Cross - James Patterson [87]
Mistake, mistake, mistake.
And Caitlin would keep making them, wouldn’t she? Which meant Caitlin had to go. He didn’t want to think too much about it, but Caitlin was a goner too. Unless he just took off by himself.
Lots of decisions to make. Not much time to make them.
He set the bull’s-eye back on the driver’s head. He was ready for two shots, and both men in the car were dead. They just didn’t know it yet.
He slowly let out a breath until his body was calm and still and ready to do this.
He had a sense of his own heartbeat—slow, steady, confident; slow, steady, confident.
Then he pulled the trigger—and heard a sharp, satisfying crack in the night air.
An instant later, he pulled the rifle’s trigger a second time.
Then a third and a fourth time.
That should do it.
The killing was done, and he had to get the hell out of here, pronto. With or without Caitlin and the boys.
But first he needed to know who he’d just killed and maybe take some pictures of the deceased.
Chapter 114
SAMPSON AND I WATCHED the Butcher approach the car. He was being stealthy all right, but maybe he wasn’t as good as he thought he was. He moved in quickly, bent low in a shooting crouch, ready for resistance if it came.
He was about to find out that he’d shot up a pile of propped-up clothes and throw pillows from the local Wal-Mart. Sampson and I were crouched in the woods less than thirty yards behind the car he’d just ambushed. So who was better at this game? The Butcher or us?
“Your call, Alex, how it goes from here,” Sampson whispered out of the side of his mouth.
“Don’t kill him, John,” I said, and touched Sampson’s arm. “Unless we have to. Just take him down.”
“Your call,” Sampson repeated.
Then everything went a little crazy, to put it mildly.
Suddenly the Butcher whirled around—but not in our direction! The opposite way!
What the hell was this? What was happening now?
Sullivan was facing the thick row of woods to the east—not where Sampson and I were coming from. He was paying no attention to us now.
He fired off two quick shots—and I heard somebody grunt in the distance.
A man dressed in black appeared for an instant; then he fell to the ground. Who was it? Then five more men came running out of the woods to the north. They had handguns, Bull Pups, one Uzi that I could make out.
Who were these guys?
As if to answer the question, one of them shouted, “FBI. Drop your weapon! FBI!”
I didn’t buy it.
“Mob!” I said to Sampson.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Then everybody started blasting at everybody else, as if we were in the streets of Baghdad rather than somewhere in rural Massachusetts.
Chapter 115
THE MOB HITTERS, if that’s who they were, fired on us too. Sampson and I shot back at them. And so did the Butcher.
I hit a guy in a leather trench coat—the one with the Uzi, my first target.
The gunman spun around and dropped to the dirt, but then he raised the Uzi to fire again. He got hit square in the chest with a round, and the force knocked him flat. I wasn’t the one who shot him though. Maybe Sampson?
Or was it Sullivan who’d shot him?
The darkness was a serious hazard to everybody. Bullets were flying everywhere, slugs of lead slamming into trees, ricocheting off rocks. It was total chaos and bedlam, hair-raising, death-defying madness being played out in the dark.
The Mafia thugs were fanning out, trying to create space between themselves, which would be even more trouble for us.
Sullivan had run to his left and was using the trees and shadows for some cover.
Sampson and I tried to hide ourselves as best we could behind skinny evergreens.
I was afraid we would die here; it felt like it could happen. Too many shots were being fired in too tight an area. This was a kill zone. It was like being heavily armed but up against a firing squad.
A Mafia hitter emptied his Bull Pup at