The blood had dried on my hands but new sweat made it tacky again. I took a moment to wipe both palms down the sides of my trousers, then yanked the door wide.
I kicked the screen door open and came out at a kind of sideways run across the porch, leading with one shoulder and the SIG straight out in front of me. I sighted on the centre of the Hispanic man’s body mass, and felt the muscles in my forearms tense as I began to take up the pressure on the trigger.
I knew I’d come out fast, but my opponent seemed to be faster, swinging his gun up with the kind of easy movement that suggested long hours of practice and a professional familiarity with firearms.
Minute pieces of detail from that moment stuck in my mind. The fact that the man’s pencil moustache had been trimmed slightly longer on one side than the other, making his face appear lopsided. The fact that he wore a wedding ring on his left hand, with an ornate turquoise signet ring on the finger next to it. The fact that his gun was a 9mm semiautomatic, a nice piece gleaming with care and pride.
The shot sent me reeling. It seemed far too loud for a handgun, an almost deafening report that I knew I hadn’t fired. I’d always been told you never hear the shot that gets you but if this was it, they were wrong. You heard it twice as loud.
And then it hit me that I wasn’t.
Hit, I mean.
I couldn’t say the same for the Hispanic man. He staggered a couple of steps backwards, tottering in much the same way Scott had done. The front of his shirt was red where only a blink before it had been white. The lower tail of his tie was ripped away and missing but I hadn’t seen it go. He looked down at the gaping mess that had been his own abdomen with an expression of puzzled surprise on his face.
The man made a last laborious, heavy attempt to bring his gun up again but the weight of it defeated him. It was all too difficult, too tiring. His feet tangled, twisting him as he fell so he described an almost graceful pirouette and dropped from sight behind Henry’s old Corvette.
And directly below my own feet, under the porch, came the unmistakable sound of a fresh cartridge being jacked into the chamber of a pump-action shotgun.
I stared. The porch was only wooden planking. A shotgun blast would come up through it like it was paper. I wheeled, grabbing Trey and shoving him back into the house. The screen door hadn’t even had time to slam behind us.
I hit the locks on the front door and hustled the boy back into the bathroom. This time, I climbed into the bathtub with him and we both squatted there, tense and breathless.
Who the hell was under the porch with a shotgun? Not one of Oakley man’s team, that was for certain. Not unless he was having severe communication problems with his staff. So who?
For a second I remembered the claims that Henry had CIA connections. Supposing he hadn’t been entirely bullshitting about that? Supposing his murder had rung alarm bells somewhere and sparked a reaction that included such a retaliatory attack?
Almost as soon as the thought had formed, I dismissed it. If that was the case they would have taken the Hispanic man out of play before Trey and I ever set foot outside the house. And they would have brought something a little quieter to do it with. Shotguns were not the kind of gun you were likely to take with you on a covert operation of this type. House clearance and intimidation, yes, but for a surgical strike after a hit? I didn’t think so. Too messy.
Outside, I heard voices, raised but not far enough to hear the words, only the tone. Anger, mainly, and not a little measure of surprise. I realised there were two men speaking, voices raised. It sounded like Oakley man and another who could only have been Ginger. He hadn’t anyone else left to argue with.
I waited for another blast from the hidden shotgunner, but the man chose to lay quiet, biding his time now. If he was so ready to kill one of the men attacking us, I wondered fiercely, why not finish the rest while he had the chance?
An engine started up, something fairly hefty that throbbed through the building as it stopped outside. It sat there ticking over for a minute or so, while doors were opened and thumped shut again. Then it set off fast, the engine note rising and falling as the auto box ran up through the gears. I listened to the sound of it disappearing towards the end of the street until it receded into the background altogether.
“Have they gone?” Trey whispered.
“That depends,” I said, “on who you mean.”
“Charlie?” called a new voice, close enough to the front door to make both of us jump. I hadn’t heard any footsteps on the porch. “You can come out now. Show’s over.”
I recognised the man who’d spoken as soon as the drawling words were out of his mouth. So did Trey. I felt him flinch beside me. He was hunched down with his knees bent up in front of him and his arms wrapped round his shins. He was holding on so tight his knuckles had gone white with the force of it.
“Tell me, Whitmarsh,” I called back, “why the fuck I should trust
Jim Whitmarsh gave a kind of a snort that might have signified amusement. But then again, it might not.
“Well, I can think of a coupla good reasons,” he said. There was a pause, then the sound of that shotgun again, the oiled mechanism being snatched back and ramming another cartridge home. There was no need for it. It was just a gesture. Just for show. “How’s that for a start?”
For a second I sat huddled in the bath and tried to work out what was wrong here. Besides, the obvious, that is. Oakley man had wanted us dead and only the arrival of Whitmarsh and his men had prevented that.
But I doubted that Oakley man knew who’d killed the Hispanic man. He could even have thought it was me. Going up against someone you believe to be armed with a half-empty handgun is one thing. Suddenly finding there are people lying in wait with shotguns is something else altogether. Either Oakley man had run, or he’d gone for reinforcements.
So that just left us facing Jim Whitmarsh. The man I’d seen burst into that motel bedroom with one of his men and coldly murder two unlucky innocents because he thought they were us.
He was right, though, about his argument being a persuasive one. Choosing to stay and face a shotgun in a confined space – especially one as flimsily constructed as Henry’s house – was suicide.
If they started clearing the place room by room they wouldn’t even have to aim. The bathroom was so small that all they’d have to do was put one shot round the open door, or even straight through one of the dividing walls. Not even a cast iron bathtub would save us then. Open ground was our best chance by far.
I glanced at Trey. He looked so terrified I wasn’t even sure I’d get him on his feet unaided.
“We’ve got to go out there,” I told him, almost gently. He shook his head, lip starting to tremble. I moved to brush his cheek, then noticed the blood on my hands again and ended up just touching his shoulder instead. I smiled, tentative. “Trust me,” I said with a confidence I didn’t feel. “I’ll get you out of this.”
His bruised eyes called me a liar, but at least he didn’t say the words out loud.
I raised my voice. “OK, Whitmarsh, we’re coming out.”
We got out of the bath and moved through to the front door again.
“Here,” I said quietly, and stuck the SIG into the back of the waistband of Trey’s baggy shorts. His face paled even further. “For God’s sake don’t touch it,” I warned him. “They’re less likely to search you, that’s all.”
I unlocked the door and pushed the screen open, then moved out onto the porch, keeping Trey slightly behind me and my empty hands where everyone could see them.
Jim Whitmarsh was standing on the scrubby drive, not far from where the Hispanic man had fallen. My gaze swept across the space behind the Corvette but the body seemed to have gone. There was no sign of the man I’d shot on the other side of the road, either. So that’s what Oakley man had stopped for.
Whitmarsh was wearing an Oxford shirt and chinos and loafers with no socks. He was carrying a Beretta out of the neat leather holster attached to his belt and he was sweating in the heat. When he saw me his eyebrows went up as he took in the cheesy teenage outfit and the beaded pink locks, not to mention Trey’s shock of white hair.
Lonnie was the one with the shotgun, a Remington twelve-bore. He stood a little further forward but well to the side of Whitmarsh, giving him a decent line on us. The fronts of his combat trousers were coated with dirt and dust where he’d lain under the house and shot the Hispanic man through the trellis, unseen and unsuspected. Now, his eyes were constantly ranging across the surrounding houses and along the street, checking for trouble. He barely gave Trey and me a second glance.
I didn’t see Chris right away, not until the car arrived. A maroon Ford Taurus braked to a fast halt right
