Philadelphia Noir - Carlin Romano [12]
As the pain from the bullet wound in the back of his leg intensified, he stopped with his back to a tree, panting and looking over his shoulder at the flames from his burning house. He imagined Corrine, trapped inside without him, her body being consumed by the fire. The thought of it was grisly, but he’d gladly trade places with her now, because the hell of living without her was far more severe than the flames that were cooking her flesh.
He looked away, his bitter tears mingling with the rain. In that instant, the grief she’d spent months helping him to overcome rushed back. A moment later, the grief was gone, and it was replaced with an emotion he knew all too well—anger.
Richard checked his pockets. He still had the phone. He had his Ruger, and he had the Glock with a silencer he’d taken from the dead man in the kitchen.
He looked out from behind the tree once more and saw dome lights whirling outside his house. If he were anyone else, he could’ve tried to make his way back to the house. He could’ve told the police that the same people who’d killed his wife had tried to kill him. He could’ve clarified that he’d acted in self-defense. But Corrine was right. Richard had something to hide, and it all began with the scar on his chest.
Chambering a round in the Glock, Richard stuffed the Ruger into his waistband. A second later, his phone buzzed and his pocket glowed as he received another text message.
For a moment, he considered ignoring the message and leaving the phone behind, but he wanted his pursuers to use the phone to track him. That would bring them closer, and make them that much easier to kill.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the phone, cupped it in his hand, and read the message while the rain pelted the screen.
We know what happened in the mountains at Tora Bora, the text said. Surrender and you might live.
A chill went through Richard’s body as he reread the message and checked the source. The text had come from a phone number with a 202 area code, which meant they weren’t trying to hide their identities anymore. They were CIA, just like the teams he’d fought alongside in Afghanistan.
He’d learned two things about those teams during the war: the only thing that mattered to them was the objective, and they didn’t care how they reached it.
Pocketing the phone, he crawled through the slippery, leaf-strewn grass to the edge of Reservoir Drive—the road that snaked through the park from 33rd Street. Then he limped across and climbed a rain-slicked hill until he reached a chain-link fence.
The faded sign on the fence said, No Trespassing. Property of the Philadelphia Water Department. He ignored it and scaled the fence, squeezing past the barbed wire that topped it. There was a reservoir on the other side of the fence, and the water inside was rapidly rising.
Richard lay on his stomach on the reservoir’s concrete embankment and held onto the fence with both hands. He was flat on his belly and the rain pelting his wounded leg felt almost soothing. Then the fence rattled, and any comfort he felt disappeared.
Sliding into the water, Richard flipped onto his back and allowed himself to float while holding the Glock he’d stolen from the dead body. When the first of two men came sliding along the slippery embankment to see if he was alive, Richard remained still. When the man got closer, Richard opened one eye. When he was almost upon him, Richard sprung into action.
He flipped over in the water, raised the Glock, and fired, hitting the man three times. Before his victim fell into the water, Richard submerged and swam hard to his right. Ten bullets bored into the water around him, but none of them found their target. By the time he surfaced, he was nearly fifty yards away, and the man who’d shot at him was frantically