On contact, another spasm shoots the length of my leg, the sudden impact doing nothing for the gunshot I’ve just sustained.
Total contact with the man lasts no more than an instant. In his weakened state, he is no match for the fierce blow, his body hurtling backward. His right shoulder blade slams into the trunk of a nearby pine trees, branches snapping under his weight.
Twisting his body to the side, he falls flat to his stomach, attempting to break his descent as he hits the ground hard.
I am on him before he even has a chance to push himself upright. Teeth clenched, I spring forward, driving my knee down onto his wrist.
Using both hands, I wrench his gun away from him, my body still pinning his arm flat to the ground.
And with just a single shot, I put an end to what must have been the shittiest week in this man’s life.
Chapter Seventy-Three
The two shots are separated by no more than a few seconds, ten at the very most. In the quiet of the forest, their combined sounds are like cannon fire, echoing out, jerking Jensen Spiers’s attention away from the fire.
A ripple of sensation rises through his core as he hears them, reaching his chest and pulling it taut. One at a time, realizations hit him, each arriving faster than the one before.
The campsite before him is barren, nothing more than a fire ring thrown together in the center of a small clearing. No shelter of any kind is visible, not even a pallet for someone to sleep on.
No food or drinks wrappers. No backpacks or coolers. Not a single thing to indicate anybody has been here outside of the blaze burning bright before him, achieving its intended purpose.
A diversion and nothing more.
The instant that clicks into place comes the second realization, which is that the target he’s been tracking, the advantage he thought he’s had, was nothing of the sort. The woman had figured things out, had been leading him exactly where she wanted all night.
Somehow, she had removed the tag from Amber, had put together the ruse with a meetup, knowing his interest would be on the girl.
Like a puppet master pulling strings, she had drawn him into her element, lying in wait for him and his partner so she could finish what was started at The Sundowner days before.
Jerking his gaze to either side, Spiers stares in the direction of the gunshots.
Never would Lucas have opened up on Amy or Amber. There would have been no need for him to, neither a blind woman nor a young girl presenting a credible threat.
And damned sure would he have not fired just a pair of rounds several seconds apart on the woman. If he had seen her coming, he would have emptied an entire clip into her before reloading and repeating.
After that, he’d call for Spiers, and together they would do it again.
What he heard was just the final few moments of his partner’s life, the woman tracking him down in the darkness, these two rounds doing far more damage than the ones she fired previously.
One after another, the thoughts and realizations string together in Spiers’s mind. For an instant, he considers throwing himself forward, crashing through the trees, fighting to get to his partner’s side. Bouncing up onto his toes, he thinks on it, weighing the distance in his mind, before turning and shoving off along the same path he’d just descended.
Starting slow, he quickly picks up speed. Abandoning his previous shooter’s stance, he barrels ahead through the woods, limbs and branches scraping over his clothes, slapping at his body. He can hear them smacking against his plastic mask an instant before feeling them, the device spreading the impact across the breadth of his face, concentrated agony threatening to remove his head from his shoulders.
Tears stream into his eyes as he moves on, knees and elbows pumping. His entire focus is on getting to the truck, his mind willing the glow of the headlights to penetrate the forest, calling him forward.
His lungs claw for air, lactic acid settling in his quads, as he cuts a serpentine path through the trees. His pace slows as dizziness overtakes him, the continued shots to his shattered nose overwhelming his physiology.
This cannot — will not — be how things end for him. The incident at The Sundowner was a fluke. A woman he wasn’t expecting caught him unawares.
But she would not get the best of him like this. He would not be cut down in the forest the way Hendricks and Lucas were, left for dead in the mountains north of the town he’d spent a lifetime protecting.
And damned sure not by a woman hired by his own wife with his own money.
Little by little, the faint rays of the headlights start to pierce the forest. A beacon pointing the way, they shift his path a few feet to the side. With each tree he passes, the glow becomes brighter, much stronger than even he remembered.
The dizziness remaining, his body twists to the side, his steps uneven as he pushes himself forward.
Taking a few final hard strides, he covers the last of the forest separating him from the road. His body barely able to remain upright, he bursts through the cover of trees, finding himself bathed in the harsh glow of the front lamps.
His legs burn. His lungs fight for air. His eyes water as he attempts to clear his head, forcing his body to cooperate for just a few moments more.
Bending at the waist, he snakes one hand into the pocket of his jacket, fishing frantically for the keys. The other he uses to extend the gun toward the forest, waving it from side to side, his blurred vision searching for any sign of movement.
Never does he expect it to be coming from behind him.
Nor for the reason the lights seemed so much brighter to be because they weren’t just those of the truck shining out into the forest.
Chapter Seventy-Four
The last time Hector Lima touched a gun was three weeks after Luis’s funeral. For a month solid in the wake of his friend’s death, he never left the house without it tucked into the front waistband of his pants. The tail of his shirt was always pressed behind it, making sure it was visible to the world.
An open challenge to anybody that dared say a word, or even so much as gave him a sideways glance.
Once the initial hostility had worn off, replaced by wanton sadness, and eventually realization and acceptance, the weapon was discarded. He handed it over to Bocco, knowing that if he kept it, he would end up doing something he regretted. Something Luis would have never wanted.
Either to himself or somebody else.
Spotting the massive blue truck that Jensen Spiers and his partner were driving parked along the side of the road, Bocco pulls in beside it. Headlights on — the glow with more of a yellow tint, a harsh contrast to the high beams of the pickup — he slams the gearshift into park.
Leaning forward so his chest is almost flush against the steering wheel, he fishes beneath the seat. For a moment, he remains that way, his brow furled, beads of sweat shining off it, before finding what he wants and drawing it out.
Nothing more than the bottom inch of the grip is visible, the rest of it wrapped in a white rag, but instantly Lima recognizes it. His entire core draws in as he stares at it, his features remaining neutral as he watches Bocco place it on his lap and peel back the top cover.
The gun is a Beretta 92FS. Its matte black finish is replete with nicks and scratches from years of being passed between various owners. A ten round magazine is already inserted, visible along the bottom of the gnarled grip.
“You want it?” Bocco asks.
Glancing over to the gleaming blue truck beside them, Lima does want the gun. He wants nothing more than to unload the entire magazine into the truck, starting with each of the tires, and putting four more into the engine block, rendering the vehicle useless.
When he’s done with all that, he’d relish putting the last two into Spiers and his steroid-infused sidekick. Letting them take the brunt of the anguish he’s been carrying for so long, allowing them to be the perfect example to all of what happens when they try to cross Hector Lima or the neighborhood he’s now intent on p
rotecting.
But he can’t. He can’t do that to Luis’s memory, to the promises he’s made.
And he damned sure can’t start down such a path, knowing that if he does, there is no telling where it might end.
Or if it ever will.
Never does he get the chance to say as much, though. Not a single word even passes his lips before the trees ahead of them part and Spiers appears before them. An explosion of flesh and branches and pine needles, the lights of the two vehicles flash across the mask on his face as he bends at the waist, panting deeply.
Perspiration is visible on his skin as he draws in heavy pulls of air. One hand he thrusts down into his pocket, the other waving his gun at the thicket of trees behind him.
“What the hell?” Bocco whispers, his tone reflecting the same tension, uncertainty, and disbelief that is currently roiling through Lima.
For a moment, neither makes a sound. They merely sit and stare at the man before them, each trying to decipher what he is doing. Who he is running from. What clearly has him so spooked.
“Never going to get a better moment than this,” Lima says, voicing the realization that hits him hard. Pulling back the latch on the door, he shoves it open, the metal hinges moaning angrily.
Less than an instant later, Bocco does the same. Both stand behind the opened doors, using them for cover.
Gun in hand, Bocco extends it through the crack formed by the body of the car and his door, wrists resting against metal, able to stand at attention as long as necessary.
“Spiers!” Lima yells, his voice cutting through the night, audible over the combined sounds of the two engines still running.
At the sound of it, Spiers turns their way, a spastic, flailing movement. His eyes bulging, his left arm jerks from his pocket, keys hitting the ground beside him. In tandem, his right arm swings wide, spinning his body around.
Halfway through his turn, he squeezes off a single round, the muzzle flash a bright flower bursting from the tip. The barrel aimed up toward the sky, the bullet flies harmlessly into the ether, the echo of the sound reverberating around them.
As ill-fated as the shot might have been, it still manages to send a jolt of adrenaline through Lima’s system. Dropping a few inches, he grasps the top of his door, his weight balanced, ready to fling himself into the car if need be.
Heart pounding, he stares across at Spiers, seeing the full weight of the stress he’s under splayed across the man’s features.
“What the hell is going on?” Lima asks. “Where is my money?”
Eyes flashing, Spiers stares at him a moment, the corners of his mouth pulled back into a snarl. “Your money? Your money?! You think I give a damn about that money right now?”
Swinging his body around in the opposite direction, he extends his arm toward the forest. Jabbing it at the thick cover of trees, he squeezes the trigger in unison, punctuating each movement with another shot.
Three, four, five times, the report of the gun shatters the night, sound thundering against the trees around them. A small cloud of smoke hangs in the air around Spiers, enveloping him, the smell of gunpowder thick.
“There is no damn money!” Spiers yells. “There never was! This was nothing more than a trap, an excuse to get us into the woods and hunt us down like dogs!”
His gaze rising, Lima sweeps it along the scene before them. Lit up by the twin pairs of headlights, the forest is bright green and thick, appearing impenetrable.
Nowhere does he see anything living, nothing to hint at what Spiers is raving about.
Not that he sees the man’s partner either.
“What do you mean there’s no money?” Bocco barks.
“And where the hell is Lucas?” Lima adds.
“He’s dead!” Spiers yells back. Turning to look back at them, he plugs two more shots into the woods. Firing blind, they tear through the thick pine boughs. “And if we don’t get the hell out of here, we’re dead too!”
Bending at the knees, he lowers himself straight to the ground. Right arm still held perpendicular to his body, he fans his left hand over the gravel, fingertips searching frantically, before finally finding what he is looking for.
Snatching up the keys, he begins to rise, squeezing off a single shot.
“You two are here worried about some damn money? Still busy out playing Robin Hood, trying to clean up your neighborhood and remember your friend. That’s not how this shit works!”
Taking a step toward the truck, he continues, “Nobody gets away clean. There is no happy ending. You take what you can, when you can, and then you get the hell out!”
Chapter Seventy-Five
I have no interest in hearing another word Jensen Spiers has to say. I don’t care about whatever manifesto he abides by, the total summation of what I need to know about the man occurring the moment I walked into The Sundowner and found him straddling my sister.
From there, this entire week has been nothing but a sprint, a combination of keeping her safe and making him pay.
That singular belief shoves aside the throbbing in my lower leg as I lean against the base of a tree. Not trusting the injured muscle enough to squat down, not knowing if it would be able to help me move quick enough to evade, I stand at full height.
On the south end of the small clearing around the parking turnout, I am well beyond the errant shots Spiers has been firing into the woods.
Who the two men that just arrived are, I don’t have a clue. If the back-and-forth they’ve been having with Spiers is any indicator, it is their money that is responsible for me being here right now, the hatred they feel for the man second only to my own.
Judging by the way he is flailing around, the shots he is firing, the words he is hurling, it appears his goal is to make it to the truck. To leave his partner lying in the woods and escape back to the city.
Hope to regroup.
Which — as is the case with most cops — probably means gathering as many of his brethren as he can and trying to mow the rest of us down.
I don’t have the time or the energy for any of that shit.
The gun his partner was carrying is a standard Glock 22, official issue of the LAPD. Based on the weight, I would guess it had a full magazine when he arrived, now down only the round that tore a chunk out of my leg and the one that ended his life.
Not my preferred weapon of choice, but I’ve used one enough to know how it works. 40 caliber rounds, effective up to fifty-five yards.
The gap between us right now is barely half of that.
Arms swinging about, Spiers continues to prattle on, his voice becoming nothing but background noise as I grip the gun in both hands. Raising it to shoulder height, I square in on the man, watching as he continues to swing about, a life-size marionette bouncing around for all to see.
Just the sight of him is enough to make bile climb the back of my throat. With it comes the image of Amy lying injured in her bed in Idaho, Amber now beside her, permanently marred by the tracking device his partner tagged her with.
The thought of those two jackasses showing up at Murph’s, trying to hunt them down in a crowded venue.
The trigger pull is clean as I send single shot across the clearing. Catching him a half inch left of the indentation above the bridge of his nose, it punches straight through the eye hole cut into the ridiculous mask he is still wearing.
Acting like a miniature snow shovel, it cleaves a trench back through his head, blasting blood and brain matter and skull fragments onto the front bumper of the truck he drove up here.
Small bits hit the front headlamp, the light taking on a pink tint as it illuminates the forest before it.
Spiers is dead before he hits the ground.
I wait until his body lands in a heap before shifting to the two men still positioned on either side of the car. Both frozen, they stare wide-eyed at Spiers’s corpse, neither knowing where the shot came from or how to react.
“The gun,” I yell, my voice making sure it is kno
wn that this is nonnegotiable. “Now.”
To his credit, the man on the driver’s side doesn’t hesitate in the slightest. The barrel of the weapon spins downward as he releases the grip, letting it slide from his finger and down to the ground.
Like his cohort, he balances both hands along the top frame of the door, all four visible.
Nobody else seems to be with them.
There was a time not all that long ago when these guys would be nothing more than collateral damage. Two more bullets added to an already large count.
A pair of quick trigger pulls, and I’m on my way again. No need for cleanup, a complete picture left for whomever comes along.
Maybe it’s the things I overheard Spiers yelling, talking about how these guys just wanted to clean up their neighborhood, honor their friend. Maybe it’s the fact that their money is what got me here, ultimately protecting Amy and her daughter.
Or maybe it’s just the fact that my damn leg hurts and I’m just ready to get out of here.
Taking a step away from the tree, I emerge onto the edge of the clearing. Keeping the gun level, I say, “Get in the car, and go back the way you came.”
If either is surprised by this, they do nothing to show it.
“None of us were ever here tonight.”
The man behind the driver’s door nods slightly.
“Whether you guys knew it or not, you saved my sister’s life. This puts us even.”
This time, the opposite man dips his chin in acceptance. His partner slowly retreats into the car, shutting the door behind him.
A moment passes as the man behind the passenger door remains standing. Seeming to be studying me, he lifts his left hand, hooking a thumb toward the car. “Bocco.”
He then gestures to himself. “Lima.”
I don’t particularly care what their names are, but I know why he’s telling me. He’s letting me know that if anything ever comes from this, if the LAPD or FBI or anybody else ever tries to make a stink over a couple of cops found dead in the woods, they had nothing to do with it.
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