He misses—the target is moving too fast. It’s the woman cop, and she has the rifle. She ducks behind the couch.
Swanson pulls back the bolt, ejecting the empty cartridge, loading another one. He re-aims at the sofa and puts a bullet through the middle, where she was just a second ago.
I got her, he thinks. I must have.
Movement, in the lower right quadrant of his scope. He adjusts, sees someone squatting by the window.
The woman cop.
Swanson pulls the trigger. Nothing happens. He didn’t load the next bullet yet.
Stupid bolt action rifle. Why didn’t Pessolano buy semiauto—
Swanson feels a sharp tug in his chest. He hears the shot at the same time.
Did she just—?
The pain runs Swanson over like a truck. Someone has him in a giant nutcracker and is squeezing his ribs, making it impossible to draw a breath. He touches his breastbone, looks at his fingers.
Blood. A lot of blood.
This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.
Swanson crawls away from his gun. His breath comes back, and the oxygen burns and stabs at his insides. A weak cry escapes his throat.
He fumbles in the darkness for his belt, finds his radio, brings it to his face.
“…shot…” he manages to whisper.
No one answers.
“…I…got…shot…”
No reply. Why won’t they answer?
Swanson looks into the woods. Where’s the truck? Where did they park it? He has to get to a hospital. Has to get there so they can take this bullet out of his chest.
“I didn’t catch that, Swanson. Can you repeat?”
He stares at the radio. Presses the talk button.
“…shot…been shot…need…help…”
The radio falls from his hand. Swanson coughs, feels something wet come up. Everything is getting all topsy-turvy. He isn’t going to make it to the truck. He isn’t going to make it another foot. He wants to lie down, go to sleep. Swanson falls onto his face, and the universe explodes into a Technicolor panorama of agony.
Swanson moans, manages to roll off of his tortured chest and onto his back. He stares up into the night sky. Each time he inhales he wants to die. He wants, needs, to talk to Jen, to tell her he didn’t mean for it to work out this way. This isn’t the ending he planned on.
“Swanson?”
It’s not the radio. Swanson’s eyes drift to the right, land on Munchel, standing next to him.
“Jee-zus, man! You got yourself shot.” Munchel stares back at the house. “I knew she was good. Glad I only gave her three bullets.”
“Doc…tor…” Swanson wheezes.
“Hell yeah, you need a doctor. Shit, I can see blood bubbles coming out the hole in your chest. You are seriously fucked up.”
Swanson wonders why Munchel is just standing there. He should be dragging him to the truck, or shutting off the cell phone jammer and calling an ambulance.
“Hos…pit…tal…”
Munchel leans over. His face looks huge, and his expression is grim. “See, here’s the problem with hospitals, Greg. They have to report gunshot wounds. How quick do you think they’d connect a rifle slug in the chest with what happened to night in Chicago?”
“…won’t…”
“Sure they will.”
Swanson forces it out. “…won’t…tell…”
“Oh, I get it. We drop you off, and you don’t mention us at all. Even when you’re on trial for all of those dead cops that I killed. You don’t say anything at all about me or Pessolano. Is that right?”
Swanson coughs. His mouth feels hot and wet. He can’t believe Munchel wants to talk this much while he’s dying. The talk can come later. Right now he needs help.
“Do you promise you won’t rat out your buddies, Swanson? Can I get your word on that?”
Swanson thinks he nods. Or maybe he just imagines he nods. Either way, he feels himself being dragged. To the truck. To doctors. To safety.
He closes his eyes, hopes that Jen is there in the hospital when he wakes up.
Pain forces Swanson’s eyes back open. He feels like there’s an airplane parked on his chest.
It’s Munchel. He’s standing on Swanson’s rib cage.
“Can’t use a bullet,” he says. “Pessolano might hear.”
Swanson can’t draw a breath to answer. He tries to push away Munchel’s legs, but he has no strength left.
Death doesn’t come quick or easy. It’s takes close to five minutes.
Swanson feels every second.
10:49 P.M.
JACK
I’M PRETTY SURE I hit the sniper, or at least came close. I set the rifle down, find the wall switch, and flick on the living room lights. They’ll have to change scopes again, giving me time to—
She comes at me in a blur. My mind registers the glint of a knife blade, and I instinctively throw both hands up over my head, forming an X with my wrists to block its downward path. Then I spin, sweeping my right leg out, tripping Alex.
Alex lands hard but recovers fast, rolling to the side, getting her feet under her. The knife is from the rack on my kitchen counter. A cheap set, flimsy blades, but they’re serrated and insanely sharp. She’s chosen a paring knife. Alex switches her grip to underhanded, blade up. She’s fought with knives before.
I cast my eyes around for a weapon, settle on a sofa cushion. It won’t do much, damage-wise, but it’s thicker than the knife blade.
Alex’s eyes are cool, dispassionate. She feints once. Again. Then lunges.
I block the knife with the cushion, feeling it puncture the fabric, twisting hard to try and catch the blade. She pushes harder, swiping at my face with her free hand, catching me on the cheek.
I stumble back, managing to keep hold of the cushion. She comes at me again, but this time I kick at her shin, driving my heel into the spot below her knee.
Alex roars. Then a gunshot thunders over our heads, making a divot in the ceiling.
Harry, in the hallway, pointing my Kimber at us.
“Hey! Mrs. Hyde! Hold still so I can hit you!”
Alex must not feel threatened by Harry’s left-handed shooting, because she ignores him and comes at me again. Personally, I feel extremely threatened. Chances are high Harry will shoot me instead of Alex. I’ve witnessed firsthand how bad he is lefty. Adding codeine and vodka to the mix isn’t going to improve his aim.
Alex strikes, hard enough for the knife tip to penetrate both sides of the cushion. She muscles forward. I double back, smacking into the wall behind me.
Another BOOM. A hanging picture of my mother shatters, Harry’s shot hitting her in the head.
Alex presses her whole body against the cushion. I feel the tip of the blade poke against my stomach. I shove back, but she’s bigger, stronger. I suck in my gut, trying to avoid being skewered. It isn’t working. The knife jabs me again, and I feel it break the skin.
“I’m going to gut you,” Alex says, spittle flecking off her lips. “And then feed you your intestines.”
Rather than push against her, I move sideways, letting her keep the cushion. The knife pierces the wall. I hit Alex in the ear with the heel of my hand, putting my weight into it.
She staggers. I pivot my hips and kick her, hard. Alex’s hands are still wrestling with the cushion, so she can’t block my blow. The top of my foot connects with her unprotected kidney, and I feel the impact in my fillings.
Alex drops the knife and the cushion, her arms pinwheeling to keep her balance. I advance, fists clenched, sensing my chance to put her down for good. I rear back and unleash a vicious right hook.
Alex recovers faster than I expect, and she sidesteps my punch. Then she grabs my extended arm and uses my momentum to hurl me across the room.
I kiss the carpet, look up, and see Harry aiming the gun right at my face.
“Wrong target!” I scream at him.
I roll away a millisecond before he pulls the trigger.
; “Sorry, Jackie!” he yells.
I get to my knees, vision squiggly, head pounding.
“Mom! Take the gun away from Harry!”
Then Alex is on me again. I endure a kick to the shoulder that makes my whole arm go numb, then I duck another that would have broken my neck. Adrenaline and reflex have been controlling my actions, both of them fueled by fear. To survive, I need to think rather than just react. Alex is bigger, faster, stronger, and a better fighter. I can’t win going toe-to-toe with her. I need a weapon.
Asking Harry to throw me the gun isn’t a wise idea. He’ll miss. Plus, he still needs it for defense.
The kitchen has knives, pans, a rolling pin, but nothing that will give me a distinct advantage.
But the garage—I have power tools in the garage.
I crawl around Alex, use the wall to stand up, and then sprint for the doorway.
I make it to the door, see some potential weapons on the workbench, and then fly past it when Alex prods me from behind. I bump into some stacked boxes, bounce off, and turn to face her.
She’s on the balls of her feet, dancing back and forth, hands up in a sparring position. Her head rolls on her neck, like Muhammad Ali loosening up before a title bout.
“Afraid?” she says. “You should be.”
I am afraid. I’m more afraid than I’ve ever been in my life. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to quit.
I adopt a fighting stance, my feet apart, my fists in front of me.
Alex moves in. She works the jab, hitting my upraised arms, pain stacking upon pain stacking upon pain. When I try to circle toward the workbench, or the shovel sitting in the corner of the garage, Alex cuts me off. When I return blows, she easily sidesteps them. We both know I’m outclassed, but I’m going to go down swinging.
“I’m going to take you apart, Jack. Piece by piece. It all comes down to conditioning.”
“You should be more concerned with moisturizing,” I say.
Alex snarls, then unloads on me. I bunch my shoulders, take the hits, wait for her to tire.
She doesn’t tire. And my arms are getting so sore that soon I won’t be able to punch back.
I back away, feel the boxes behind me, reach around and throw one at her.
She dodges it.
I tear into the box beneath it, hoping for a weapon, coming out with a crooked branch to an artificial Christmas tree. Why couldn’t I be Jewish? Menorahs are solid, heavy, perfect to bash someone’s head in.
Alex slaps the branch from my hand, throws a right at my cheek. I duck it, then swing a big haymaker that catches her, full force, on the chin.
She wobbles backward, dropping her hands. I follow up with a kick, but I’m disoriented and only strike air. I try again, connecting with her side, but there’s no power behind it, and Alex shrugs the blow off.
I cast my eyes on the workbench. Lunge for it.
Alex’s leg shoots out like a piston, catching me in the cheek. I sprawl backward, onto my ass, not able to tell up from down.
Then she’s on me.
Her first punch lays me out, and while I’m on my back she stomps on my stomach, so hard I can feel organs shift. I roll to the side, blind instinct guiding my actions, and receive a few more kicks to the body. When I reach the automatic garage door I feel like I’ve spent an hour in a cement mixer.
I cover my face, Alex kicks me in the body. I protect my body, she goes after my head. I curl up fetal, unable to defend myself, unable to fight back.
I’m being beaten to death. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
10:52 P.M.
PESSOLANO
PESSOLANO STARES DOWN at Swanson’s lifeless body. For some reason he thinks of his mother, lying in her casket. He bends down and crosses Swanson’s hands over his chest, and then gently closes Swanson’s eyes. Pessolano wishes he had a lily, or a Bible, or a rosary, to place in Swanson’s hand. He fishes around in his vest and comes out with a granola bar. He presses that into Swanson’s fist.
“We’ll avenge him,” Munchel says. “We’ll kill every last one of those assholes.”
Pessolano stands. He hopes Munchel doesn’t see the tears on his cheeks. He turns away and discreetly wipes them off.
“We can’t leave him here,” Pessolano says into the woods. “Soldiers don’t leave their dead behind.”
“We won’t. But we’re in a combat situation right now. We’ll give him a hero’s funeral. I promise. But after the war is over. We have to finish this first.”
Pessolano nods.
“I think we should rush the house,” Munchel says. “Break in, flush them out of hiding, and blow their goddamn heads off. You’ve got those Desert Eagles in the truck, right?”
“Yeah.”
Pessolano has two Magnum Research Mark XIX Desert Eagle .50 AE handguns. They’re massive weapons, weighing over four pounds each, capable of stopping a charging bull with one shot.
“Let’s do it, man. For Swanson.”
Munchel claps his hand on Pessolano’s shoulder.
“For Swanson,” he agrees. He wipes away another tear and clears his throat.
“Look,” Munchel says. “I know this is a tragedy, but Swanson would want us to soldier on. Right?”
Pessolano nods. He’s choking up a little bit.
“One of us should stay here, keep an eye on the house, and the other should go get the truck, bring it back.”
“Shouldn’t we, you know, say a few words first?” Pessolano gestures at the body.
“Yeah, sure. I suck at this kind of shit.”
“Please.” Pessolano sniffles. “For Swanson.”
“Shit. Okay. Yeah, sure. Uh, oh Lord, our friend Greg Swanson was a good man who wanted to rid the world of perverts. He was a hero, and he’ll be missed. But me and Paul are going to fuck up those fucking motherfuckers responsible, and make them choke on their own fucking blood.”
“Amen,” Pessolano says. “I’ll go get the truck.”
10:54 P.M.
JACK
ALEX GRABS MY SHIRT, jerks me to my feet. I try to lift my hands, try to push her away, but I don’t have the strength. Physical or mental. I’m broken, bleeding, beaten, finished. It’s over. I’m done.
“That’s all you’ve got?” Alex asks. She’s not even breathing heavy.
My eyes dart around the garage, but I have no idea what I’m looking for. Nothing can help me. I’m past pain. Past exhaustion. Deep down, I know I need to keep fighting, know I’m dead if I don’t. But there’s nothing left in the tank. I can’t even stand up, and my knees wobble and give out.
Alex picks me up again.
“You’re pathetic, Jack.”
I hear gunfire, coming from the house. Harry, shooting at codeine apparitions. Dummy. He needs to save the bullets.
“You know, I built you up in my head as this supercop. I considered you a worthy opponent. No one had ever beaten me before.”
She squeezes my cheeks together, like I’m a child.
“You got lucky, Jack. That’s how you beat me. Luck.”
Consciousness is slipping away. A slap brings me around again.
“Say it, Jack. Say you got lucky.”
I close my eyes. Alex slams me into the garage door.
“Tell me you got lucky!”
“I…got lucky.”
Half of Alex’s face breaks into a smile. I start to cry. Not for me. For Mom. For Latham. For Herb. And even—I hate to say it—for Harry. None of them deserve this. This night of horrors was supposed to end with the good guys winning.
Alex is right. Human beings are just animals, and all animals are selfish. And I selfishly want the people that I love to be okay, and I weep because I’m not going to get my way.
“Perfect,” Alex whispers. Her horrible face gets close to mine, and it looks like she’s going to kiss me. But she doesn’t.
Instead, she sticks out her tongue and licks away a tear.
“Hey! Frankenbitch!”
We both t
urn.
Harry McGlade is standing in the garage. The Kimber is in his left hand, pointing at us. His right hand is still attached to the refrigerator door, which is resting at his feet, the hinges shot off.
“Let my little sister go!”
Alex snakes her forearm around my neck, putting me between her and the gun.
It’s a mistake. I’m a physical wreck, and a mental disaster, but you don’t need muscles or brains to execute a judo flip. All you need is leverage.
I jerk my head back, snapping it into her nose, then immediately lean forward and to the right, throw her over my hip.
Alex tumbles ass over head, releasing me, flipping onto her back. I take three steps toward Harry and fall at his feet.
“Shoot her,” I mumble.
He drops the gun, grabs my arm.
“Out of bullets.”
Harry drags me and the refrigerator door back into the house.
“Hold on…”
I stop, spin around, and pull the door leading to the garage closed, turning the dead bolt, locking Alex in.
A shot pings through the living room window, whizzing past my face. We kneel side by side, propping up the stainless steel door like a shield. It’s not tall enough to cover us completely, leaving the humps of our backs exposed as we crouch behind it.
“Thanks, Harry,” I manage.
“Mom made me. I think she loves you more.”
Everything starts to spin. I rest my forehead on Harry’s shoulder. He looks at me.
“Jesus, Jackie. You got your ass kicked.”
I run a hand over my face, which is a mass of swelling and pain.
“You don’t need more blood, do you?” he asks.
“I think I’ll be okay.”
Then everything gets really blurry and the darkness takes me in its arms.
11:00 P.M.
PHIN
THE CAB SPITS PHINEAS TROUTT out in front of a house that isn’t Jack’s. According to the taxi driver and his electronic address finder, hers is the next one down the road. Phin prefers to walk the rest of the way. On the phone, Jack sounded scattered. If something is going down, Phin prefers to sneak up on it rather than announce his presence by getting out of a car at her doorstep.
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