Her look suddenly changed. She was staring back at me as if I’d just tapped into her innermost thoughts. “How did you know that?” she asked.
“Lucky guess,” I said. “But don’t get any ideas. I’m still sleeping on the couch again tonight.”
She started laughing again. We both did. Then we both suddenly stopped.
The cabin had gone pitch black. Every light around us, even the one hanging over the porch outside, had gone dark.
The power was out.
Chapter 89
I WASN’T SURE which sound I heard first, the window shattering or the shots being fired. But I was damn sure I felt the bullet that grazed my shoulder.
“Down!” I yelled. “Down, Sarah!”
My eyes had adjusted barely enough to see the outline of Sarah hitting the floor with me as more bullets—one, two, three—came through the window, the shards of glass landing all over us. How the hell is this happening?
I reached for my Glock and could hear Sarah doing the same. Meanwhile, the shots outside had stopped. Was it over? Or just intermission?
I whispered to Sarah. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she said. “You?”
“Yeah. One nicked me, that’s all.”
“You sure?”
I pressed my palm against my shoulder. There’s bleeding and then there’s bleeding. Luckily, it was the former.
“I’m fine,” I assured her. “Window or door; which one you got?” As in, which one do you want to cover?
“Door,” she said.
I raised my arms toward the window, locking both elbows. The only other window, a tiny one, was in the bedroom, but we were clear of it.
“What’s he got? M16?” I asked. It was my best guess, given the three-round bursts and slightly higher pitch of the weapon.
“That or an M4 carbine,” she said. “Tough to tell, given the distance.”
“At least forty yards.”
“Maybe more,” she said.
“And he cuts the power first?”
“Goggles,” we said in unison. The shooter had to be wearing night-vision goggles.
“Shit, where’s that flashlight?” I asked. We had two of them in the cabin. But where were they?
“More important,” said Sarah, “where is everybody?”
She was right. Where was our backup, the four agents we had around the perimeter? Even with the shooter behind them, they still should’ve located him by now.
Unless he got to them first.
No. No way. Not all four agents.
Sure enough, the two-way radio at my waist suddenly crackled with static. “Anyone hit?” came a hushed voice.
I grabbed the radio, whispering back. “We’re good so far,” I said. “He must be wearing—”
“Yeah, goggles,” said the agent. “Moving in with the same. Two to a side.”
I’d lost track of who was on what shift around the cabin. At least this guy sounded experienced.
“Which one is he?” I asked Sarah.
“Carver,” she reminded me. “Agent Carver.”
Cavalry was more like it.
Chapter 90
THE ONLY THING worse than the sound of all hell breaking loose around us was the feeling of helplessness that came with it.
All of it happened so fast. The bright beam of light outside our window followed by a barrage of gunfire echoing through the woods.
Four against one out there. I didn’t have to be Jimmy the Greek to like those odds. But it was what came after—the stone-cold silence and the feeling of dread sweeping over me—that I didn’t like. Not one bit.
There was nothing Sarah and I could do. Agent Carver’s radio was off. All the radios were off.
I slid across the floor amid the shards of glass, leaning up against the wall next to the window.
“What are you doing?” whispered Sarah, the subtext being that whatever it was, I shouldn’t be doing it.
But I had to look. I had to try to see what was happening. A quick peek, that’s all.
Not quick enough.
My head barely made it past the wood trim alongside the window when—pop-pop-pop!—I nearly caught one between the eyes. My neck snapped back, pure reflex at the sound of the shots, as more glass rained all over the cabin.
“Shit!” said Sarah.
I immediately knew what she was thinking. I was thinking the same thing, and it wasn’t just how lucky I was to be alive.
I grabbed the two-way again, jamming the Talk button with my thumb. “Carver!” I said. “Carver, are you there?”
He didn’t answer.
I tried again, and again all I got was silence. I flipped to the other frequencies, the ones assigned to the remaining agents. Four against one, for Christ’s sake!
Not one of them answered, though. Nothing. Not a peep.
Dead silence.
I could feel the sweat dripping down my forehead, my heart pounding relentlessly against my chest. What the hell happened out there?
Then we heard it. The crackling of my radio again, followed by Carver’s voice going in and out. He barely had enough strength to push the Talk button, let alone actually talk.
“Three…down,” he managed to get out. “Help…”
There were no more words, only the sound of his labored breathing. It was horrible, just horrible. But it only got worse.
Pop-pop-pop!
Another quick three-round burst shrieked over the radio, the ear-piercing feedback leaving little doubt that the shots were fired at close range. A few yards. Maybe even less.
And just like that, Carver’s breathing was gone. He was gone. All that remained was that same feeling of dread I’d had, only a million times worse. I was drowning in it.
“We’ve got to get out there,” I said to Sarah.
Only it was too late. The sound of footsteps heading toward us had broken the silence again.
We’d set a trap for the Honeymoon Murderer, but now we were the ones who were trapped.
He was coming in.
Chapter 91
I COULD BARELY see Sarah across the cabin, but I could hear her scrambling over to the sofa. Was she setting up behind it?
No.
“Got it!” she said, slapping something against the palm of her hand. One of the flashlights.
There was no time to discuss strategy. I took it on faith that we were thinking the same thing. If she saw the night-vision goggles over his eyes, she’d blind him with the light. If not, the flashlight would remain off and we’d have a fair contest. No one could see.
All I could hear now were the footsteps getting closer. The door of the cabin was to my right; the window—or at least what remained of it—to my left. I had my back jammed hard against the knotty-pine paneling, almost as hard as I was gripping my gun.
Breathe, O’Hara, breathe.
A split second—that’s all Sarah and I would have. Crouched down low, I felt like a defensive lineman trying to anticipate the snap count of the quarterback. Time it right, we’d win.
But time it wrong?
I kept listening, the footsteps getting louder and louder. Then it was the strangest thing. It caught me so off guard all I could do at first was freeze.
The footsteps stopped getting louder. They were softer now. No; that wasn’t the right word.
They were disappearing.
He wasn’t running at us, he was running past us. And now he was getting away.
Sarah and I both jumped up, bursting out of the cabin with the light of her flashlight leading the way. We couldn’t see him; he had too much of a head start. But we knew where he was heading.
About a hundred yards down a dirt trail was a small clearing off the access road where our Jeep was parked. The glove compartment even had a registration in the name of my alias, Zach Welker. We presumed we’d thought of everything.
“Damn!” I yelled as we heard the sound of the engine at the end of the trail. He was already at his car. The son of a bitch proba
bly parked right next to us.
“You have the keys, right?” asked Sarah, midstride. She was booking along ahead of me and barely breathing hard. She was obviously no stranger to a treadmill.
“Got ’em,” I said, double-checking they were still in my pocket. I was huffing and puffing. My chest was burning.
In my head I was already behind the wheel, the car chase in full swing. The setup was perfect, a winding and narrow road at night lined with unforgiving trees. I’d cut my headlights and follow his taillights, and if he tried to do the same I’d still have his brake lights to guide me. What he’d have, though, would be the broad side of a pine tree.
Let’s see if you drive as good as you shoot, asshole.
Sarah and I reached the small parking lot. Our Jeep was sitting there waiting for us. I pulled out the key fob to unlock the doors when, even in the pitch-black darkness, I noticed something.
Sarah saw it, too.
The Jeep was too low to the ground.
Sarah shined the flashlight on the front tires. Then on the back two. Each was flat to the rims.
I kicked the shit out of the door in frustration while Sarah looked up to the night sky.
“Dammit, not again!” she screamed.
Chapter 92
IT DIDN’T TAKE long for the deal Dan Driesen and the Bureau struck with the New York Times to fall apart. Disintegrate might be a better word.
The paper had agreed to sit on the story of the Honeymoon Murderer so we could set the trap for him. In return, they were to receive an exclusive on what should’ve been his capture. Should’ve been.
Unfortunately, life doesn’t always go as planned.
Now the story was right there on the front page—in the far right column, above the fold—for all the world to see.
“Don’t do it, O’Hara. Don’t beat yourself up,” said Driesen. Sarah and I were in his office at Quantico. Flags were at half-mast. Spirits were even lower. “It’s not your fault.”
Sarah had already told me the same thing—a few times over, in fact. I answered Driesen the same way I answered her.
“It was my idea,” I said. How could it not be my fault?
The only names mentioned in the article were those of the dead. The number stood at ten; the three newlywed couples plus the four agents. As for the paragraph on Agent Carver, it said he was married with two boys. The older one was thirteen, the same age as John Jr.
While I was getting my shoulder stitched up at Shenandoah Memorial Hospital it occurred to me that the very last word Carver ever spoke was help. If only I could have. I knew I’d be haunted by that forever.
Driesen leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. He blinked slowly, his chin dipping toward his chest. I was pretty sure what he was thinking as he looked at me. What the hell am I going to do with this guy?
He and I had only met face-to-face a few days earlier, but he’d read my file. He’d been briefed on me. I was John O’Hara, the agent so overcome with thoughts of avenging my wife’s death that I got myself suspended by the Bureau—only to then become the target of a serial killer stemming from an old case that had nearly gotten me fired because I slept with the suspect.
But wait. Tip of the iceberg, folks. There’s more.
While on suspension I got hired freelance to solve the murder of Warner Breslow’s son and his new bride, only to stumble upon yet another serial killer who ended up killing four agents in a plan I devised that went terribly, horribly, and downright appallingly wrong.
Hell, were it not actually happening to me I never would’ve believed it myself.
The worst part—and this, too, I’m sure Driesen was aware of—was that now, in addition to being obsessed with revenge, I was consumed by guilt. That’s a one-two punch from which a lot of people don’t get up.
Was I one of those people? Was I down for the count? Lost?
That’s what Driesen surely wanted to know.
“Tell me something, John,” he said. Before he could continue, however, the phone on his desk buzzed. His secretary apologized for interrupting, but there was a call she thought he needed to take.
“Who is it?” asked Driesen.
“Detective Brian Harris with the NYPD,” she said.
Driesen’s eyes narrowed. Clearly, he didn’t know who that was. He picked up. “Dan Driesen,” he said.
I watched as he listened. Whoever this Detective Harris was, it didn’t take long for him to prove that, yes, this was a call Driesen wanted to take. In fact, Driesen reached for a pen so fast he nearly knocked over his coffee mug.
I couldn’t see what he was writing, but as he glanced up and nodded with a slight smile I knew one thing for sure.
He was no longer wondering what the hell to do with me.
Chapter 93
SARAH AND I hopped the next Delta shuttle to New York, hailed a cab from LaGuardia to the Ninth Precinct on the Lower East Side, and climbed the stairs two at a time to the second floor to meet Detective Harris. I was still shaking the guy’s hand when I cut to the chase.
“Where is she?” I asked.
“Down the hall,” he said.
“Was she okay with waiting?” asked Sarah.
“No, but it’s not like she had much of a choice,” said Harris. “Once she told me what she told me…”
He didn’t need to finish the sentence; it was simply understood. A given. When a potentially huge break in a case comes walking through the door, you basically lock that door behind her. God forbid she changes her mind.
We followed Harris, a compact man with a shuffling gait, down the hall to a small lounge area furnished with a couple of beat-up couches, a half-empty vending machine, and some old People magazines. Make that really old. The cover of one announced Lost as the new hit television series.
In contrast, Martha Cole, the woman sitting on one of the couches, looked even younger than her twenty-two years of age. Mousy hair, a lean figure, a few freckles dotting the bridge of her nose. It would be a while before she ever ordered a drink without being carded.
At that moment, though, it seemed as if she could really use one. Maybe even two. After Harris introduced us I went to shake her hand, only to see that it was already shaking on its own. The rest of her was, too.
Sarah sat down next to her. “It’s okay, Martha,” she said soothingly. “I know how hard this must be for you, so we’ll try to make it as easy as possible. We just need to ask you some questions.”
Fact was, all we knew at that point was what Harris had told Driesen over the phone. A young woman had walked in off the street clutching a copy of the Times. She asked to speak to a detective, any detective. When asked why, she said she thought she could identify the Honeymoon Murderer.
His name was Robert Macintyre, and he was a former staff sergeant in the U.S. Army. Robbie, she called him.
“I used to be engaged to him,” she explained.
Chapter 94
MARTHA COLE DREW a deep breath, exhaling slowly. She was calming down. I chalked that up to Sarah and gave her a quick, approving nod. Run with it. She’s all yours.
I took a seat on the other couch next to Detective Harris and crossed my legs. Then I crossed my fingers. We were overdue for some good luck.
As promised, Sarah kept it simple. “Martha, when was the last time you saw or spoke to Robert?” she asked.
“About a month ago.”
“And when did the two of you end your engagement?”
Martha hesitated. Her eyes welled up, the emotions kicking in. She was doing her best to fight it.
Finally, she answered. “It wasn’t a mutual decision. I’m the one who broke it off.”
Detective Harris reached into his pocket, then handed Martha a folded handkerchief. Nice to think some guys still carried those around. Very old school.
“Thank you,” said Martha, wiping her eyes. As raw and torn as she was, I couldn’t help but notice her determination. She continued: “When Robbie came back from the war—Afghanista
n—it was like he was going through withdrawal. He missed the action, the constant adrenaline.”
Sarah nodded. “Let me guess—you couldn’t compete, right?”
“Exactly. Everything was boring to him, including me,” she said. “I thought I was doing him a favor.”
“You mean by breaking things off?”
She couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. Her guilt was too strong. Her anger even stronger.
“That damn war!” she nearly shouted. “It wasn’t Robbie’s fault, do you hear me? He wasn’t the same person. The guy who came back wasn’t the guy I’d fallen in love with!”
Sarah put her hand on Martha’s shoulder, rubbing gently. “We understand, we really do,” she said.
“But Robbie didn’t,” said Martha. “I tried to explain it to him, but it’s like he wouldn’t even listen.”
“How long ago was this?” asked Sarah.
“The end of last year, right after Thanksgiving. We were supposed to get married on Christmas Eve,” she said. “When I broke it off he just went ballistic.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“No. But I was scared.” She paused, her voice dropping. “He owns guns.”
“Do you know what kind? Handguns? Rifles?”
“All of the above. His favorite was what he carried in the war. I forget the name, but it was one of those semiautomatic rifles.”
Sarah and I exchanged a quick glance. Bingo.
“So what kind of missions was Robert involved with in Afghanistan?” asked Sarah. “Did he ever say anything to you?”
Martha worked the handkerchief on her eyes again as she thought for a moment. “There was this one time,” she said. “He’d been drinking and, well, I don’t know how we got on the subject, but he started to tell me things.”
“What kinds of things?”
“It was sort of like he was bragging,” she said. “There was this group he got recruited for, some kind of special weapons unit. He called it the James Bond crew because they trained with all these new gadgets and stuff like that. Poisons, too.”
“Poisons?”
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