by Jo Leigh
She laid her head back against her makeshift pillow, remembering that day, the look in Mike’s eyes. Had she ever felt more wonderful in her whole life? They had nothing. Not even clothes. But it hadn’t mattered. She’d had her man next to her, and her new little baby all safe and warm deep inside her. “Of course, when we found out a few weeks later that it wasn’t my lasagna that had caused the fire, I was pretty grateful. It had something to do with the wiring in the building. Anyway, I said a prayer that night, before I went to sleep. I made a promise, too. I prayed for you to be healthy, happy and lucky. In return, I promised I would take care of you forever.”
She leaned over and kissed the top of his head. “I'm gonna keep that promise, kiddo.”
She heard him sniff. Then, in a soft, high little voice, he said, “Should I pray now, Mommy?”
She closed her eyes tight. “As hard as you can.”
* * *
Mike hadn’t moved a muscle. His cheek throbbed from the splinter, and he thought he’d sprained his wrist. But he hadn’t budged. The wind had died down a bit, which made him strain even harder to hear. Mojo was as silent as a ghost.
Why hadn’t he taken another shot? He must have some idea where Mike was on the staircase. What was he waiting for? Nightfall? No, it was already dark in the house. He was planning something, but Mike didn’t know what.
A soft scrape made him freeze. He knew that sound. A shoe on concrete. He’d heard it before, two years ago, in an isolated warehouse in the middle of the night.
With infinite caution, Mike reached his hand down to his back pocket. He pulled his wallet out and held it close to his chest. Carefully opening the leather billfold, he slipped the plastic picture case from the center and put it in his breast pocket. There was a photograph of Amy he didn’t want to lose. Then he braced his other hand on the rifle and tossed the wallet to the floor.
Gunfire shattered the quiet, a barrage of bullets first on the basement floor, then right over his head. A wild volley that kept on and on, the noise deafening.
All Mike saw was the red flash of gunpowder as it lit up the hands that held the weapon. He lifted his own rifle and pulled the trigger.
The raging gunfire stopped instantly. A crash, boxes toppling, glass breaking, was followed by the clatter of a gun falling to the ground.
Mike was up before the smoke settled, down the stairs, his rifle chest-level, ready to rip.
Mojo’s body lay sprawled on the boxes of toys and old clothes. He was facedown, the hood of his jacket covering his hair. Mike found his gun—a semiautomatic rifle—with his next step. He kicked it again with his boot, and made sure it landed across the room. Mojo didn’t move.
When he got up close to the body, Mike poked the butt of the rifle into his shoulder. No response. Mojo was dead or unconscious. Mike hoped for dead.
He reached down with his right hand, grabbed a chunk of parka, and rolled Mojo over onto his back.
Only it wasn’t Mojo.
It was a woman. The nurse. He’d known she wasn’t a hostage, dammit. Suddenly, it came to him. How Mojo had found out where they were. How he’d found out everything.
Mike ran faster than he’d ever run before. He took the stairs two at a time as he struggled not to panic. He threw his shoulder into the door and raced through the kitchen. He had to slow for the turn in the hall, and then he was on the steps leading to Sam’s room.
“I think you’d better stop right there.”
He did. It was a voice from the past, straight from hell. Images of the warehouse came back, and he saw Gordon lying in a pool of blood. Mike turned slowly to face the man who wanted him to die, too.
Mojo sat in the wing chair. The .357 Magnum resting easily on his lap pointed straight at Mike’s chest.
He hadn’t changed much at all. He was still too thin, with a beak of a nose and a small cruel mouth. It was too dark to see his eyes, but somehow Mike knew they were shining with pleasure.
“It’s good to see you again, old friend.”
“You sick bastard.”
Mojo frowned. “That’s not very nice. And here I came all this way, just for you.”
“You didn’t need to do me any favors.”
“I assume my compatriot is no longer with us.”
Mike nodded. “You mean Darrelyn, don’t you?”
Mojo smiled. “Very good. You finally figured it out.”
“How did you know Sam and I wrote to each other?”
“A little article in your local paper. It even gave the instructions for signing on to the bulletin board. After that, it was a simple matter to locate Sam and befriend him. We got to like him, actually. He’s a bright kid.”
“Then leave him alone.”
Mojo shook his head slowly.
Mike thought about that article in the Denver paper. How Mojo had tricked him. Worse, how he’d tricked Sam. Damn it all to hell, the clues had been there. Why hadn’t he made the connection? Everything Mojo knew had been in his letters to Sam. Every detail. “What do you want, Jones? Huh? What is it you expect to gain from all this?”
“You know perfectly well what I want.” Mojo stood. It took him awhile to straighten up, but he never stopped staring into Mike’s eyes, and he never let the gun waver. He took a step, then another, his body twisting to accommodate his misshapen hip. He moved into shadow, and then a shaft of light from upstairs hit him full in the face. He was ghostly pale and thin, and he’d combed his hair straight back. More a cadaver than a man.
“I gave you every chance,” Mojo said. “I told you to pull that trigger two years ago. You didn’t listen. I told you I would find you and your lovely wife. You didn’t believe me.”
“Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with? Your quarrel is with me. No one else.”
“Ah, but I made a promise. I am an honorable man, Mike. Unlike you, I keep my word.”
Mike took a step toward him.
“Uh-uh.” Mojo lifted his gun an inch. “Don’t even try it. If you're very good, I'll kill Rebecca and Sam quickly, painlessly. If not...”
“Don’t you touch them, you son of a bitch.”
Mojo’s smile disappeared. “It’s too late to change my plans now. Did I tell you I had three operations, Mike? They left me to rot in the prison hospital for months. I have you to thank for that.”
“I should have killed you that night.”
“My point exactly! If anyone is to blame for this predicament, it’s you, my friend.”
Mike thought about shooting him, right now. It would certainly result in his own death, but wasn’t that better than letting Mojo live to kill Becky and Sam?
“I think you’d best put down that rifle.”
Had his thoughts been so transparent? Or did the evil little troll just know him too well?
Mike thought again of taking his best shot, letting the cards fall where they may, but then he saw that Mojo had moved closer and was now standing on the long carpet runner.
“Okay,” he said. “Give me a minute.” He bent his knees and went down slowly, keeping his eyes on Mojo. With exaggerated caution, he held the rifle at arm’s-length in front of him. “Just don’t do anything foolish. We can discuss this.”
“The time for discussion is long over. I—”
Mike dropped the rifle and grabbed the edge of the carpet, yanking it with all his might.
Mojo fell. But first, he pulled the trigger.
The force of the bullet threw Mike on his back. He felt no pain, only shock. Becky, Sam... God, no.
Just before the darkness came, he heard laughter.
* * *
Becky couldn’t keep the gun steady. Mike was dead or seriously wounded. She knew it. If he was all right, he would have been up here already. That last shot was much louder. Closer.
She reached forward, her forehead pressing into the pillow, until she touched the closet door. She closed it all the way, sealing their tomb. No, she couldn’t think like that. She had to protect Sam. If Mojo fou
nd them, she would have to pull the trigger. Her aim had to be true. Oh, God, why couldn’t she stop shaking?
“Mommy?”
“Shh. We have to be very quiet now. It'll be all right.” She should be holding him. He was pressed up against her side and he’d grabbed her shirt, but it wasn’t enough. But how could she aim the gun with only one hand? It was too heavy. She couldn’t afford to miss on what might be her only chance.
“Where’s Daddy?”
“He’s downstairs, honey, but please,” she whispered. “You have to be still. I know it’s hard and it’s scary, but you need to be brave for a little while longer.”
The computer tilted a bit more and the side jabbed her knee. If there had been even an inch more room, she would have kicked the thing away. Instead, she ignored it. Maybe the tiny light from the monitor was good though. Sam would be even more terrified if it was completely dark.
Why was it so quiet? Maybe they’d killed each other, or maybe Mojo was dead and Mike was hurt and needed her help? He’d said not to leave the closet, but how long could they stay in here?
She knew one thing, Sam couldn’t take much more of this.
His breathing was loud and strained. She thought he might hyperventilate soon. He needed something to do, something quiet.
“Sam,” she said quietly. “I need you to do something very important.” She risked taking her eyes off the closet door, and turned her head. Sam looked so scared, she nearly moaned. “I want you to go to the back of the closet. You'll need to dig behind all those pillows and blankets. Do you think you can do that?”
He shook his head, not even willing to look up at her.
“Sure you can. Put the computer on the floor. Go on.”
Sam’s fingers released her shirt, and he shoved the computer off his lap. The sleeping bag was in the way, though, and he started kicking his legs. She could feel his panic, and took one hand off the gun and wrapped her arm around his shoulder.
“It’s okay, honey. Shhh. It’s all right. Calm down.”
Her hand was on his neck, and his pulse raced so fast she didn’t see how he could take it. There was no choice, though. There was a hell of a good chance that Mojo would find them up here. If he did, she was going to have to kill him. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t get a shot off first. So Sam couldn’t be right next to her. It was too dangerous. No matter what, she didn’t want Sam to see.
She checked the safety with her thumb, and satisfied that it was engaged, she put the gun down on the floor. Then, moving as quickly as her shaking hands would allow, she started to clear a path for Sam. First, the computer went on the floor. She left it open, grateful for the light. Then she lifted one layer of pillows and blankets.
“Can you move in there?”
Sam didn’t do anything for a moment. Then, just as she thought she would have to abandon the plan, he scooted to the side to fill up the space she’d made.
“That’s great, honey.” She reached over him, and pushed some more things out of the way.
Sam took over from there. He managed to get on his knees, and soon, he had moved most of the blankets to the front of the closet, as he crawled to the back.
It was a pitiful measure, with the closet being so small, but it was something. She took one last look at him. He’d brought his knees up tight against his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. He was as tiny as he could be, a small, helpless kid trying hard to be a brave soldier.
That bastard had no right to do this to her son. No right at all. “I love you, Sam,” she said, then she let go of the blankets between them. She couldn’t see him now. And he couldn’t see her.
This time, when she picked up the gun, her hand was steady. She eased the safety off, and gripped the weapon tightly, tilting the barrel up, imagining the chest that would be her target.
In the darkness of that tiny womb, she knew she could pull the trigger. She could fight like a tiger. Morris Jones had picked the wrong woman to mess with.
She waited. Long, excruciating minutes went by, and she struggled to clear her mind. She could only afford to think one thing: He wasn’t going to touch Sam. Then she heard it.
Someone was coming.
Mojo was coming.
He didn’t walk like Mike. He dragged one foot, she could hear it clearly. He was in the room now, moving closer to the closet.
She lifted the gun higher, waiting, waiting for the closet door to slide open. Praying the killer outside would disappear.
A high-pitched beep made her jump so violently, she nearly dropped the gun. The computer! There was a red light flashing and the words critical battery something were in the middle of the screen, and the beeping kept on and on. It was loud, insistent, a signal for Mojo to come and find them.
She let go of the gun with her right hand, and groped until she found the top of the machine. She tried to shut it, but something was in the way. She couldn’t look, she couldn’t turn her gaze from the center of the closet door. Moving as quickly as she could, she found the corner of the pillowcase and yanked it free, then slammed the computer shut. Even then the beeping didn’t stop. All she’d done was muffle the noise.
The footsteps came closer and she grabbed the gun again with both hands.
The door moved, but oh, God in heaven, it was the wrong side!
Chapter 16
Becky lunged for the door. She pushed against it as hard as she could trying to keep it closed, the gun now a useless obstruction in her hand. She tried to see Sam, but the damn pillows and blankets were in her face.
It was no use. The door slid open beneath her hands. Her balance was off, there was too much in the way. God, he was going to get her baby.
The door smashed into the jam on her side, as she fought for control of her gun. She still couldn’t see Mojo, couldn’t see Sam. There was no more time. She pointed the gun toward the center of where she thought Mojo would be and pulled the trigger.
The sound ripped through her eardrums, wood splinters flew, her hands jerked back painfully, throwing her against the cushioned wall. The ringing in her head was deafening, and for a moment, she thought she might pass out. Then she threw herself against the closet door again and it fell forward, carrying her with it. She nearly lost her balance, and had to step wide to stay upright. But she was in the loft.
She turned, expecting to see a bloodied body on the ground. Instead, she looked down the barrel of a gun.
“You shouldn’t have done that.” His words were muffled, as if he were speaking in a tunnel. He looked like a rat turned human. Pale and thin, with a sharp nose and black eyes, he was worse than her nightmares.
“Why are you doing this to us?” She knew she must be screaming even though her voice seemed very far away. “What do you want?”
“Justice,” he said. “Vengeance.” His mouth turned up in an ugly smile. “Fun.”
Becky felt faint. Nothing had prepared her for this. Not Mike’s warnings, not any horror story she’d ever heard. He was the essence of evil, and she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to kill her, and then Sam. Behind Mojo, she saw the hole in the wall where her bullet had landed. She must have been off by just a few inches. She lifted her gun, prepared to die, but not before she killed him first.
“Think again,” he said.
That’s when she saw Sam. He crashed into Mojo’s legs as if he were a tackling dummy. Mojo screamed, a high-pitched wail, and then bullets sprayed the room as he fell to the floor.
She pulled the trigger for the second time, but this time, she hit him. The bullet smashed into his thigh and he screamed again.
She darted forward and grabbed Sam’s arm. “Come on,” she yelled, pulling him behind her. The last thing she saw was the blood-splattered yellow quilt, then they were on the stairs.
Holding on to her gun with one hand and Sam’s arm with the other, she tried not to fall as she ran. She looked behind her, expecting to see Mojo in the doorway, but there was nothing. She’d killed him. Maybe.
; She got Sam down the stairs without hurting him. “We have to get out of here,” she said, shouting to be heard against the ringing in her ears.
“Daddy!”
Sam’s piercing scream stopped her cold. He pointed toward the kitchen. She turned. Mike’s body lay twisted on the hardwood floor. There was blood coming from an ugly wound in his shoulder.
She didn’t let go of Sam as she ran. Tears nearly blinded her as she knelt next to Mike. Shoving the gun in the holster, she freed her right hand and touched his face. It was warm. Her shaking fingers pressed his neck, but she couldn’t find a pulse. “Mike, get up. Please, get up. Don’t do this.”
Sam stood behind her, and she heard him sob.
“Sam needs you. I need you.” She grabbed his collar and pulled his head up. “You can’t die, damn you!”
His eyes opened.
She moaned and cradled his head in her arms. “Oh, God, thank you. Mike—” A crash from upstairs made her practically jump out of her skin. She looked up.
Mojo was still alive.
“Get out of here.”
Mike was pushing himself up with his good arm. “Go on. Get out. Now.”
“I won’t leave you.”
“You don’t have any choice. Dammit, get Sam out of here.”
He looked bad. His face was white, his lips a thin line of pain. How could he fight that madman? He was barely alive. But Sam needed her protection.
She helped Mike to his feet, then turned to their son. “Get to the back door and unlock it. Wait for me there.”
He didn’t move. He stared at her with his mouth open.
She let go of Mike. When she was sure he wasn’t going to fall, she turned to Sam and grabbed his shoulders. “Sam, you have to go. Now.”