He decided he needed to get to know her better.
“Have you ever been married?” he asked.
“Where did that come from?”
He shrugged. “I just realized I don’t know much about you.”
She gave him a half grin. “No. I’m not the marrying type. I lived with a guy for a while. It didn’t work out. Not everyone can put up with a cop’s lifestyle; weird hours, changing shifts, lots of overtime, the danger, the crazy stories, the stress. Not to mention the ego problem.”
“Ego?”
“It can be tough for a guy to have a girlfriend in an authority position.”
Dominic shrugged again. “I wouldn’t have a problem with that. I suppose it could be tough seeing you get hurt. A guy might feel pretty helpless about that, not to mention it might drive him crazy not being able to kill the guy.” He raised his eyebrows. “It’s a man thing. You know, being protective.”
The half grin turned full. She shook her head slowly. “A man thing, huh? I thought chivalry was dead.”
“Not to everyone. Not to me.”
“Yes,” she said. “I can see that. You have that hero complex quality about you.”
“Complex?” He frowned. “You think it’s a complex?”
“Oh yeah,” she said. “It’s kind of a naïve machismo. It went out of fashion decades ago. You need to catch up with the times.”
“Maybe I don’t want to.”
“Well, you’re a dying, if not dead, breed. It’s that Christian thing isn’t it?”
He thought for a second before answering. “Probably; that and the way I was raised.” Dominic turned east down Virginia Street, then South, cruising dark alleys. “But God’s ideas aren’t wrong you know.”
“Oh, you think we women should be slaves to you men? No thanks.”
“Not slaves. Not under or less; just different. We each have our strengths and weaknesses. It doesn’t make one better than the other. We’re to complement each other; like two sides of the same coin.
“Oh really? The guy that busted a beer mug across my face wasn’t being very complementary.”
“No, he was being sinful.” His jaw flexed in and out. “I wish I’d been there.”
“I didn’t need you to be there. I took care of it myself.”
“I know. Still, I wish I had been.”
She started to say something — stopped. “Why?”
“I don’t like the idea of anyone hurting you.”
A slow smile spread across her face. “What are you saying?”
He turned down an alley.
“I’m just saying I don’t like you being hurt.”
“I see. And is this a partner type thing — as in police partners? Or is this more like a you’re getting sweet on me kind of thing?” There was a teasing lilt to her voice.
He looked at her; not certain where exactly this would lead. “I highly respect you…”
“No-no-no, kid,” broke in Sarah. “That’s what you say after you get me in bed.”
That made him blush. He held up a finger. “I said that wrong…what I meant was…”
She shook her head. “Now hold on here. I was just joking. You aren’t serious — are you?” Her eyebrows drew down sharply. “No, you can’t be. Crap, kid, I’m old enough to be your — older sister — slightly older sister.” She sat back, looked out the windshield. “Look, I know what this is. Sometimes rookies get a little infatuated with their FTOs. It happens. I’ve got control over your career. I know more about the job than you do. Things that seem hard for you now, are easy for me because of my experience, which makes you look up to me. It’s like a student teacher thing. You’ll get over it.”
“Suppose, I don’t want to get over it?”
He saw her head turn sharply toward the back seat. Her lips pulled back from her teeth and he saw her hand grip the butt of her gun. The hairs on the back of his neck stood to sharp attention and he reached for his own gun, but the look on her face suddenly changed, a sheepish grin spreading across her lips.
“Sorry,” she said. “Thought I heard something; didn’t mean to scare you.”
But she had, his heart still raced. He checked the rearview mirror seeing nothing but the empty backseat and equally empty back alley.
His FTO smiled. “What were you saying?” But he noticed her eyes darting to the back. That creepy feeling grew stronger.
“Never mind,” he said, but he wasn’t sure if she heard him. Her face looked pale and she was still looking back there — at the empty seat.
36
Sarah Hampton
* * *
Confusion
* * *
He was mocking her — playing with her — so close she could reach back and grab him by the throat and snap his scrawny neck with one hand. And the evidence was there too, sitting on the shiny black, molded plastic seat. If she killed the cat, she could take the evidence to Sammy and he could solve the case. But if she grabbed for the cat the rook would see — he would see — and if he saw — what? It was hard to think with the cat meowing and purring and licking its bloody lips and paws right behind her. So close — so very close — but the kid was really staring at her now. She forced herself not to look back, but it was so hard. What if it jumped out the window, or swallowed the evidence? Or worse, what if she looked back and it was just gone. Because that would mean it was never there at all. Which it wasn’t; only it was.
Sarah’s bottom lip started to quiver. She hadn’t cried in a long time, not even in the asylum. She’d been forced to do almost everything else in there — vomit, bleed, urinate, defecate, scream, drool — but never cry. Still, the thought, no, the knowledge that the cat wasn’t really there proved almost too much.
Her eyes slid to the side. There, big as ever, as solid and real as the patrol car she rode in, sat her insanity. If the cat wasn’t real how could she know anything was real? How could she know she was even here? Maybe she still resided in the rubber room bouncing off its walls, crazy as Renfield from Dracula, and eating bugs off the floor. Maybe John Doe never existed. Maybe she had never been a cop. Maybe she’d always been crazy.
No.
She knew better. She was real. Her job was real. The cat was real. Just because other people couldn’t see or hear it didn’t mean it wasn’t real. Did it?
Her brain fired too fast — thoughts slapping past like a shuffling deck of cards; and the rook, he just kept talking. What was he saying anyway? Something about liking her? No, that was silly — crazy — crazier than the cat even. He was young, handsome, brave; a fairytale knight in shining armor and she nothing more than a Plane Jane mental case. No way the two of them could make it. Then why have I been wearing makeup and perfume for the last week? Because you’re crazy, that’s why.
Purrrrrrrr. From the back seat.
Yes, crazy, nuts, insane; but also lonely, and maybe that was the worst of all, the loneliness.
She saw him looking at her and realized the car had stopped, that he looked concerned.
Meow.
She ignored it — somehow she found that she could ignore it — because his eyes were holding her, locking her to him — pulling her away from the cat and the need to kill it — to recover the evidence. His eyes were making her forget John Doe and her mission. His eyes were so deep — so gentle — so caring. She felt hypnotized, helpless, powerless — and she liked it.
The rook — no — Dominic — such a good name, strong, noble, saintly — he reached out, one hand caressing her cheek, and a warm electric current passed between them — through them — linking them together — joining them. She felt her breath catch in her chest, her heart trip in a way she had never before known. He leaned in, closer, eyes open, lips brushing hers — so soft — so strong. She wanted to pull him in tight, to wrap herself around him, to give herself completely and never let go; to banish the loneliness. She wanted to love him.
Hsssssssssssssssssssssss!
She grabbed him by the throat with o
ne hand, while unsnapping the safety snap of her holster with the thumb of the other. The muscles of his throat felt like steel cables; she could barely make a dent even with all her strength.
He pushed closer, their lips melting together.
Sarah almost let go — wanted to let go — needed to let go — but the cat sat back there — watching them — laughing at them — laughing at her. He would send her back and this time she would never break free. The headshrinkers and Big Mikes of the world would get to play with her, and stick her with their needles, and fill her with their numbing medicines and freeze her in their baths and shock her in their beds, and she would never be free — never never never ever again.
But it felt so right and she wanted it so bad. The makeup had been no accident, even though she knew she looked ridiculous in it, and the perfume — she’d never worn perfume in her life — but he looked so handsome, so straight and pure and good — truly a Prince Charming like the ones she’d dreamed of as a little girl. She didn’t stand a chance, she knew that, but she couldn’t help herself and now here she was and here he was and it was like some cheesy after school movie of the week where the ugly duckling actually did get the handsome prince. And his lips felt so wonderful, so right and perfect and she was a little girl again.
He pulled her close, so strong she couldn’t resist, and she felt so safe in his arms, protected and secure and…
She pulled the trigger, heard the crack like a miniature bolt of thunder, felt him stiffen and jerk back, shock and disbelief on his face, his eyes wide and uncomprehending, and then his eyes clamped shut, hard and tight in a spasm of agony and he rocked back against the driver’s side door, his arms curling in against his sides, his fists knuckled into knotted balls. His body convulsed once more then slumped limply in a disorganized lump. He blinked twice, staring at her stupidly as if he couldn’t get his eyes to focus.
Sarah held up the Taser. She’d removed the prong cartridge and only delivered a drive stun, but it had been enough, even through his vest.
“Nobody touches me, Rook. Nobody. Not unless I say so. Understand?”
The rook shook his head, he still looked dazed. He coughed, cleared his throat, shook his head again. Rubbed his chest and stomach.
“Man,” he said. “That really hurts. Kid Kong’s right, electricity is bad news.”
Sarah reattached the prong cartridge and slipped the Taser back in its holster. She snapped the safety snap, feeling like she’d just thrown away any chance she ever had at a meaningful relationship with another person. Behind her the cat stayed silent. She had a mission to complete and nothing could stand in its way. She would never go back to the asylum.
“You don’t know the half of it, Rook.”
37
Enrico Da Vinci
* * *
Massacre
* * *
Now this — this was art — this was his art — and he The Master. Enrico had been sitting in the tree for five hours. In all that time his body’s only movement had been the slight rise and fall of his chest and diaphragm and the rare blink of his eyes. Twenty feet above the ground, half sitting, half lying on a thick branch, shielded by leaves and other branches. Armed guards walked in front, behind and beneath him on several occasions over the hours, none of them having the slightest notion that death hovered directly over their heads and that this was the last night of their lives.
He’d studied the blueprints of the mansion and knew Marko’s bedroom.
Enrico had dressed in gray, green and black cammies; his gun painted in the same pattern. He wore a gray, green and black Nomex hood. Gray and green face paint covered the exposed flesh around his eyes and the top bridge of his nose. He crouched invisible in the tree, hidden by the leaves and branches and the night.
Down the expansive private road, headlights splashed across the foliage, followed by the sleek body of the stretch limousine. The car parked in the circular driveway seventy yards from Enrico’s position. Marko and his wife — his third wife; twenty-five, blond and incredibly beautiful — stepped out of the car, both dressed glamorously, him in a black tux and her in a sleeveless, strapless diamond dappled gown.
She didn’t compare to Cinnamon.
Through the high-powered scope he watched as they disappeared into the house. The chauffer drove the car to the garage.
They were all dead; they just didn’t know it yet.
Their sacrifice was necessary. True art cost dearly.
In his backpack sat an MP-5S with ten magazines; two Glock nine millimeters, five short stacks of C-4 and five flash bang grenades. He wore a Dragon Skin bullet resistant vest, and all his weapons were equipped with suppressors. Advanced AN/PVS-21 night goggles decorated his forehead, flipped up and out of the way until needed. For the time being the house and grounds sported plenty of man-made light.
Enrico waited until the couple entered their bedroom, whose windows faced directly toward Enrico’s perch. No accident of course. Just as it was no accident that the curtains were open. He’d left them that way after setting the C-4 under their bed. He could easily just set off the detonator now, killing them both, but what would be the art in that? Any thug could pull that off. No. The explosives were for after; for the cleanup — and the others.
He sighted in on Barney Marko as he stripped off his jacket. Wife number three stood just to his right, kicking off her high heels and tugging at an earring. They were talking. The scope was so good that Enrico could actually make out a few of the words. The wife laughed, gave Barney a seductive smile. Barney laughed too, unbuttoning his starched white shirt. He said something in return with the word “good” in it. They were the picture of wealthy American bliss. Wife number three walked to him, turned, exposing her back and the zipper to her gown. Barney stepped up and slowly unzipped her dress. He kissed her on the nape of her neck, between her shoulder blades, at the bottom of her spine. She turned, the dress spilling to the floor, leaving her wearing only a silky white slip, and hugged him to her. They kissed, long and passionately, and when they parted Enrico put a bullet through the back of Barney Marko’s skull, right at the brain stem. His legs buckled and he fell loosely out of sight, leaving wife number three perfectly in Enrico’s sights. But there was no need. The bullet, heavy and loaded with powder, had more than sufficient energy to pass through the window, a human skull and still have enough to kill the woman as well.
Through the scope Enrico saw the hole in her right cheek, just outside the blade of her nose, and the splay of red and white that painted the wall behind her. She fell backwards, into a cherry wood vanity and stool.
The suppressor had reduced the rifle’s expulsion of gas and lead to little more than a phffft sound, but one of the ground’s guards might have heard. He scanned the area below them. Two guards were walking in opposite directions along the sides of the mansion. Neither showed any sign of having heard the shot or the tiny glass break.
Perfect.
Enrico took the one on the north of the building first. Head shot — of course. Then the second man. The chauffeur came out of the garage, looking around. The back of his head exploded and a bright spark chipped off the bricks of the garage as the bullet ricocheted away.
Someone yelled and three men ran toward the chaffer’s body, guns in their hands. Enrico killed them all in less than five seconds.
Automatic gunfire erupted from the far side of the garage and bullets clipped the bushes and trees beneath Enrico. Pretty good shooting, since the man obviously hadn’t spotted his perch. Enrico reset his cheek weld, took in a calm breath, let half out, waited. The man peeked out from the side of the garage again, motioned to someone else with one hand. Enrico shot him through the eye then swiveled to the left, looking for the man he had motioned to.
Another burst of automatic gunfire, this one splintering wood a few inches over his head. Twigs, leaves and chunks of bark rained down on him from above. Enrico ignored it. He found his target at the front door of the mansion. Only one leg
was visible. Enrico put a competitive boat-tailed one hundred and sixty-eight grain bullet through his kneecap. The man screeched and fell on his side where Enrico ended his pain forever.
Lights were coming on in the house now, illuminating numerous targets; maids, butlers, body guards. More men swarmed from various directions around the grounds, most armed. Spotlights clicked on from every corner of the mansion lighting up everything. Enrico could have taken out the lights one by one, but instead used them to take out the guards. He sighted, fired — sighted, fired — sighted, fired. And each time a man fell.
Several guards roughly triangulated his position and started firing toward him.
The baffles on his suppressor were beginning to flatten, allowing each shot to send its resonance out closer to its true state, further giving away his location. But really, it was already too late. Enrico rode the pulse, high in the zone. A master — The Master — snuffing out lives as fast as he could acquire and pull the trigger — very fast indeed. Warriors, thugs and innocents all became part of the picture he painted. They fell where they stood, as though a puppet’s strings had suddenly been cut, their very bodies adding to the whole of the work of art.
The bolt on his M110 SASS locked back inside the housing and he switched the twenty round magazine to a live one, let the bolt fly, re-sighted through the Leupold MK4 scope and sent off another round so quickly that there seemed no break in the steady rhythm of his shooting. He never missed — not once, and only rarely did he have to fire more than once to make the kill. The rifle weighed in at 17.76 pounds — sight, suppressor, bullets, magazine and all — and stretched 42.25 inches long. A lot of weapon to support and remain concealed in a tree.
He had been shooting for nearly seven minutes, and knew law enforcement had to have been notified. He took out a maid on the second floor, hitting her in the throat. He killed a cook running past a window, taking him in the bicep, the bullet tunneling through the side of his chest, his heart, both lungs, and through the other arm. Another swarm of ground’s guards rushed to the driveway spitting bullets in all directions from an assortment of weapons that ranged from revolvers to Mac-10’s to shotguns to M-16s. A single bullet buzzed close to his ear and he knew it was time to end it. Enrico opened up, shooting men for effect. He took them in the heart, in the brain, the face, throat, spine — all kill shots. They fell like bowling pins, so many that the rest rushed for the cover of the mansion, diving inside and hugging the walls.
Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set Page 85
