Grave of Angels

by Michael Prescott

  The Skylark lost speed, drifting behind the Ford and veering toward the shoulder. Grange tried to focus his eyes. He saw Di Milo slumped forward in his seat, blood all over him, the car driverless. Grange grabbed the wheel and tried to steer, but not in time to prevent the car from plowing into a utility pole that smashed the front end and left the engine smoking under the hood.

  The Ford had passed them now. Grange looked at the taillights, seeing four of them, two Fords. As he watched, both cars slowed, easing onto the shoulder, then reversed, coming back.

  He had to defend himself, but his gun—Kate’s Glock—was gone. It had fallen out of his hand and was lost somewhere, maybe out the window, maybe under his seat. But Di Milo’s Beretta was still in his hand, clutched tight in a death grip. Grange pried it loose.

  The Ford pulled to a stop a few yards away, the taillights red like devil’s eyes, burning holes in Grange’s vision. His eyes watered. His mouth was on fire. He thought his jaw must have been dislocated or broken. The gun shook as he raised it in both hands, aiming through the glassless windshield.

  Fuck you, Swann, he thought. He would have screamed the words if he’d been able to open his mouth.

  The Ford’s door swung open and Swann stepped out. He stood there, an easy target if there had been only one of him.

  There were two. Grange fired at the man on the right. Three shots, snapped off fast and sure, but the man didn’t go down.

  The one on the left, then. That was the real Swann.

  He fired two more shots and the Beretta was empty, and still Swann hadn’t fallen.

  He needed to reload. Kate had given him a spare magazine for the Glock. It wasn’t compatible with the Beretta, but both guns shot the same ammunition. He could transfer the rounds from the Glock’s clip to the Beretta’s.

  If he could find the clip. It was in his pocket, but which pocket? He couldn’t remember. He patted himself down, searching.

  He’d rehearsed this situation a thousand times. He’d lived it in his dreams. Now the real test was here, and he was flunking.

  Swann approached the car, walking slowly, his steps unsteady. He looked hurt.

  Grange found the Glock’s twelve-round magazine in the left pocket of his jacket. He ejected the used clip from the Beretta, then thumbed the insert on the Glock’s mag and dumped the fresh cartridges into his lap. He needed them in the Beretta’s clip, but he couldn’t seem to load the damn things. His fingers were trembling and slippery with blood. He didn’t even know where the blood had come from. He hadn’t been shot in the hand, only in the face, but he must have touched his face without realizing it, and now the rounds kept sliding out of his grasp as he tried to feed them into the mag.

  Swann’s footsteps slapped the asphalt. Almost there.

  Forget the clip. Just put one round in the chamber. One round would be enough. He needed only one shot at this range.

  He locked back the Beretta’s slide and tried to insert a single cartridge. It squirted out of his hand and into his lap. He tried to pick it up and succeeded only in spilling all the rounds onto the floor between his feet.

  God damn it.

  He groped on the floor, searching for a cartridge, found one, picked it up.

  Then Swann was at the window, leaning in, his gun against the bandage that wrapped Grange’s skull.

  “Should’ve stayed out on sick leave, asshole,” Swann said, and he pulled the trigger.

  ——

  Swann made it back to his car without falling, but just barely. He dropped into the driver’s seat and pulled up his shirt to assess the damage.

  He’d been hit twice in the upper body. One bullet had gone clean through the flesh of his armpit on the left side; he found an exit wound. The second had caught him in the ribs, and it was still in him. It had fractured a rib, definitely. If it had tumbled or fragmented, it might have done other harm as well.

  He felt numbness in his right calf and lifted his pants leg. He’d been struck there, too. His sock was soggy and dark, and he could feel his shoe filling with blood.

  “Shit,” he muttered. Maybe he’d spent a little too much time killing Sam. But he hadn’t expected Malick’s apes to catch up with him. The saving grace was that they weren’t expecting him in the car. He’d seen the surprise on their faces when they’d pulled alongside. They must have thought he was Sam. It was the only reason he’d been able to get the jump on them.

  The armpit and the leg didn’t matter. Both were bleeding badly, but pressure would close up the wounds. The round in his rib cage was a different story. No telling where that fucker had ended up. It could be a half inch from his heart, ready to nick the aorta if it shifted a fraction.

  Even so, he’d have to risk leaving the bullet inside him until he got to Cabo San Lucas. He knew a doctor there who would patch him up.

  But he sure as shit wasn’t driving all way to Cabo in this condition. He needed to clean out the bullet holes, pour on some disinfectant, apply bandages.

  Giovanni’s restaurant had all that first aid shit. He’d seen it in the supply closet. And no one would be there, not even the cleaning staff; the place had been closed since its owner’s tragic demise. He could wash himself in the sink, then repair the damage on a temporary basis. After that, head south to Mexico with…

  Chelsea.

  In sudden alarm, he turned in his seat, ignoring a new shout of pain from his ribs, and reached out to the girl. She was still unconscious. He ran his hands over her body, checking for damage.

  There was none. No shots had penetrated the Ford’s rear compartment.

  “You’re okay,” Swann breathed in relief. “You’re just fine, sugarplum.”

  She stirred briefly, murmuring, but her eyes stayed shut.

  If Malick’s goons had killed the girl, he would have hunted down the nun and tortured her slowly, done worse things to her than he’d done to Sam. Hell, he’d like to do it anyway. He would, if he was ever lucky enough to run into her again.

  Swann slipped behind the wheel and racked the gearshift into drive. He sped back onto the freeway, looking for the next exit, one that would take him back to LA and Giovanni’s.

  EN ROUTE to Giovanni’s Trattoria, Kate got a call from Alan. The police had left for the motel. “You need to be gone from there.”

  “Already am.”

  “Good. Look, there’s another problem.”

  How could there be? It seemed impossible that anything else could go wrong. “What problem?”

  “I’ve lost touch with the chase car. Di Milo’s not answering his cell. I don’t know where the hell they are or what’s happened to them.”

  “Maybe his phone conked out. Or they’re in a no-coverage zone.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “If you hear from them, let me know.”

  “Right, chief.”

  She closed the phone. Skip looked at her. “It’s all falling apart, isn’t it?” he asked simply.

  She wanted to deliver some brave reply, but she didn’t have the strength. “Looks that way.” She rallied. “But we can still make it work. When I hear from Swann—”

  “What makes you think you’ll hear from him? He’s gotta know Sam’s incommunicado by now. If he was going to call, he would’ve done it already.”

  “He may be planning his next move.”

  “I have a feeling he already planned all his moves.”

  “Meaning?”

  “This guy’s sharp, right? He knows Sam. And he made sure we knew his identity. He didn’t use an alias or anything. He came right out and said he was Jack Swann.”

  “So?”

  “So don’t you think he could anticipate how Sam would react? We thought Sam might cut and run. I’m guessing Swann thought so, too.”

  “You’re saying he wanted Sam to take off? But then he…”

  He wouldn’t get his payment, she almost said, but the words died unspoken. Because of course he would get his payment. He had it all worked out.

  �
��It was a trick,” she whispered. “He knew we’d be tracking Sam, so he got him to lose his pursuit.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. Of course, he might not be that smart.”

  “He is, though.” Kate felt a great heaviness settle inside her, the beginning of a long and fruitless grief. “He won’t call. He’s already got the money and Chelsea, and he’s probably killed Sam, too. He’s got everything he wanted. He’s won. And we”—tears misted her field of vision—“we’ve lost Chelsea for good.”

  Skip said nothing. Neither did she.

  It was over.

  There was nothing left to do except go through the motions. But she would do that much. And keep hoping for a miracle, even if she didn’t believe in miracles and never had.

  Half a block from Giovanni’s, she had Skip pull over at the curb. The spot gave him a good vantage point on the location.

  “How are you going to get in?” he asked.

  She hadn’t thought about it. It didn’t seem to matter. “I’ll improvise.”

  She approached the front of the restaurant. A CLOSED sign sat in the window, held in place by a curtain. The street was dark, but a pale glimmer to the east hinted at dawn. Or maybe it was only the glow of the city lights. Maybe there would be no dawn today.

  No lights were lit inside Giovanni’s. The front door was locked, and all the windows were shut.

  An alley led around the side of the building to a back door. Near the door was a high window. In a pile of trash, she found an apple crate. She dragged it to the window, stood it on its side, mounted the crate, and punched a hole in the window with her elbow, the jacket protecting her arm. It felt good to smash something.

  With her sleeve tucked over her hand, she brushed away the shards clinging to the frame, then climbed through, dropping to the floor. Her eyesight took a moment to adjust to the darkness. She was in the kitchen. A white countertop gleamed like bone in the faint ambient light. Pots and saucepans hung from hooks.

  She made a quick pass through the kitchen, glancing into the main dining area. Rows of tables, upended chairs stacked on top.

  No one was here. She returned to the kitchen, found a wall switch, and turned on the lights.

  On the floor were two syringes like the one she’d found at the church.

  Swann had been here, then. With Chelsea.

  She looked around hopelessly for some clue to where he might have taken her from here. There was nothing, of course.

  Dead end. Swann was gone and he’d taken Chelsea, and she would never see either of them again.

  Her phone rang, startling her. The ringtone was still “Lady Madonna.” Alan had taken the time to program it into her replacement phone. She wished he hadn’t. The song was too cheerful, and she wasn’t in the mood.

  “Yes?” she said wearily, expecting an update from Alan, but it was Skip’s voice she heard.

  “Ford Mustang just pulled into the alley and I think Swann’s driving!”

  Her heart kicked, and she heard the slam of a car door outside the kitchen.

  She reached for her Glock, then remembered Grange had it.

  Footsteps crunched, moving fast. He must have seen the crate, the broken window. He knew someone had entered.

  A key turned in the lock. He was coming in, and she was trapped in the restaurant—and unarmed.

  SWANN saw the busted window and the crate beneath it as soon as he pulled up. Before leaving the car, he ejected the clip from his handgun and heeled in a fresh one, another eight rounds. He left the unconscious girl in the back of the car and the valise stuffed with jewels on the passenger seat. He would return for both items after the nun was dead.

  Because of course it was the nun. Who else could it be? She’d been dogging his tracks all night. She’d traced him to the church and now here. He only hoped she was still inside.

  She would be armed, and he could be walking into a trap, but his blood was up and he wasn’t in the mood for caution. He unlocked the kitchen door and threw it wide and entered shooting. He squeezed off four rounds in quick succession, laying down a field of fire as he spun out of the doorway and crouched down.

  She wasn’t there. The kitchen was empty, but the double doors to the main dining room were flapping gently. She’d gone through there a moment before he entered.

  He pursued, moving fast, his gun leading him. It was a 9mm Makarov, East German made, a good no-nonsense firearm. It had killed Daniel Farris and the two Guardian Angel goons, and the Hyundai’s driver and maybe the old man in the apartment near Seventh Street as well.

  Funny how pain and exhaustion bled away from him, vanishing like an illusion. He was on the hunt, seeking prey, no distractions.

  He kicked open the double doors and stepped back, expecting the noise to draw her fire, but nothing happened. She was playing it cool. All right, then. He blew through the doors, snapping off four more rounds that lit up the gloom, then pivoted and sunk into a crouch by the long bar that ran along the rear of the room. He dumped the empty magazine and rammed in a new one.

  He doubted he’d hit her, but the racket and muzzle flashes had to have her rattled. She’d never been in a firefight. He wanted her shaky, wanted her to make a mistake.

  He let his eyes adjust to the darkness. A big room, carpeted, filled with a checkerboard array of tables. She’d be under one of them. Probably along the right-hand wall, the one nearest to the double doors. She would have wanted to take cover fast.

  Silently, he made his way to the left side of the room. He would circle around, close in on her from behind. It was a move she wouldn’t expect. The key was to move without sound, camouflaged by darkness. He knew how it was done. He’d crept up on people better armed and more battle-tested than Kate Malick, and they never heard a thing.

  He reached the front wall of the room, where heavy curtains blotted out the windows. Outside, there was a faint stir of traffic as the city woke up. Nearly daybreak of his last day in Los Angeles, and Kate Malick’s last day anywhere.

  He’d told her not to fuck with him. He’d ordered her. She’d taken a vow of obedience as a nun. So why wouldn’t she obey? He was her god now. He’d made that clear. Still she insisted on breaking the rules, hunting him down, playing her stupid games. She had to die for it, and die slowly.

  He saw her.

  She knelt behind a table by the far wall, her head darting in quick, nervous jerks as she watched the room. She was studying the area around the bar, obviously having lost sight of him there.

  She wasn’t looking behind her. She had no idea where he was.

  He settled into a half crouch, leveling the gun as he centered her shoulders above the sights. He was applying gentle pressure to the trigger when she shifted her position, her back suddenly hidden behind a table leg.

  He could still take her out with a head shot, but he wanted a nonfatal hit. Wanted her down but not out so he could take his time finishing her. There were knives and other implements in the kitchen. Many ways to inflict pain.

  He took a long sliding step to bring the target into view.

  A floorboard creaked under his shoe.

  She heard the noise, and suddenly, she wasn’t there anymore. She snapped forward, diving deeper under the table and scrambling out the other side, and she was gone. It happened so fast he had no time to take a shot.

  He ducked low and covered a few yards of floor space in case she decided to shoot at his position.

  She didn’t. He began to wonder why she hadn’t fired. She could have tried to nail him when he came in from the alley or when he entered the dining room. She’d had another opportunity just now. Maybe she had inhuman patience, or maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have a gun at all.

  Though he’d missed his chance at an easy shot, he still had an edge. He’d killed before. He knew how it was done.

  She couldn’t have scampered far. She was still on this side of the room, huddled under one of the tables. Eight tables in all. Eight hiding places. He would scope out each on
e in turn, while maintaining concealment so she couldn’t pick him off.

  If she was armed. If not, she was all done anyway.

  He prowled past the table she’d abandoned and took a long look at the next two in line. When he was satisfied she wasn’t there, he moved on to the next pair, and the next. He worked his way to the rear of the room, finding nothing.

  Where was she, then? Behind the bar. She had to be.

  It was a smart move. She could hunker down, lie in wait for him. She would have the advantage of cover and concealment in a defensive position, while he would have to risk showing himself.

  Clever—but there was a flaw in her plan. The back of the bar was stacked with bottles. All he had to do was open fire and blow a storm of glass onto her, then close in while she was dazed and bleeding. With luck, he could take her alive, and then the real fun would start.

  He took a step forward, and there was music.

  A cell phone ringtone. Behind him.

  He didn’t know how in hell she’d backtracked to that part of the room, but he spun, pinpointing the source of the noise—a table three rows back—and his finger jerked the trigger again and again, splintering the table legs until the flat surface listed sideways and hit the floor.

  Bent double, he advanced on what was left of the table. His ears were ringing and his night vision had been compromised by muzzle flares, but he could function well enough. Better than the nun, who had to be wounded or dead.

  He reached the table and scanned the area, looking for a body. There was none. And that goddamned phone kept chirping—he could hear it over the chiming in his ears.

  He found it on the floor and snatched it up. The LCD showed the name of the caller: Giovanni’s Trattoria.

  It took him a second to process the information. Then he understood that she’d done more than hunker down behind the bar. She’d found a phone back there, a landline, and she’d called her own cell, which she’d left behind on the floor.

  A ruse. And while he was chasing shadows…