by David Hosp
“What will you use?” Hassan asked, taking the gun without waiting for the answer.
Carlos pulled a pistol out of his jacket, holding it up for Hassan to see. “We need as many men as we have returning fire,” he said.
Hassan nodded and moved up toward the front of the garage.
Now was Carlos’s only chance. If anyone else saw him, they would be tempted to follow, and while a single man might slip through whatever perimeter the police had established, a group would be doomed.
He moved all the way to the back of the garage, into the corner opposite from the refugees, who were balled up like rats on the floor, each trying to dive to relative safety at the bottom of the pile. There, covered by a stack of cardboard, was the door to a stairway that led up to the rectory’s kitchen.
Carlos backed up against the door, taking one last look around the garage. Pedro, a young soldier who had been with Carlos for over two years, was still firing his weapon, trying in vain to hold off the onslaught. He was a good man, well trained and loyal. It might be possible to save him as well, but the risk was too great. Without another thought, Carlos ducked through the doorway and was gone.
z
Finn froze when he heard the gunfire coming from the rectory. All he could think about was Linda Flaherty. There were so many things he hadn’t said to her—so many things he needed to say. It took a moment for him to stand, and once on his feet, he was unsure where to go. His first thought was to head back out the front door of the church and hurry around the corner to join the fight. As he stood there, he realized there might be a more direct route: through the church. It might get him into a position to help her that much sooner, allowing him to approach the gunfire from the rear, which might provide a strategic advantage.
He took a few hesitant steps toward the heavy curtain that separated the entryway from the nave. Then, as quietly as he could, he pulled the fabric to one side and slipped through the opening into the unknown.
z
Kozlowski was still caught in indecision, considering whether to run back to the church to help Finn, when the shooting behind the rectory erupted. It took only another moment for him to react. It was clear that the real fight was down by the garage; only two quick shots had been fired in the church, and it seemed that whatever skirmish had taken place there must have been brief and decisive. Finn had either survived it or not, and it was unlikely that there was anything Kozlowski could do now to change that.
He slid the last ten yards down the side of the sunken rectory garage until he came to the corner of the building. From where he was, perched on the hill directly to the side of the garage doors, he could see Flaherty and her men in the driveway, and it seemed that they had the advantage. Two bodies lay on the hardtop, and looking closely at them, Kozlowski could tell they were not officers. He could also see that neither one was Carlos, as their tattoos, while prominent, left significant swaths of unpainted skin on their faces, necks, and hands.
Kozlowski looked down and to his right, and he realized that he could see directly into the garage through the top row of windows. It looked as though there were only two armed men fighting the battle from within, though they were both wielding automatic rifles, which meant that a full-frontal attack on the garage would be like walking into a wood chipper. A group of defenseless people was piled into a corner, seeking cover, and another body lay in a pool of blood near the far garage door. Carlos was nowhere to be seen.
Kozlowski looked back toward the driveway and saw the federal agents fire a concentrated hail of gunshots at the garage—covering fire, Kozlowski guessed—and then Flaherty and Seldon emerged from behind one of the vans, making a direct run at the garage.
It was hopeless, Kozlowski could see. Although the covering fire probably seemed overwhelming from the driveway, one of the shooters in the garage was well protected by the garage door and still had a clear shot at the two officers as they made their approach. He aimed and fired, and Seldon fell to the ground with a sickening thud. Kozlowski watched as the shooter shifted his aim toward Flaherty, his head down on the gun’s stock.
Kozlowski reacted without thought, bringing up his own gun and firing in one swift motion. The window on the garage door shattered, and the shooter jerked upright, his eyes wide in surprise as a stream of blood flowed from his throat. He hovered, looking about in confusion, and then fell over.
Kozlowski was nearly as surprised as the man he’d shot. He stood there on the hill watching the man die, as if in a trance. He was shaken back into the moment only when another small window in the garage door crashed apart, and he heard the whistle of gunfire pass by his ear.
Kozlowski turned to see the last remaining gunman in the garage pointing his rifle directly at his head. He dove back into the snow on the hill as the ground exploded in puffs of white around him. The bursts of automatic gunfire were deafening, and Kozlowski knew that even with poor aim, the shooter would hit him eventually. Then he heard three sharp, distinct reports of a military-issue pistol, and the rifle fire went silent. The quiet was soon replaced by shouting as the entire federal team moved into the garage. By all indications, it seemed that the situation was well under control.
Kozlowski sat up and patted down his chest and arms, feeling for wounds. He held up his hands, looking for blood, but all he could see was the snow melting on his fingertips. He gave one quick glance down into the garage and, satisfied that the shooting was over, pulled himself to his feet and ran back toward the church.
z
Carlos was heading out the side door of the rectory when the shooting stopped. He cursed his men; he had hoped they might hold out longer. In the future, he would have to train them better. He paused at the door, looking around and listening for any sign of law enforcement. There was nothing, but with the shooting over, they could be coming after him any second. He couldn’t stay out in the open.
He ran along the covered walkway, his gun drawn. As he came even with the church, sensing few other options, he turned and ran up the staircase to the back door.
z
The main hall of the church was bright compared to the entryway; Finn was thankful for that, at least. The glow from the full moon streamed in through the simple stained-glass window behind the altar, lending the place a dim, otherworldly glow. It might have seemed peaceful were it not for the gunfire exploding in the distance, rattling the colored panes in the montage of biblical characters looking down in indifference. The sweet stench of decay lingered in the air, and Finn wondered if a racoon had died underneath the floorboards.
Finn swung his gun around toward the corners of the nave and the chancel, making sure the place was empty. Once satisfied, he moved quickly down the center aisle toward the altar, looking for the back entrance as he ran. He had just located it when the shooting stopped. He paused, his hand on the doorknob. Was it possible that it was all over? It had been more than a decade since he’d been in a church, and he was not generally given to prayer, but he was suddenly overwhelmed by the dread that Linda Flaherty had been killed, and he had done nothing to protect her. He turned and looked up at the stained glass, focusing on the figure of Jesus Christ in the center, looming over him. Please, he thought, I’ll promise you anything you want—make any sacrifice you ask for—as long as she’s alive. Then, convinced that he had done what little he could within his power to ensure her safety, he reached for the doorknob again.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Carlos was moving quickly but quietly as he swung open the church door with a hard shove. It opened in and then shuddered to a stop as Carlos slipped into the building and found himself face-to-face with a tall, dark-haired man in a good suit, holding a gun. The two of them regarded each other in shock, and then the other man raised his gun toward Carlos. Carlos realized that he had no time to get his own pistol raised, and stepped forward to throw an elbow into the man’s arm as it was still coming up to take aim.
They were only a foot or two apart, and as Carlos’s elbow
knifed into the soft tissue on the interior of the man’s upper arm, the gun snapped back, flying from the man’s hand, hitting the floor, and sliding under one of the nearby pews. The man could do little but watch his gun disappear across the floor. Then he turned and saw the gun in Carlos’s hand, and his face went white when Carlos smiled at him.
“Wait!” the man said, which only caused Carlos’s smile to broaden as he pointed the gun at the man’s chest. He’d always enjoyed the thrill of killing.
z
“Wait!” It was all Finn could think to say. His mind was spinning, searching for some flash of salvation. There was no time, though, and the notion of a coherent strategy was clearly a luxury he could not afford. So he did the only thing that came to mind in the split second before Carlos had time to pull the trigger: He put his head down and ran straight at him as fast as he could. Finn felt his shoulder sink into the man’s sternum as he drove him back toward the chancel.
Carlos was taken by surprise, and Finn had at least thirty pounds on him, so there was little that the gang leader could do but allow himself to be carried backward. After ten feet or so, Carlos’s feet hit the step that formed the dais of the altar, and they both toppled over. Finn heard Carlos’s gun hit the altar, and he realized that he had a chance now. His optimism was short-lived, though, as the other man threw three hard punches into Finn’s body. They were sharp, well-placed shots, knocking the wind from him. Finn tried to fight back, but the pain from his wound left him at a clear disadvantage, and he knew instantly that he had to get away.
Finn rolled to his side and scrabbled toward the door, still doubled over. He looked back and expected to see the man crawling for his gun, but he wasn’t. Instead, he was reaching for something closer—a long metal object that was leaning against the wall at the side of the altar. As he picked it up, Finn recognized it instantly, and he struggled to move more quickly toward an escape. It was difficult, unable to breathe as he was, to make his legs fully obey. In front of him, just as he reached the door, he caught a glimpse of a moon shadow on the wall—Carlos’s arms raised above his head, the machete held aloft, only feet behind him.
Finn grabbed at the door and pulled it open right as Carlos swung the blade hard and fast. Finn looked up, and there, standing in front of him, was Kozlowski.
z
There was no question in Kozlowski’s mind that he had found Carlos. The face of the man behind Finn was an indescribable mask of anger and hatred and euphoric bloodlust. It was a painted mask, at that, the eyes burning out from a living work of art.
Kozlowski didn’t hesitate; he grabbed Finn by the shoulder and pulled him hard to the right, throwing him to the ground as the blade came down. It hit off the metal of the doorjamb, showering a long string of sparks into the darkness. Kozlowski had his gun drawn, but he was off balance from shoving Finn to safety, and as Carlos brought the machete back, he turned the blade, catching Kozlowski on the knuckles. The blow wasn’t solid enough to separate any of Kozlowski’s fingers from his hand, but it was sufficient to cause him to drop his gun. He looked down and saw the blood.
Carlos was in full fury now, and his anger was concentrated on Kozlowski. He came again, wielding the machete like a deranged Saracen. He swung high, clearly looking to take Kozlowski in the throat with one quick blow. Kozlowski ducked and parried the thrust with a shoulder to Carlos’s forearm. Locked in close, Kozlowski prevented him from using the giant knife to his advantage, and as Carlos struggled to gain enough space between them to take another swing, Kozlowski head-butted him in the face.
It would have been enough to put most men down, but it merely stunned the gang leader, and he stumbled backward. Kozlowski pressed the advantage, rushing him and grabbing his arm as he slammed the man to the ground at the foot of the altar. He worked quickly, holding Carlos’s wrist with one hand to keep the machete on the ground, and punching the man in the face with his other fist.
Carlos’s face erupted in blood as his nose split and shattered. He let out what sounded like a squeal of anguish, and Kozlowski, feeling a rush of vengeful gratification, hit him again and again.
He was sure that his advantage was irreversible until he swung at the man’s face a fourth time; then the momentum turned. Carlos’s hand shot up, catching Kozlowski’s fist as it came down. Carlos was incredibly strong, Kozlowski realized as he struggled to free his hand. Suddenly, Kozlowski found himself on the defensive again, and as he looked at Carlos, he realized he had been wrong: The man was not screaming in pain, he was laughing. His face was a bloody, tenderized mess, and he was missing two teeth, but he was laughing harder and harder. Then the face swung toward Kozlowski at an impossible speed. At the last moment, it tilted forward, and Carlos caught Kozlowski in the forehead with a shattering head butt.
Kozlowski fell off of Carlos, rolling to his side as he released Carlos’s hand that still held the machete. Carlos, still laughing, stood up, grabbing Kozlowski’s arm and pulling it behind his back until the detective was sure it would break. He tried swinging at the smaller man with his free hand, but it was no use; Carlos was behind him now, bending him forward as Kozlowski knelt at the foot of the altar. Then Kozlowski saw the flash of steel out of the corner of his eye, and he knew there was nothing left for him to do. He was about to accept his fate when he heard a revolver cock somewhere in front of him.
“Let him go!” Finn’s voice rang out in the cavernous church.
z
Finn had hit his head on the ground hard when Kozlowski pushed him out of the way. He lay there, stunned. With his cheek to the floor, he looked over and saw the revolver he had dropped lying under the second row of pews.
He turned and saw Kozlowski locked in combat with Carlos, the machete still in Carlos’s hand. Then Finn looked back toward the gun and started crawling toward it. He could see the dull glow of the tempered steel barrel. It was lying on the ground, wedged up against what appeared to be a loose mound of clothing.
Finn was on his knees, sliding across the floor and around the corner of the pews. All he could focus on was the gun, and it was not until it was within reach that he looked up and focused on the rags behind it. It was the smell that caught his attention first; the putrid stench that he had noticed when he entered the hall grew overpowering as he closed in on the gun. In the shadows of the moonlight underneath the pew, Finn had to stare hard before his eyes could perceive any details, and the first thing that came into shape was a hand protruding from one side.
The sight brought Finn up straight as he pulled back from the gun. His first thought was that one of Carlos’s men was hiding there. As he raised his head and his position relative to the lump changed, he made out a face. It confused him, since it seemed to grow out from between the man’s legs, and Finn couldn’t imagine twisting a body so drastically. After a moment he realized that the body wasn’t twisted at all—the head had been cut off and tossed onto the corpse’s lap. Looking more closely, Finn recognized the face of the man who had attacked him in the alley in Roxbury—the man who had attacked Lissa in her apartment later that night.
Finn thought he might throw up right there, but he managed to keep his composure. “Serves you right,” he whispered to the head as he grabbed the gun.
He got to his feet and came around the pews toward the altar, where Kozlowski and Carlos were still thrashing about on the ground. At first it appeared that Koz was getting the best of the battle, but then Finn saw the detective’s head snap back violently, and he crashed to the floor in a heap. Carlos was on top of him immediately, raising the machete to deliver the final blow.
Finn took aim but hesitated to shoot for fear of missing Carlos and hitting Kozlowski. “Let him go!” he yelled.
Carlos looked up at him. His face was bloody but locked in a sick, gap-toothed grin. With the tattoos covering his face, he looked like a demon from one of the horror movies Finn had loved as a child. Carlos grabbed Kozlowski by the hair and pulled him up to his feet, using him as a shield. He put the b
lade to his hostage’s throat. “Drop your gun,”
he said.
Finn shook his head. “Let him go,” he repeated.
Carlos smiled as he pushed the machete into Kozlowski’s throat. “Drop your gun, or he dies.”
Finn looked at Kozlowski, who had a cut over his eye from where Carlos had head-butted him. The blood was dripping off the end of his nose. “Shoot him,” Kozlowski said simply.
Carlos pushed the blade farther into Kozlowski’s throat, drawing a gasp. “Shoot him!” Kozlowski yelled.
Finn took careful aim at the corner of Carlos’s head that was visible from behind Kozlowski. He felt his hand shaking as he began to put pressure on the trigger. Suddenly, without warning, Carlos’s head exploded. The top half of his skull shattered to the right, carrying a solid lump of blood and bone and brain matter against the wall to the side of the altar.
Finn looked down at his gun. It was still cold; he hadn’t fired. He looked around in confusion and saw Linda Flaherty crouched by the doorway in a shooter’s stance, her gun still pointed toward the space behind Kozlowski where Carlos had been standing only a moment before. “Is there anyone else in the church?” she demanded, her eyes scanning the interior of the building.
“No,” Finn replied.
“Are you sure?” Flaherty pressed.
“The guy who tried to kill me and attacked Lissa is decomposing underneath one of the pews,” Finn replied. “His head is upside down in his lap, so I doubt he’s going to be much of a threat. I checked the rest of the place out; it’s empty.”
Flaherty stood up and walked over to Kozlowski. He hadn’t moved, other than to turn and look at Carlos’s body lying just behind his feet. “I told you to stay out of this, right?” she said to Kozlowski.
He nodded. “I saved your ass down there by the garage, though.”
“You did. I’d say we’re even now.”
