“Mick,” he said.
“I’m telling you,” Mick was telling Lana, “the hurricane messed up all the maps—”
“Mick!” Tyler blurted out. “That’s her.”
“It’s Google, Mick,” Lana argued back. “They done these maps since the—”
“Shut up!” Tyler screamed. The driver of the truck, apparently giving up on waiting for them to go, accelerated through the intersection.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Lana said.
Tyler ignored her. “Mick. That was her. In that green pickup. That was…that was Savannah.”
Mick blinked at him. “What? No way.”
“I’m telling you! She looked out the window. I saw her! That was her! From the pictures!”
“Told you we were in the right neighborhood,” Lana said smugly.
“Shut up,” Mick said. He put the car in gear and turned to follow the pickup. Tyler could see the tail lights a couple of blocks ahead, then a turn signal. Mick stomped on the gas and the big car leaped down the narrow streets, engine roaring. Tyler grabbed onto the door, white-knuckled. Mick ran the stop sign where the truck had turned and headed down another narrow street. Tyler saw the green pickup stopped in the middle of the road. Savannah was out of it, the driver’s side door standing open. Someone was approaching the vehicle from the front. Tyler couldn’t say who it was.
“Shit,” Mick said. “That’s a cop.” He reached down into the gap between the driver’s seat and the center console and pulled out his pistol. Lana reached for the shotgun.
No, Tyler thought, but he couldn’t speak.
LANNY KNIGHT had worked his way up from uncertain to fuming. What authority did this Cahill bitch have to take his Maglite and order him around? She wasn’t in his chain of command. She wasn’t even on duty from the looks of things. He was about ready to just pull up stakes, call it end of shift, and go clock out. He’d get his flashlight back from Cahill later. Then he saw the green pickup. It was moving swiftly at first, but as it got closer, he saw it slow to a creep, as if the driver was checking out what was going on. He saw a vaguely familiar face behind the wheel, caught a glimpse of red hair. It was Charleyboy’s girlfriend, the one Delphine had said was a CI for the feds. Driving a stolen truck, Delphine said. Lanny raised a hand and advanced toward the car. The pickup pulled to a stop. The driver’s side door opened. He could see the driver’s face more clearly in the car’s interior light. Definitely the girlfriend.
“Stay in the car, ma’am!” he called out. He reached down and unsnapped the safety strap on his holster. Slowly, she eased back into the cab of the truck. He stepped up to the driver’s side. “License and—” Before he could get to “registration,” he heard the sound of a big engine and looked up. A low-slung black Firebird was shooting toward them like a torpedo. Lanny stepped back and put his hand on his weapon.
The driver of the Firebird leaped out. “Hey!” the driver yelled. “Get away from her!”
“Get back in your car, sir!” Lanny yelled back, his pistol clearing his holster a half second too late as he registered the gun already in the driver’s hand. He saw the muzzle flash, heard the report, and his first shot was spoiled as he flinched away. He never got a second one. The driver’s second and third shots caught him in the upper chest and knocked him back, stumbling and finally crashing to his ass on the pavement. Well, this fucking sucks, was the last thought he had before he fell over backward and lay on his back, looking up at a sky he couldn’t see for the overhanging trees and the glow of the city lights. The light slowly faded and went completely black.
CHANCE BURST out of the alley into the tiny front yard of the abandoned house in time to see the dark-haired young man standing outside of the car, firing. Training took over and she crouched down, assumed firing position, and aimed for center mass. Just before the trigger broke under her tightening finger, something hit her arm and knocked her aim sideways. The shot went off, somewhere into the night. She saw McGee charging forward past her, shouting something. The sounds of the shots were ringing in her ears as she tried to bring the gun to bear again, so she couldn’t make out what he was yelling. Then he was in her line of fire. A flash of light came from inside the dark car, and McGee went down. As soon as he did, Chance had a clear shot, but a second blast from inside the car made her drop to the ground. She resisted the impulse to fire back wildly. When she looked up, the black car was pulling away. She got off one shot at it, then crawled to where McGee lay motionless, half on the narrow strip of grass and half on the broken sidewalk.
“McGee,” she said.
He rolled onto his back, groaning with pain. “I’m okay,” he gasped. “I think. Shotgun pellet in my side. Maybe two. Jesus, it hurts, though.” He raised his head. “Check on your deputy.”
Chance stood up and ran past her car to where Lanny Knight lay on his back. He was breathing, but not well. Each inhalation was a wet, rattling wheeze that signaled blood in the airway. “Come on, Knight,” she muttered, and smacked him on the face, lightly, then harder. “Stay with me, buddy. Come on.” He didn’t respond. Chance got up, looked around for further threats, and found none. She bolted to Knight’s patrol car and yanked the radio mike off its stand. “St. Bernard, all units,” she said. “Officers down.” She gave the address. “Multiple shots fired. Repeat, officers down. Need assistance.” From far away, she heard the distant whoop of sirens as every unit responded to the call. “Help’s on the way, Lanny. Come on. You’re gonna make it.”
She only hoped that it was true.
SAVANNAH CURLED up in the narrow backseat of the car and pulled her knees up to her chest, folding herself as small as she could around her fear. She was still in shock from what had just happened. Pulling up to the house to find a cop sitting there, then a scream of engines and a burst of gunfire. Then the dark-haired young man, who looked so much like her Mick, screaming at her to get in the car, they were leaving. And…she looked over at the young man in the passenger seat next to her. Could that be her Keith? This wasn’t how she’d envisioned this meeting at all. He seemed as shell shocked as she was. She reached out for his hand. “Keith?”
He looked at her for a moment and blinked like someone waking up from a trance. Then he reached out and took her hand in his. “Yeah, Mama. It’s Keith.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh. My god. My baby.” She pulled his hand to draw him to her. They embraced in the cramped backseat as best they could. “Keith,” she murmured. “My sweet little boy. I’ve missed you so much.”
The girl in the front seat, the one who’d wielded the shotgun, looked around and stuck out her hand. “Hey,” she said. “I’m Lana.”
Savannah reluctantly took the hand. “Hey. And, um. You are?”
The girl smiled. “I’m Mick’s fiancée. So I guess I should start calling you Mama, too.”
“Yeah,” Savannah said without enthusiasm. “I guess.”
“Mick,” Keith said. “Where are we going?”
“I’m open to suggestions, bro,” Mick said. “I was kind of hoping to get some catching up time with Mama at her house. I guess that’s not happening now.”
“Because you shot a goddamn police officer, Mick!” Keith’s voice was shaking with fear. Savannah reached out and put a hand on his arm. He didn’t seem to notice. “Why the hell did you do that?”
“He drew on me first,” Mick said sullenly. “And he was tryin’ to take Mama in.”
Keith flung himself back into the seat. “Jesus. I cannot believe you.” He turned to her. “I don’t know what we do now, Mama. I’m sorry. I just don’t know.”
Savannah felt as if she should know. She was the mother. It was her job to protect her boys. She’d held fast to that for the last ten years. She’d told herself when she got them back, she’d be wise and forgiving and give them the guidance they needed. Now, with the sound of gunfire still consuming her senses, she was as confused and at sea as the day she’d first brought Mick home. All that experience beh
ind her, all those lessons she’d thought of passing down, and she still felt as if she hadn’t learned a damn thing.
“Don’t worry,” Mick said from the driver’s seat. “I got it all planned out.”
That didn’t make Savannah feel any better.
“YOU KNOW, CHARLEYBOY,” Winslow said, “I’m not a brave man.”
He was handcuffed to a metal pipe running across the ceiling inside a shed on Luther’s farm. They’d taken him there, shackled him, and left him there with Zig and Charleyboy as guards. The farm was a bustle of activity, men and vehicles coming and going. Something big was going down, and Winslow had an idea what it was. After a couple of hours, Zig had wandered off to take a leak. Winslow took the opportunity to talk to Charleyboy. “You know when they start in on me, I’ll talk. Hell, I don’t see why I should hold out very long. Because when I start talking, the first thing I’m going to do is give up your plan to sell Luther out to Gutierrez.”
Charleyboy wiped sweat off his upper lip. “He won’t believe you.”
“Won’t he? He just barely trusts you now. Once I start spilling what I know, all of the suspicions Luther has about you are going to come right to the front of that lizard brain of his.”
“Shut up,” Charleyboy said.
“Well, you could shut me up. You could put a bullet in me right now. It’d keep me from talking. But then, Mr. Luther would wonder what you’re hiding.” Winslow shook his head as if he was the one who felt sorry for Charleyboy. “Yeah, you’ve really painted yourself into a corner on this one, Angus. It must really suck to be you right now.”
“I said shut up!” Charleyboy crossed the dirty concrete floor of the shed in a few strides, hand raised as if to strike. Winslow didn’t flinch, and Charleyboy stopped. He let his hand drop to his side.
Winslow nodded in approval. “We both know there’s only one way you get out of this alive and uneaten. Go back to Plan A. Get me out of here, get us both to the DEA, and start telling us everything you know. I can talk to the Marshal’s Service. Get you into WitSec.”
“How the hell am I supposed to get us out?” Charleyboy demanded. “I don’t even have a gun.”
“My weapon’s in the van. In the glove box. I saw one of those redneck bastards stuff it in there. You can get it out.”
Charleyboy shook his head. “I never shot anybody. Not in my life.”
“I know. It won’t be easy. But if you don’t…well, just look at everything they do to me and know that they’ll be doing the same thing to you. If not worse.”
Charleyboy ran his hands over his face. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. You know what I’m saying is true. There’s only one choice, Charleyboy. It’s a hard one. But your choices have been getting narrower and narrower since you started dealing with Wallace Luther.”
At that moment, Zig came back in. A cigarette hung from one corner of his mouth and his shotgun was cradled negligently in one arm. He gave Winslow a nasty grin. “Hey, Mr. Fed. It’s almost showtime. Mr. Luther’s gettin’ the dogs all worked up. Giving ’em shots of go-juice to make ’em good and crazy. You may want to start thinkin’ about what you want to tell us.”
“I’ve got to take a whiz,” Charleyboy said. “I’ll be right back.”
“Yeah,” Zig said. “You do that.” As he left, Zig flicked the end of the cigarette contemptuously at his back. “Surprised he ain’t pissed hisself already.” He turned back to Winslow. He leaned the shotgun against the wooden wall of the shed, then straightened up, cracking his knuckles loudly. “Now, Mr. Luther’s got some things he wants to know. Like how much you know about his business. But me an’ my brother has some personal interests. Like where we can find that lil’ redheaded gal Charleyboy’s been takin’ up with. Me and ol’ Zag, we got a little tag team routine we like to do, an’ she’d be perfect for it.”
“Yeah,” Winslow said. “Sorry, I can’t help you. We had her under wraps but she bolted. She’s in the wind.”
Zig shook his head. “Wrong answer.” He delivered a short, vicious jab into Winslow’s unprotected ribcage. The pain exploded through his body and his breath left him. He thrashed back and forth as if trying to get away, but his arms were held fast above him. “Hurts, don’t it?” Zig said, and hit him again, harder this time. Winslow’s vision went dark at the edges as he fought for breath and his knees went weak. The handcuffs bit into his wrists as he sagged. Zig stepped behind Winslow and wrapped his arms around him, lifting him up off the ground. His breath was hot in Winslow’s ear. “You think this is bad? It’s gonna get a lot worse.” He let Winslow go and he cried out in agony as his wrists took the full weight of the drop.
“Hey,” Winslow heard. “Cut that out.” He looked over. Charleyboy was standing in the doorway, Winslow’s pistol in his hand.
Zig turned to him and put his hands on his hips. “Now just what the fuck do you think you’re doin’, Angus?”
“We’re getting out of here,” Charleyboy said.
“We? As in you and Mr. Fed here? Guess what Mr. Luther was wonderin’ about you is all true.” Zig shook his head. “You’re gonna be a long time dyin’, Charleyboy. A long, hard, sad time.”
Shoot him, Winslow wanted to say. He’s not safe to leave alive. But he was still struggling for breath.
“Give me the keys to the handcuffs,” Charleyboy said.
Zig shook his head. “No. I don’t think I will. See, Angus, I don’t think you have the balls to pull that trigger.” He walked toward where the shotgun leaned against the wall. The report of the pistol sounded like a thunderclap in the small space. Zig staggered backward, his hand going to his chest. He pulled it away and stared in amazement at the blood there. He looked back at Charleyboy and his face contorted in an animal snarl as he went straight for his assailant, ignoring the shotgun on the wall, hands extended like claws ready to slash or choke the life out of the man who’d just shot him. The second shot caught Zig in the center of the forehead and snapped his head back. He stumbled and fell face down with a thud that felt heavy enough to shake the earth across the whole farm.
“Well,” Charleyboy said, and his voice caught in a muffled sob, “look how wrong you can be.”
“Quick,” Winslow said, his voice a tortured wheeze, “get the key. Get me down. We’ve got to move.”
Charleyboy didn’t respond. He stood looking with fascination at the body of the man he’d just shot as the body went into its final twitches and shudders.
“Charleyboy!” Winslow barked.
Charleyboy looked up, blinking like a man just awakened from a bad dream into a worse one.
“Come on,” Winslow snapped. “Someone probably heard those shots. Get me down, and let’s get the fuck out of here.”
Charleyboy looked at the body again, then began moving with a maddening slowness, still dazed.
“Come on,” Winslow said through gritted teeth. “Come on…” Finally, Charleyboy fumbled in Zig’s pocket and came up with the handcuff key. A moment later, Winslow was rubbing his wrists to restore the circulation. “Are the keys in the van?”
Charleyboy looked as if he didn’t understand at first, then he nodded. “Oh. Yeah. I think.”
Winslow briefly entertained the idea of picking up the shotgun and shooting Charleyboy himself. But duty and responsibility won out. He picked up the weapon, but turned and said, “Follow me.”
Charleyboy followed, Winslow’s pistol dangling limply from his hand.
THE VAN THEY’D arrived in sat just outside of the shed, parked at the verge of a white sand road under a spreading live oak. Winslow yanked the driver’s side door open and climbed in, laying the shotgun down behind the seats. He popped the glove box open and located the keys just as Charleyboy got in the other side. As he cranked the ignition, he saw headlights coming down the road, moving quickly. Someone must have heard the shots up at the main house and was coming to investigate. “Shit. Shit.” He turned to Charleyboy. “Which way’s the gate?”
Ch
arleyboy motioned vaguely in the opposite direction from which the van was facing. “That way.” He looked down at the gun in his hand and pushed it into the center console between the front seats.
Winslow stomped on the gas and backed the van up, whipping it around in a spray of sand. Without turning on the headlights, he jammed the accelerator to the floor and looked in the side mirror. The headlights behind slowed, then stopped. Winslow squinted into the darkness ahead of them, trying to see the road in the dim moonlight, praying there were no sudden hairpin turns. The iron gate came up so fast he had no time to stop and open it. The van crashed through with a horrific grinding and rending noise, followed by banging and thudding like rifle fire as they dragged a remnant of the gate along the pavement. A shower of orange and white sparks lit up the night as metal dragged on asphalt. Finally, with a tortured shriek, the last of the gate tore loose and the van leaped ahead. Winslow pounded the dash and whooped in triumph. “Yeah!” He fumbled for the headlight switch and turned it on, the bright lights illuminating the way ahead.
“They’re behind us,” Charleyboy said in a dead, hopeless voice.
Winslow checked the side mirror and swore under his breath. There was a pair of headlights coming up fast behind them. As he watched, he saw a flash of white light from one side and the back door of the van resounded as if it had been hit by a hammer. A second flash, and the right back window blew out. “Charleyboy,” Winslow said, “get back there with the shotgun and see if you can discourage those bastards a little, will you?”
For once, Charleyboy didn’t hesitate. He picked up the shotgun and awkwardly clambered over the center console to the back of the van. Before he could reach a shooting position, there was another flash, a loud bang, and the van began shaking as if it was coming apart.
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