The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [153]
“Good girl, Murphy—there you go,” the woman says, tugging the dog back between us and reentering the parking lot. For a full minute, we watch her from behind as she crosses the lot and heads for the back door of the building. The woman looks at her dog, at her watch, for her keys—but to her credit, she never looks back. With a faint crack, the metal door to the building slams, and the woman disappears. O’Shea’s arms unfold, and his gun goes right back to my face.
“Sorry, Wes,” O’Shea says as he pulls back the hammer of his gun. “This is gonna sting.”
“Wait . . . what’re you doing?” I ask, stumbling backward into a nearby tree.
The light rain taps against his face, but he barely notices. His fair skin shines with a yellow glow in the darkness.
“O’Shea, if you do this . . . the investigation they’ll open: You’ll never be able to cover it up.”
O’Shea grins as his finger tightens on the trigger. “Funny. That’s what they said to us last ti—”
Pop, pop, pop.
The sound hiccups through the air. My body goes cold. Not from pain. From the sound. Pop, pop, pop—an echo from the past—firing now.
Across from me, O’Shea, a look of angry surprise frozen on his face, shudders and shifts, crashing backward into the lamppost. He slaps his shoulder like he’s slapping a bug bite. His knees start to buckle. His head dips slightly to the side. Still, it’s not until I spot the blood coming from his shoulder that I even realize he’s been shot. His blood looks black in the dim light as it runs down his suit.
“Nuuh!” O’Shea grunts as his head slams back into the lamppost. His gun drops to the muddy ground. The way he’s teetering and leaning on the lightpost, he’s about to follow. Behind me, there’s another crunch of broken sticks. Before I even register the sound, a tall blurred shadow in a black windbreaker races past me, right for O’Shea.
“Move, Wes! Move!” the shadow shouts, ramming his forearm into my back and shoving me out of the way. But as I slip on the grass and fight for my own balance, there’s no mistaking that voice. The voice from Malaysia . . . from the warning on my phone . . .
Boyle.
91
Wes, get the hell out of here! Now!” Boyle hisses, his gun pointed at O’Shea. A wisp of smoke twirls from the barrel.
Sliding to the ground with his back against the lamppost, O’Shea crumples to his knees. Fighting to stand up, he doesn’t get anywhere. He’s already in shock. Taking no chances, Boyle rushes in and jams the barrel of his gun against O’Shea’s head. “Where’s Micah?” he demands.
Down on his knees, O’Shea grits his teeth in obvious pain. “You finally found his name, huh? I told him this wou—”
“I’m asking you one more time,” Boyle threatens. Moving the gun from O’Shea’s head, he jabs the barrel into the wound in O’Shea’s shoulder. O’Shea tries to scream, but Boyle puts his hand over O’Shea’s mouth. “Last time, O’Shea! Where’s he hiding?” Pulling back the hammer, he digs his gun into O’Shea’s wound.
O’Shea’s body shakes as he tries to speak. Boyle lets go of his mouth. “H-He’s dead,” O’Shea growls, more pissed than ever.
“Who did it? You or The Roman?”
When O’Shea hesitates, Boyle twists the gun even deeper. “M-M-Me . . .” O’Shea grunts, his eyes wild like an animal’s. “Just like I’ll do with y—”
Boyle doesn’t give him the chance, pulling the trigger and shooting him through the same wound. There’s a muffled pop and a splat as a hunk of flesh explodes out the back of his shoulder. The pain’s so intense, O’Shea doesn’t even have time to scream. His eyes roll back. His arms go slack.
Crumpling like a sack of pennies, O’Shea rag-dolls forward. The instant he hits the dirt, Boyle’s all over him, pulling O’Shea’s hands behind his back and snapping his wrists into plastic flex cuffs that Boyle’s pulled from his pocket.
“Wh-What’re you doing here?” I ask, barely catching my breath.
With a loud zzzip, the cuffs clench, locking O’Shea’s wrists behind his back.