “Not yet.”

  The clock on the nightstand reads 7:32. Another half hour or so until President Cortez is scheduled to arrive at his hotel.

  “Then when? Don’t know about you, but I prefer not to have to scramble at the last minute.”

  He checks his watch. Does the math in his head, chews it over for a few seconds, then shifts his gaze back to me.

  “Ten minutes.”

  I hold his stare, speak in a flat tone.

  “I’m trembling with anticipation.”

  I return to the chair in the corner and stare out the window at the city street below. The sun has been up now for well over an hour, playing shadows off the tall buildings.

  My mind, of course, drifts to my family and whether or not Atticus heard enough of my message to try to make sure they’re safe. Then I start to wonder what if Atticus hadn’t heard the message because Atticus has passed away, or something along those lines—something that caused him to get out of the business. Maybe the phone number still exists, but nobody monitors it anymore, not even James. In that case, my family is as good as dead. As am I.

  So the real question is, what’s going to happen to President Cortez?

  He might die today, but it won’t be because of me. Sure, I plan to go through the motions—hunker down in the chair with the Valkyrie propped up on the windowsill—but as soon as the man steps from his vehicle, I won’t pull the trigger.

  Well, that’s not true. I may pull the trigger, but it won’t be at his head. Maybe at the vehicle instead. At the windshield or the grille. If it’s a fancy car, I’ll try to take out the emblem that sits right on the hood.

  Or … maybe I won’t do any of that. Maybe I’ll simply refuse to pick up the rifle when the time comes. Let Louis zap me as much as he wants. Let Tweedledee and Tweedledum threaten me with their guns. I’m not going to be walking out of this hotel room alive, so I might as well have some fun.

  Then again …

  What if Hayward is a man of his word, and he’ll spare my family if I follow through with assassinating President Cortez? There’s always the chance, isn’t there? In that case, I would be crazy not to follow through.

  Louis says, “Go ahead and load your weapon.”

  He pulls a single 6.5 Creedmoor cartridge from the backpack. The cartridge is wrapped in plastic. Smart. Keeps his fingerprints off the thing that will kill a country’s sitting president and will maybe set off an international crisis.

  “Just one round—you’re joking, right?”

  His expression remains predictably blank.

  “Why? How many rounds does it take to kill a man?”

  I don’t answer.

  “This isn’t Fallujah. You aren’
t raining down cover fire. You’re simply taking out one man with a headshot. You don’t need more than one round.”

  He has a point, but I don’t tell him that. Not my style to agree with douchebags.

  “Fine.”

  I hold out my hand, but he tosses the cartridge on the bed beside the rifle. I lean over the bed to pick it up. Start to unwrap it. Go to load the bullet in the magazine but hold it up instead.

  “Anybody want to kiss it for good luck?”

  Nobody answers.

  “Tough crowd.”

  I load the Creedmoor into the magazine, taking my time because I don’t have anything else to do. I insert the magazine into the Valkyrie when Tweedledee’s phone buzzes.

  Tweedledee, holding his gun at the ready, glances down at his pocket.

  Louis says, “Who knows your number?”

  Tweedledee shakes his head.

  “Besides the team, nobody.”

  Tweedledum keeps his gun aimed at my chest. He doesn’t take his eyes off me when he speaks.

  “Ignore it.”

  But it’s a buzzing phone, and buzzing phones are hard to ignore. Keeping the Beretta trained on me with his one hand, Tweedledee slips the phone from his pocket with the other. Glances at the display on the front of the flip phone with a frown.

  “Number doesn’t look familiar.”

  Tweedledum says, “Ignore it.”

  Tweedledee looks conflicted. He knows he should listen to his counterpart, but he also wants to know who’s calling.

  In the end, curiosity gets the better of him.

  He answers the phone.

  “Hello?”

  He listens for a couple seconds, and his frown deepens. Without a word, he closes the phone and drops it back into his pocket.

  Louis says, “Well?”

  “Wrong number.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “It was some guy from a dry cleaners. Said they’d found all my pieces and they’re now safe and sound.”

  Louis doesn’t like this at all.