“Which one? The photograph?”
“What else? It’s her obsession,” Mike said.
What Mike said gave Bryce an idea. As a law enforcement official, he had access to all sorts of information and could look up most anyone’s address. If Angie wanted to talk to someone about the photograph, who better than her father?
CHAPTER 58
Raynor Sinclair scrambled to his feet, took an improper firing stance, and through blurred vision, got off a haphazard shot at nothing. Angie wasn’t in his sight anymore, and he didn’t know where she had gone.
The strike to his throat had dazed him. He believed she had only a few seconds head start, but a few seconds in that sort of foot race could translate into minutes. He wasn’t concerned about Angie getting out the front or side doors. He had stuck pennies wrapped in tape into the crack between the door and the jamb molding above and below the handle. It was a prank his brothers had pulled on him years ago, so Raynor knew from experience that the technique was extremely effective at locking someone inside. He scanned the backyard and saw no sign of her. He doubted she’d gone that way. The front door would have been his first and best choice. She was bright, exceedingly cunning, and had probably done as he would have.
The gun safe used an electronic lock from Titan, but Angie knew the code—a combination of her birthday and her parents’ anniversary. An adrenaline rush like no other held at bay any emotion or thought not connected to her survival. Her father was dead, murdered in front of her eyes in the most horrible way imaginable, but she would grieve for him later. Her focus was on picking a weapon.
Angie went with the Ruger. It was light, reliable. The basement had a concrete floor with rough-hewn stone walls. Even with the light on it was dark down there . . . and dank . . . and crammed full of boxes and bins of various sizes and materials. The basement had no windows or exits. Its main purpose was for storage.
The space had nooks, such as the crawlspace underneath the stairs, where her father stored cans of paint. On the wall next to the crawlspace was where her father kept his tools—a table saw, workbench, and plenty of wrenches, hammers, extension cords, and the like—all neatly arranged on a pegboard. The heating and cooling systems, hot water tank, and electrical panels were opposite the pegboard.
Angie gathered up the gun. She checked to make sure it was loaded—it was—and took an extra magazine just in case. She hesitated then decided to take the CZ 75 as a backup, stashing that weapon into the waistband of her jeans.
At the wall by the stairs, she flicked a switch, shut off the light, and plunged the room into complete darkness. She felt along the wall, careful not to knock down any of the tools, until she found the crawlspace under the stairs. Working quickly but quietly, she moved aside a tall cardboard box full of old coats, and climbed over a stack of paint cans without knocking any over. She pulled the box in front of her, sealing herself inside as if it were a tomb.
Raynor rounded the corner and aimed his rifle into the kitchen. He saw nobody there. The side door was closed and the window over the sink was intact. Perhaps she hid in a closet or food pantry? He checked both, but didn’t find her. There was another door in the kitchen he hadn’t checked, and when he opened that one, he smiled.
Behind it he found a set of stairs.
Angie gritted her teeth. Her heart raced in terror and sweat coated her skin. The room seemed to be spinning. A sound from above turned her blood to ice.
Footsteps.
Raynor used a switch at the top of the stairs to turn on the basement light. No reason for him to descend into darkness. He leaned his rifle—a Model 700 SPS Tactical from Remington, with a Vortex viper 6x24 scope and a suppressor from Dakota he had threaded himself—on the wall next to the basement door. The rifle had served its purpose well, and while the subsonic ammunition didn’t completely drown out the noise of the shot, it was enough for him to forgo ear protection. The usual thunderclap of the Remington was more like a car had backfired.
It had felt good in his hands, but since he wasn’t familiar with the layout of the basement, the rifle’s long barrel might prove a liability in a confined space. His original plan had been to use a tactical knife, a 12-inch fixed blade from Bowie, to cut Gabe and Angie’s throats. But the father might have armed himself as a precaution. Angie had progressed quite far with her investigation, and Gabriel had reason to be cautious.
As for Angie, she knew her way around guns, had a license to carry, and might also be armed.
Raynor liked his skills in close quarters combat, but he’d taken into account the two-on-one odds, plus the possibility of firearms in the mix, and decided the knife wasn’t the way to go. Better to use his rifle, take up position in the backyard, which offered plenty of tall trees to hide him from the neighbors and lots of windows for sighting his targets. His plan had worked stupendously, with one notable exception.
Angie.
He had been careless with her.
He would not be so thoughtless again.
The wooden stairs groaned under Raynor’s weight. It was quiet down there, but he knew his quarry was near. He could sense her the way he could that grouse on the day he murdered his father. He wouldn’t let Angie get the best of him again. He would anticipate her every move, same as he did that grouse.
In his hand, Raynor held a Glock 20 in 10mm auto—a massive piece of firepower, though without considerable recoil. He descended cautiously, surging forward, pausing frequently to scan the area for threats. Stairwells presented him with a unique tactical challenge, but his instincts told him Angie wasn’t waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
His instincts were right, and he stepped into an unfinished basement with a smooth floor, but rough walls. He saw no windows, nor any doors to the outside. The ductwork, electrical wiring, and pipes running overhead were all exposed. It was an open floor plan, with lots of boxes, and lots of places for her to hide. Which way should he go?
The space was like his Remington—good on utility, short on frills. It was clean and organized with an area for exercising off to Raynor’s right, and a place for storage and tools to his left. He scanned right but went left. Left offered more places to hide. The biggest mistake he could make would be to move too quickly. He inched his way forward, keeping two hands on his Glock at all times. The open area made it easy for him to slice the pie. No hallways or doors fragmented his focus. He would shoot at even the slightest bit of movement.
Sliding in front of the wall abutting the stairwell, Raynor trained his gun on the heating and cooling system in front of him. He wondered if Angie had taken refuge over there. He stepped in front of a pegboard of tools and came to a stop next to a tall cardboard box to his left. He kicked the box with his foot, not hard enough to knock it over, but just enough force to test the weight and see if Angie might be hiding inside. She wasn’t. He stepped away from the wall, stood with his back to the box and scanned the room once more.
Angie used her ears for eyes. It sounded to her like the man was right in front of the box. In fact, she saw the box move slightly, as though he had pushed it, perhaps checking to see if she were hiding inside. Footsteps followed, but not many, one or two at most. Then a shadow blocked out what had been a sliver of light seeping in where the top of the box and the lip of crawlspace met. He was directly in front of her.
Angie leveled her Ruger. And fired.
Raynor heard a gunshot behind him, and then he felt the burn.
He fell to the floor. The sticky collision with the bullet hadn’t knocked him over. That went against the laws of physics. It was his reaction to the gunshot that sent him tumbling. The bullet had entered through his side, and could have done internal damage, but it hadn’t stopped his heart. Without hesitating, he flipped onto his back and fired three wild shots aimed at the cardboard box. The noise was deafening, but not so loud as to drown out the sound of Angie’s scream.
The first bullet to hit Angie struck her in the arm. The second went into her side. The third miss
ed because she fell onto her back to minimize the chance of another hit from the fusillade. Shot placement was everything, and her would-be killer’s bullet hadn’t hit anything vital. She could still breathe. Her senses functioned. Her heart continued to beat. The bleeding was brisk, but not overly so. The pain, however, was intense—white hot, burning her from the inside out.
She wasn’t frozen in fear, nor was she in too much pain to continue to fight. Lying on her back, she fired again. Bullets from her gun punched several holes through the cardboard and may or may not have hit her attacker. Light streamed into the crawlspace through the bullet holes in the box. Dust motes danced inside columns of brightness. The holes weren’t big enough to see through, so she fired blindly again, expecting a return volley.
With his gun in his hand—a Glock pistol in .40 S&W caliber—Bryce knew something was wrong the moment he’d seen coins wrapped in electrial tape wedged between the door and the jamb molding. The coins were easy enough to remove from the outside, but it would have been impossible to do so from inside. The door was unlocked and he went right inside. Before he could even call out Angie’s name, he heard a series of gunshots.
He oriented himself to the sound and soon a found a set of stairs behind a door in the kitchen leading to a basement.
His heart hammered away. All the anxiety, fear, everything he’d felt while taking down Buggy was magnified tenfold. The situation, the threat level, and the number of assailants were all unknowns.
“Angie? Are you okay?”
Bryce’s call went unanswered.
“Angie, it’s Bryce. Talk to me if you can?”
To his surprise, a male voice responded. “Taggart! Taggart! Raynor Sinclair, U.S. Marshals. Get down here right away. Angie’s been hurt!”
The killer has a name. His name is Raynor, and he works with Bryce. These were passing thoughts. Angie’s real focus was protecting Bryce.
She heard footsteps above her and screamed, “No! Don’t!”
But the sound of Bryce’s footsteps quickened anyway.
Raynor had moved away from the box and Angie’s line of fire. He fired his weapon at the exact moment Bryce emerged from around the corner. The bullet struck Bryce in the chest, left of the heart. Shock and pain sent him to his knees. Blood painted the cement floor beneath him in drips of red. He fired off two shots, but his aim was worthless.
Raynor came forward with his gun aimed for the kill shot. “Drop your weapon,” he said, his voice even and steady despite the pain of his injury. “Do it or you’re dead.”
Bryce looked disoriented and off balance while placing his gun on the ground beside him.
“Now, slide your weapon over to me.”
Bryce did as he was told. Raynor picked up the gun and slipped it into the waistband of his pants, wincing at a stab of pain. He approached Bryce with caution, though confident he was no longer a threat. Raynor hoisted Bryce up by his shirt collar, spun him around, and used an arm lock to the neck to keep him upright.
He pushed Bryce forward and called to Angie, “Throw out your gun and come out where I can see you, or I put a bullet through his head right now.” He could hear Angie’s labored breathing coming from behind the box.
“Counting to three,” Raynor said. “One . . .”
More breathing.
“Two . . .”
The cardboard box came open like a hinged door. A bloody hand appeared from within and tossed out a gun. A Ruger it looked to be. The gun landed with a clatter.
“Now, you come out where I can see you,” Raynor said, trying to ignore the pulsing pain in his side.
From the crawlspace, Angie slithered out on her belly, knocking over paint cans in her wake, sending them rolling across the floor like bowling pins. Her left arm appeared mangled and blood seeped out from a hole in her side where she’d been shot.
Raynor wasn’t in much better shape. The pain radiating in his belly was intense, the blood loss steady. He knew he should work quickly to finish them off, but rage owned him. Angie needed to suffer for shooting him, hurting him, humiliating him.
He pointed his gun at her. “On your knees.”
Angie did as she was told. “Why are you doing this?” Her voice came out shaky.
Raynor found the fear swimming in her eyes to be almost hypnotic. He rarely wounded his quarry, and so rare was the opportunity to see a living creature process death. It was a thing of profound beauty. He respected Angie greatly for her courage. But she had to die. He turned Bryce around and forced him onto his knees next to Angie. Blood continued to pour out of his body, as well. Bryce could barely lift his head, and he might have been in shock.
Raynor gritted his teeth to stave off the stabbing pain as he searched them both for any hidden weapons. He found none. They had no recourse, nothing left to do but die. He backed up three steps and aimed his Glock at Angie’s head.
“You shot me,” he said, breathing hard, staring Angie in the eyes. With his left hand, he unsheathed the bowie knife from a holster strapped to his boot. “Nobody hurts me. If they do, they pay for it. So I’m going to shoot you both, but I’m going to kill him quickly. You, I’m going to work on slowly, make it hurt as much possible. Any last words?”
Raynor’s vision was dimming. He wasn’t sure he could make Angie’s suffering last as long he wanted. He needed to get to a hospital and come up with some way to explain this mess.
Angie had no last words. She refused to avert her gaze. Hatred had replaced much of the fear Raynor had seen in her eyes. He admired her even more at that moment.
Raynor adjusted his aim. “Then all that’s left to say is good-bye.”
A gunshot sounded with a cacophonous bang and the smell of blood succumbed to the overpowering stench of gunpowder.
Angie heard the bang, but instead of pain, she saw blood rise up from behind Raynor’s head in a great red wave. His legs gave out and he crumpled to the floor, where she could see how a gunshot had taken apart much of his skull. Her gaze moved away from his inert form and onto the figure of a man who stood ten feet away, holding a hunting rifle in his hands.
Walter Odette.
Angie felt weightless in her body. A feeling of incredible, profound relief tempered the pain of her many injuries. For a moment, all she could feel was the joy of still being alive. Walter had come to her rescue. Of course it would have to be him. All her life, he had been there for her, playing the role of her entire extended family. He had protected her by putting her into witness protection, and here he was, all these years later, protecting her once more.
Walter had two guns on him—the hunting rifle in his hands, and slung over his right shoulder was the Remington Raynor Sinclair had used to murder her father. Angie needed to get up off her knees, desperate to hug Walter close to her. Somehow she found the strength in her legs to begin to stand.
As she started to rise, Walter set the hunting rifle on the ground and took Raynor’s Remington into his hands. Then he aimed the barrel of the Remington at Angie’s head and said something she simply couldn’t comprehend. “This isn’t the first time I killed for you.”
CHAPTER 59
Angie sank back to her knees. Electric currents of pain like nothing she had ever experienced surged through her body. Bryce, also wounded, also on his knees, teetered beside her. He was too weak and dazed to speak. Though bleeding profusely, he somehow managed to keep upright and conscious.
“Uncle Walt, what are you doing?” The strain in her voice was matched only by the strain showing on Walter Odette’s face.
“I’m so sorry, Angie,” he said, his voice cracking, sputtering his words. “It was never supposed to have ended like this. Never. I love you and I’m so very sorry. But I have no choice.”
Walter took aim once more. He had gloves on, and was going to use Raynor’s gun to kill them. It was obvious Raynor would take the blame for all the murders, except for his own. Walt would get credit there—a hero neighbor who came just a little too late to prevent a tragedy. Wh
atever motive he would invent for Raynor’s rampage didn’t much matter.
Angie covered her head with her hands, expecting a bullet that didn’t come. She uncrossed her arms to look at Walter, who stood ten feet in front of her.
“Please Walter, don’t do this,” Angie pleaded from her knees.
Walter’s finger trembled against the Remington’s trigger. “May God forgive me.”
Those words—so familiar to Angie—hit her like a bolt of lightning. She expected to hear a shot, and again braced herself for a pain that didn’t come. Walter had hesitated once more.
She sensed a blur of motion to her right.
Leaning forward, Bryce had managed to pick up one of the paint cans Angie had knocked over, and with the grunt of a shot putter, hurled it at Walter’s head. The throw was perfectly on target, and Walter used his forearm in a reflexive countermeasure to deflect what would have been a direct hit. The paint can bounced off his arm and fell to the floor with a clang. The top came off and a thick pool of turquoise spilled onto the cement.
Angie used the distraction to her advantage. What had worked before could work again.
Ignoring the pain of her injuries, fueled only by adrenaline, she fell to her right and leaned her body into the crawlspace, emerging a moment later with the CZ 75 in her hand. She had stashed the backup gun there before surrendering to Raynor. She had expected a trained professional would search her person for a second weapon, but had counted on him not searching the crawlspace.
Unlike Walter, Angie didn’t hesitate to shoot. Four bullets spit out the barrel of her gun, and three punctured Walter’s chest. A grunt, and he collapsed to the floor, falling onto his back, his gaze fixed to the ceiling. The Remington tumbled from his grasp and fell safely out of reach.
Forgive Me Page 33
