The cutout in the hallway fired three-shot bursts to keep Winter pinned, and when he paused, Winter leaned out and emptied the SIG's last magazine. He was out of time, but he was going to try and sneak a round from his Walther PP under this cutout's visor when he came. The air was thick with cordite as Winter lay there with the gun aimed up, waiting. But the cutout didn't pass through the arch and appear above him. Winter heard the cutout's boots on the stairs, going down them fast, making no effort to be quiet.
Winter looked at Sean, aimed at the bar, and called out, “Sean, slide me your shotgun!”
Winter slid the empty Hi-Power across the floor.
Primed, now thinking the sound was the shotgun on its way across the floor to Winter, Russo stood anticipating a shot at an unarmed and wounded deputy. When Russo went down, it was because Winter's bullet had struck his shoulder. Winter could have killed him, but he only shattered his shoulder so he couldn't shoot at them. Winter wanted to ask him some questions.
Sean fired after Russo was down, breaking more of the bottles. When the alcohol hit the wound, Russo cried out in pain.
“Hooray, you, Dep'ty. You a bright one, boy, you!” Sam howled. “You a damn idiot, Johnny!” He laughed, then began coughing.
Russo screamed. “You fucking shot me! You're all gonna die!”
“I think your friend, Lewis, went home, Russo,” Winter said.
“Bullshit!” Russo croaked. “He wouldn't do that.”
Sean called out, “Hey, Johnny?”
“What?”
“Crybaby.”
It was remarkably quiet for a long second-air coming in from the broken windows caused the hanging cordite cloud to swirl and ebb.
Winter knew why the man had run when he heard a familiar thumping sound and the Blackhawk's brilliant halogen spotlight lit up the windows.
“Looks like the war's over,” Winter called to Russo. “Why don't you resist when they come in? They'd like nothing better than to blow your head off.”
“I give up.” Russo tossed his revolver over the bar. It smacked the floor and slid under the couch. He stood up slowly with his right hand holding a bar towel against his shoulder wound.
Sean laid the shotgun down and hurried over to check on Winter's leg. Winter held the Walther on Russo, who stood inside the bar looking down at Sean, a sour expression on his face. “Think I'm done? This is no biggie. I'll turn state's evidence and walk away from this. The feds want Sam, not me. I can put him away for keeps and they'll give me anything I want to do it. Sam gave me the money I passed to Herman Hoff-”
The sound of the ten-gauge's blast caught Winter off guard.
Russo still stood there. His eyes were still fixed on Winter and Sean but were now bulging, froglike, from their sockets. His jaw and his tongue were gone, and the cypress wall beside him looked like someone had hurled a bowl of spaghetti against it.
Winter swung the Walther's barrel toward Sam, who dropped the shotgun down by his side. He had reached down, lifted up the weapon and fired at his criminal protege's mouth.
“Tell 'em about me now, you rat bastard!” Sam yelled.
Russo tried to talk, but all he could manage was a series of gurgling noises.
Sean grimaced and turned away.
Despite the coughing fit it brought on, Sam laughed.
104
Through the downpour, Lewis and Tomeo fled east in defeat, moving through the woods as fast as they could without sounding like hunting dogs charging through the undergrowth, hot-trailing a deer. They stopped long enough to allow a six-man assault team, which was running in from the gate, to pass within ten feet of their position. The helicopter that had dropped off the team was circling the lodge.
No more than three minutes had passed from the time Lewis' three cutouts had entered the lodge until Lewis had ordered the withdrawal of his sole remaining team member.
“That guy with the handguns,” Tomeo said. “I've never seen anything like that shitter. I've got bruises all over my body.” He held up his padded left hand. “He broke my fucking knuckles. He knocked Apache down and put one in under her chin. All the time I was firing-every time I drew a bead, he knocked the cold shit out of me. He was like a machine. I never had a clean shot at him.”
“Massey,” Lewis said. “Let's get out of here while they're still busy.”
“I think Mickey hit him. Sean yelled out he was hit, right after she took Mickey out.”
Lewis said. “Sam must have shot Mickey. She doesn't have the balls. If Massey was hit, they'll take him to a hospital,” Lewis said. “Or the morgue, if we're lucky. If he's dead, we can go home.”
105
The sound of boots thundering up the stairs brought Winter a surge of relief. “Police!” Chet Long yelled out from the stairwell. “Police officers-Massey?”
“It's all clear, Chet!” Winter called out.
“We need a doctor,” Sean said as the men in black stormed into the room, weapons raised. U.S. MARSHALS was stenciled on their chests and across their backs, and they carried riot guns and AR-15s.
Chet knelt beside Winter and asked, “How bad?”
“Through and through,” Winter replied, wincing as a sharp pain from the leg wound hit him. “One of them got away before the helicopter arrived. Five-foot-ten, fully armored like his partner there.”
“As soon as we can get a dog in here we'll search the woods and try and round him up. The Highway Patrol has River Road closed tight, so he ain't driving out.”
“Please,” Sean pleaded, indicating Sam Manelli, whom she was kneeling beside. “He's badly hurt.”
“Radio EMS we have four for immediate transport,” Chet ordered. “Tell the coroner he might want to bring a big truck because there's bodies scattered all over the place.”
Sean slipped a bullet-ruptured throw pillow under Sam's head.
Winter told Chet, “You get Hank from the boat shed?”
“He's probably on his way to the hospital by now,” Chet said as he pressed a towel against Winter's thigh to stop the bleeding. “Clue me in, Winter. At first blush it looks like the guy out on the deck and gal in the hall killed Sam's men with those H and Ks, then came up after… who-Sam and Russo?”
“Far as I know.”
“Who the hell do you think sent them?”
Sirens announced the arrival of patrol cars. Blue strobe lights reflected in the outside windows.
“I'm not sure,” Winter lied easily. There was no way he was going to repay Chet for saving his and Sean's lives by involving him in the other side of this mess. Winter figured that the woman cutout he'd killed might be the hitter from Richmond that missed Sean there. “Do me a favor and bag her SOCOM for ballistics.”
Chet glanced at Sean, who was holding Sam's hand. “Weren't we supposed to be rescuing her from him?”
An EMS crew arrived, and as Sam was being lifted onto the cot, he looked down at Winter and winked.
A pair of EMT techs rolled a gurney containing Russo from the room.
Winter nodded.
“Who shot the man out on the porch?” Chet asked.
“I did,” Sam said. “I went down kicking ass. If you don't remember anything else, you remember that.” He grimaced in pain. “Somebody, get this gal away from me.” He released Sean's hand and closed his eyes.
