The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [164]
Hunched over, Boyle took a half-step back. His hand started to shake.
“Wait . . . oh, you . . . wait,” O’Shea said, already chuckling. “You’re telling me that in all the time you spent trying to track us down, that . . . that you never once considered the possibility that we wouldn’t know where they are?”
For the second time, O’Shea leaned back for a loud bellowing laugh. Then, without warning, he sprang forward, like a frog, with a ramming headbutt that plowed into Boyle’s chin before he even saw it coming. On impact, Boyle’s head whipped back, sending him crashing into the bucket seats.
“You feel that?!” O’Shea screamed, his eyes wide with rage. “This time I’ll kill you myself!”
Boyle shook his head no. Slow at first. Then faster. O’Shea charged forward like a truck. Boyle was already in mid-swing, lashing out with his right hand. And the gun he was still holding in it.
In a blur, the butt of the pistol slammed O’Shea like a ten-pound weight to the head. Colliding with the corner of his brow, it sent him tumbling sideways toward the wall behind the passenger seat. With his hands still tied behind his back, he didn’t have a chance. Already off balance, he turned just enough to hit the metal wall shoulder-first.
“That’s for my son,” Boyle snarled, buzzing with adrenaline.
O’Shea sank to the floor of the van. Boyle didn’t let up, rushing in and pressing the barrel of his gun against O’Shea’s forehead. “And this one’s for my daughter, you thieving piece of shit!”
Boyle cocked the gun’s pin and started squeezing the trigger.
O’Shea erupted with another haunting laugh. “Do it,” he demanded, his voice breathless and raw as he lay there, sprawled on his back. His chest rose and fell rapidly as his body twisted on the floor. Between the bullet wounds from the dog run and his current impact, the pain was overwhelming. “With these metal walls . . . go ahead . . . I-I’d love to see you risk the ricochet.”
Boyle glanced around at the walls of the van. “It won’t ricochet,” he insisted.
“You sure about that?” O’Shea gasped, fighting for air and kicking his heel against the metal floor. There was a loud deep thud. “Sounds . . . sounds pretty damn solid to me.”
Boyle didn’t respond. His hand twitched slightly as he tightened his grip on the trigger.
“That’s . . . it’s a frightening thought, isn’t it?” O’Shea asked. “Here you are all ready to wreck the few remaining shards of your life by becoming a killer, and . . . and now you have to worry if you’ll shoot yourself in the process.”
Boyle knew he was lying. He had to be.
“C’mon, Boyle—here’s your chance to blow my head off. Take your shot!” Defiantly, O’Shea leaned forward, pressing his forehead even harder against the gun.
Boyle’s finger rattled against the trigger as a dribble of blood ran from his nose to his top lip. This was it. The moment he’d begged for . . . prayed for . . . the revenge that had fueled him all these years. The problem was, O’Shea was still right about one thing: Whatever else they’d taken from him, whatever cold shell of himself they turned him into, he’d never be a killer. Though that didn’t mean he couldn’t have his vengeance.
Shifting his arm to the right, Boyle pointed the barrel at O’Shea’s still-seeping shoulder wound and pulled the trigger. A single bullet tore through O’Shea’s shoulder, taking another chunk of meat with it. To maximize the pain, Boyle kept the gun at an angle, hoping to hit some bone as well. From O’Shea’s scream—which faded into a silent breathless gasp as his eyes rolled back and he finally lost consciousness—it was more than enough to do the trick.
Kicking O’Shea onto his side, Boyle knelt down to the splatter of blood on the floor. Underneath the mess, through the metal floor of the van, was a small jagged bullet hole. Sticking a finger in and feeling the musty air outside, Boyle shook his head. Of course, it wouldn’t ricochet. Only the President’s limo is bulletproof.
Wasting no time, Boyle