When my eyes adjusted, I looked around to locate all the entrances--all the ways someone could sneak in here and see me--but the whole main level was a big entry point. The interior walls were naked stud-work. There was one front door, one back door, a basement door, a half-dozen open windows and a stairwell leading to the second level.
I moved to the wall adjoining this unit to the next--the route I hoped to take into unit 510. It was drywalled. Figures. The compound hadn't been added yet, so I moved my gloved fingers over the boards, testing their resilience and peering through the cracks. The drywall was securely fastened. Jack could probably rip off a piece, but not without creating enough racket to alert anyone waiting for us next door.
Something whispered behind me--the soft sound of a carefully placed foot. I wheeled, gun going up. Jack lifted his free hand. He'd come in the window, obviously deciding I needed closer backup. I nodded and motioned for him to follow, so he could stand at my back while I examined the wall farther down. We slipped through the wall studs into what looked like the kitchen. There, alongside the counter, the drywallers had left a bare two-by-three-foot section, presumably waiting for something to be roughed in.
While Jack covered my rear, I crouched to examine the hole. The gap was partly drywalled on the other side, but there was a spot big enough to squeeze through--big enough for me. I straightened and gestured at the hole. As Jack ducked for a better look, something thumped overhead.
I froze, eyes narrowing as I looked up. For a moment, all was quiet. Then it came again, the faint thump of a foot on uncovered floorboards...right over our heads.
Jack's gaze shot left. I gestured at the stairwell, the only obvious route to the second floor. I mentally raced through my image of the exterior, then leaned over to Jack, and whispered an idea.
"Where?" he mouthed.
I took a moment to figure it out, then pointed. His gaze flicked up, and I could see him processing the second-floor plan, working out the logistics. Then he nodded and waved me off.
Once I was through the hole between units, Jack hunkered down beside it, giving me cover while protecting his own back. For a minute, I didn't go anywhere, just stood there, looking and listening. Just because we knew someone was upstairs in unit 508, didn't mean there wasn't anyone in 510.
Like its neighbor, this unit was all open stud-work, meaning the only thing between me and a potential attacker was the darkness--but that worked both ways. Once I was reasonably confident that I was alone, I moved for-ward, gun ready, steps soundless as I moved toward the stairs.
Construction had progressed further on level two, making travel easier in some ways, tougher in others. Without Jack's cover, I had to take it slow and careful. With my back to the wall, I crept down the hall, peeked through the master bedroom door, then darted over to the balcony. Here the patio door had been installed, but didn't yet have a lock--or handle. I eased it open, crept onto the balcony and moved to the far right end.
A few feet away was the balcony for 508, where we'd heard the steps. Crossing the gap would have been easier--and safer--with proper tools, but I made it. Once across, a look through the glass door assured me the bedroom was empty. Within seconds, I was inside and across the room, pressed against the wall beside the hall doorway.
The footsteps had come from the northeast corner of the unit, right across from the master bedroom. I strained for a sound from that direction. None came. I tapped a fingernail against the drywall. A second tap answered. All units in position. I counted to three, then silently swung through the doorway.
The hall was empty. A split second later, Jack wheeled around the other end, gun drawn. He nodded. I lifted my hand and counted down: three-two-one. We each moved to cover the next doorway. Mine was the bathroom. No one was in it. I glanced at Jack. He shook his head.
With the next countdown, he swung into the entrance to the room where we'd heard footsteps, with me covering him from anyone coming down the hall. A soft grunt told me the bedroom was empty.
I squeezed past him, leaving him covering the door, and moved into the room. A quick check out the window. I shook my head. All clear.
While Jack kept me covered, I crouched and took out a penlight. Shielding it with my free hand to limit the reach of the light, I examined the floorboards. The thick layer of drywall dust showed the ghost of many feet, and two sets of recent prints, made after the last of the dust had settled. One set was mine. The other crisscrossed the room a few times, then ended at the window.
As I bent to examine the window, Jack tapped my shoulder and shook his head. I arched my brows. He gestured at one of the footprints. Misshapen, as a few of them were, with an extra bump-out near the heel, as if the walker had slipped in the dust.
"Retraced his steps," Jack whispered.
He motioned for me to get the window open.
"Make noise," he said. "Be obvious."
I nodded. Jack slid soundlessly back to the door, and I started working on the window. I was careful not to be too obvious about it, but didn't take pains to open it quietly. Jack motioned for me to keep up the ruse and disappeared around the corner.
I got the window open, then stage-whispered, "Here, let me go first."
I grunted, playing Jack hoisting me into the window.
"Shit," I whispered. "It's a helluva drop. Give me your hand and lower me down."
Another grunt. Then the crack of a gunshot. I wheeled away from the window, realizing as I moved that the shot came from the hall, not outside. A second shot--returned fire. As I sprinted across the room, two more shots came in quick succession from the second, farther gun.
As I neared the door, gun drawn, I could see Jack inside the bathroom doorway, diagonally across the hall. He had his gun up, listening. Seeing me, he jerked his chin, telling me our assailant was down the hall. I motioned, asking Jack if the gunman was far enough away for me to cross my open doorway safely. He nodded, and I flipped to that side. Then we waited.
I heard it first, the slap of a foot brought down too quickly. I gestured to Jack, telling him the gunman was on the move. Then I motioned a plan. He hesitated, then nodded.
I counted to five, leaned into the hall, making myself a target, then jerked back. The gunman fired. Jack fired. A hiss of pain. Return fire, receding, covering the sounds of retreat. Only when I heard the distant sound of feet racing down the stairs did I peek to check on Jack. He was already in pursuit. I hurried after him.
* * *
Wilkes
Wilkes huddled under the tarp, back against a lumber pile, gun drawn to blast the first shape that came near him. Gone to ground. Holed up like a rabbit.
God, wouldn't Evelyn love to see him now?
No. She wouldn't. Wouldn't care one way or the other. She'd just sniff, as if to say "What do you expect?"
His hands trembled, but he told himself it was rage, not fear. The fury of a wounded lion cornered by a sniveling jackal. He'd set the trap at the window, assuming they'd draw the obvious conclusion and climb out. Jack would let the girl go first to help her down. Such a gentleman. Then Wilkes would have swung around the corner, opened fire and rid himself of an annoying little scavenger.
That's all Jack was--a scavenger. A jackal. Fed scraps by Evelyn, petted and pampered until he thought he was good enough to compete with the lions. One swing of Wilkes's paw and he could have brought Jack down twenty-five years ago. Should have.
Wilkes shifted, inhaling sharply as pain knifed through him. Two shots. How the hell had Jack managed to hit him twice? He knew the answer in a heartbeat. Because he'd screwed up.
These past two weeks he'd prided himself on the care he took, on the control he exercised. Easy enough when it was a stranger at the other end of his gun barrel. But when given the chance to take down Jack, that cold layer of detachment had evaporated, and he'd been running on hate and adrenaline. He'd moved quickly, carelessly. Unforgivable.
He wouldn't make the same mistake again. At least he'd had the sense to back down
after he was wounded. Neither shot was serious, and that was all that counted...even if it meant he was forced to crouch here, bleeding like a stuck pig, when he should be hunting Jack.
A fresh burst of rage, and he inhaled again, sharper, clearing his head, then peeked out. Where were they? Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe they weren't searching for him. He must have hit Jack at least once. Must have. Maybe he was lying in a pool of blood right now, the girl bent over him, desperately trying to staunch the flow.
The thought cheered Wilkes enough to push to his feet. He staggered forward and tugged back the tarp for a better look.
"Blood here." Jack's distant whisper carried through the silence. "Got a trail."
Didn't sound like he was bleeding to death.
Wilkes clenched his jaw hard enough to feel a jolt. As he took another step, the pain from his side and shoulder flared. He gritted his teeth and pushed past it. No time for weakness. He had to get out there and--
The pain was so intense he stumbled, hands smacking the tarp as he broke his fall.
"--hear that?" the woman's voice whispered.
Wilkes pushed up straight, both hands on his gun to steady it, waiting for one of them to appear. But all went silent, even the sound of the flapping tarps from earlier gone as the wind had died. He surveyed the construction yard. It was dotted with piles of lumber, covered drywall, bricks...a dozen places to hide.
Did he expect them to waltz over here, letting him get a clean shot? Did he really think Jack was that stupid? He wanted to. God, how he wanted to. But he knew better.
He checked his watch: 11:48. No more time to waste. As much as he'd love to stick around and see this through, he had a train to catch.
He hadn't made it to his car. He'd got about a quarter of the way when he'd picked up the sounds of pursuit. Knowing he was in no condition to outrun them, he'd taken the first port of refuge: the security guard's van. He'd known it was open--he'd left it that way after he'd killed the guard.
The perfect hiding place. He'd positioned the guard so, from a distance, he appeared to be dozing. Jack wouldn't dare come close enough to see otherwise. He'd spot a sleeping guard and avoid the van, assuming his quarry would do the same. So now, hunkered down in the back, tying makeshift bandages on his wounds, Wilkes only needed to wait Jack out.
He checked his watch. Could he still make the train? He had over an hour's drive just to reach the station. He fought the first prick of panic. He'd still have time. Jack wouldn't search for long, not with the girl in tow.
They'd left. They'd finally left. Wilkes checked his watch for the hundredth time in the past hour, his rage so white-hot that sweat streamed down his face.
No, it wasn't too late. He could drive to the next station. He could--
Impossible. He'd calculated it, recalculated it with every possible variable in his favor and knew he'd never make it on time.
Take another train. Kill another victim.
And, while he was at it, he'd send the Feds a congratulations card, for scaring him off his promise, making things too hot for him to pull the promised hit. That's what they'd assume.
He'd failed.
No, not failed. Changed his plan. He was toying with them. He never even got on the train. Couldn't have, because he'd been in Vegas, killing a security guard.
He smiled, took out his wallet and removed a dollar bill, rubbing it between his gloved fingers to make sure he only had one. Then he reached into the front seat, laid it on the guard's lap and--
And looked down at the bloodied shirt he'd stripped off.
His gut went cold.
He fought the panic back. He'd been careful. Even the shirt was folded, unbloodied side down. But if he made this an HSK kill, the Feds would rip this van apart. A single blood drop. A single hair. Even an eyelash. They'd comb the building site, too, and he knew from Jack's words that he'd dripped blood somewhere.
He swallowed. Fresh rage enveloped him.
In a flash, he was back in that house, in that hall, seeing Jack down the hall illuminated by the moonlight. His face hard. Emotionless and cold, as if he knew he'd make his shot. Jack hadn't feared starting a gun battle in an empty house because he knew he'd instinctively cover all the contingencies, that even if he wasn't hunting a mark, he'd have covered his traces.
So damned perfect. Jack wouldn't have panicked and crawled into this van, bleeding.
Wilkes shook off the thought. He'd leave this as an unmarked killing, and he'd be safe. That meant the Helter Skelter killer couldn't strike in or near Vegas tonight--couldn't take the chance of the murders being linked.
It didn't matter. He'd make up for it. Something bigger. Better. Splashier. Let the Feds think he'd been pulling their strings with the train hit, making them dance. He'd do it right next time.
Then he'd take care of Jack.
* * *
FORTY
We searched for longer than we should have. If I needed further proof that Jack was as frustrated by this "interruption" as I was, this was it. After a thorough sweep, we should have left, in case the dozing guard awoke. Even more dangerous was our pursuer himself, possibly holed up somewhere, gun poised, ready to blast if anything crept past his hiding spot. That I realized this first--when the black fury over losing our prey lifted long enough for me to take stock of my situation--proved how furious Jack was.
When I did realize it, I felt a lick of fear, worried that if I suggested we should quit, he'd turn that anger on me. Yet I didn't get more than a whispered "Jack, I think--" out before he was nodding and nudging me to a quiet spot, where he said the very words I'd been ready to speak, as if he'd already realized we should leave and had just been holding out a few minutes longer before surrendering.
And it did feel like surrender. Jack said our target had probably left, and I agreed, but we both knew neither of us believed it. Even if we suspected it, we wanted to be sure, to cover every square inch, hunt until dawn drove us off.
It was a silent drive to the hotel.
Instead of letting me sink into my black thoughts, the quiet refocused my attention. Jack was just as angry, just as frustrated as I was, and what I felt was the overwhelming need, not to join him, but to pull him out of it. Help him as he'd helped me last night, after the opera.
Yet last night, he'd initially seemed uncertain how to help, leaving my room to buy a bottle. Only later did he hit on the perfect diversion--And so now I sat there, wishing I knew him better, knew how to help.
When we finally reached the hotel and got inside, I said the only thing I could think of.
"You got him. Shot him, I mean. For all we know, he's holed up, dead."
Jack shook his head, tossing his keys on the dresser, rattling as they collapsed in a heap.
"Fucked up," he said.
"You? I never even got off a shot."
He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it on the chair then, with a glance my way, picked it up and laid it neatly across the back. I watched him, measuring the set of his jaw, the force of his footfalls as he crossed the room. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, vertebrae crackling. Then he kicked off his shoes, thumping one-two on the carpet.
"Fucked up," he said again, as if he'd never paused the conversation. "Back at Little Joe's place. That punk. Message wasn't enough."
"We don't know that. This was more likely Gallagher's man--"
"Doesn't matter." He lowered himself onto the bed, springs squeaking. "Ten years ago? Would a put a bullet in him. Never thought twice. Punks like that? Can't let them think they bested you."
Another neck rub. "But like I said tonight? Ten years ago? Don't much like who I was then. Things I did. These days? Try to find other ways. Sometimes? Go too far."
"Even if you had killed that guy the other day, that's not to say the Nikolaevs wouldn't have sent this one...if that's who did send him."
Jack opened his mouth, as if to argue, then said, "Gotta get some sleep."
"Can you? I mean, I'm not sure I can
so if there's anything I can do..."
He paused and I could tell he was ready to lie and say "Nah, I'm good," but then he glanced my way, hesitated a few more seconds and said, "Talk to me."
I managed a wry smile. "Now that I can do, as you well know--though, after I get going, you probably wish I came with a shut-up button."
He met my gaze. "Never."
I felt my cheeks heat. Didn't know why, but felt the blush anyway as I stumbled on. "If it's war stories you're looking for, I'm afraid I can't match yours. Mine are all pretty much 'find Mafia thug, kill Mafia thug.' Good for putting you to sleep, though..."
"None of that shit. Just tell me..." He shrugged. "Talk about the lodge. Your plans. Where you want to be in five years."
"Still open for business."
A quarter-smile. "Yeah. I know. You will be. Must have plans, though."
"Tons of them."
"Tell me."
And so I did. Babbled on about the lodge, my plans for it, and he listened, even prolonging the conversation with questions and suggestions. Absolutely meaningless drivel that we managed to invest with all the gravity and consideration we gave to our investigation plans.
After ten minutes, we were stretched atop our respective beds, heads on the pillows. Jack had his shirt off, jeans still on, half ready for bed but not prepared to make the full commitment. Another twenty, and his questions came slower, as he relaxed, lack of sleep from the night before catching up with him. Ten more and he was gone, snoring softly, as if exhausted.
I slipped from bed, tiptoeing, knowing how easily he woke. I took a blanket from the closet and laid it over him, as he'd done with his jacket the night before. Then I changed into my nightshirt, turned off the lights and crawled into bed.
"Nadia..."
Running. Lungs on fire. Heart pounding. It hurt. Hurt so bad. Pain ripping through me. Couldn't think about that. Couldn't think about me. All that mattered was Amy. Gotta get home. Gotta tell my dad...
Hands grabbed me, strong hands. I fought, kicking, biting.
Exit Strategy Page 28
