The 6th Target

'Forget the phone. There's no one you need to talk to. I'm the most important person in your world.'

'What are you doing, Alfred?'

'What do you think?' he said, taking out one of the long knives. 'You think I'm going to cut your tongue out? What kind of psycho do you think I am?'

He laughed at the horror on his mother's face.

'So the thing is, Mommy, I saw Lily going down on this guy, Peter Ballantine, who worked at the marina.'

'She did no such thing.'

Brinkley began to swipe the eight-inch-long blade against the sharpener – a long Carborundum rod. It made a satisfying whicking sound.

'You should leave now. The police are looking -'

'I'm not finished yet. You're going to listen to me for the first time in your spiteful, miserable…'

Ticketa, ticketa, tick.

Inside his head, he was saying, Kill her. Kill her.

Fred put down the blade and wiped the sweat from his palms onto the sides of Dr. Carter's khakis. Picked up the knife again.

'As I was saying, Lily had been teasing me, Mom. Flouncing around, half naked, and then she puts her mouth on Ballantine's dick. Forget the pictures and listen to me!

'Lily and I took the day-sailer out, and we anchored far out where no one could see us – and Lily took off her top.'

Liar. Coward. Blaming her.

'And so I reached out to her. Touched her little titties, and she looked at me like you're looking at me. Like I was dog shit.'

'I don't want to hear this.'

'You will hear it,' Brinkley said, touching the blade gently to the crepey skin of his mother's neck. 'So there she was in her little bitty half of a bathing suit, saying that I was the freak, saying, 'I'm going to tell Mom.'

'Those were her last words, Mama. 'I'm going to tell Mom.'

'When she turned away from me, I pulled back on the boom and gave it a shove. It smacked her across the back of the head, and -'

There was the sound of breaking glass, followed by a deafening concussion and a blaze of light.

Fred Brinkley thought that the world had blown apart.

Chapter 132

I WATCHED THROUGH THE SMALL kitchen window, horrified, as Brinkley held a sharpened knife to the side of his mother's neck.

We were armed and ready, but what we needed was a clear line of fire, and Mrs. Brinkley was blocking our shot. Breaking in through either door would give him time enough to kill her.

Fear for the woman climbed up my spine like a lit fuse. I wanted to scream.

Instead, I turned toward Ray Quevas, head of our SWAT team. He shook his head – no – again telling me he couldn't take the shot. This situation could go south in an instant no matter what we did, so when he asked for a green light on the flashbang, I said go ahead.

We pulled on our masks and goggles, and Ray jabbed the window with the launcher barrel, breaking the glass – and then he fired.

The grenade bounced off the far wall of the kitchen and exploded in an ear-shattering, blinding concussion.

The SWAT team had the door down in a half second, and we were inside the smoke-filled room, wanting only one thing: to incapacitate Brinkley before he could get his head together and grab his gun.

I found Brinkley on the floor, facedown, legs under the table. I straddled his back and bent his arms behind him.

I had the cuffs nearly closed when he flipped over and shoved me off his body. He was as strong as a freaking bull. As I struggled to right myself, Brinkley grabbed his gun, which had fallen onto the floor.

Conklin ripped off his mask and yelled, 'Keep your hands where I can see them.'

It was a standoff.

Chapter 133

LASERS WERE POINTED AT BRINKLEY'S HEAD – but he had two hands on his gun grip, prone position, his military training kicking in. His Beretta was aimed at Conklin. And Rich's gun was on Brinkley.

I was right there.

I screwed my Glock into Brinkley's first vertebra hard enough so that he could really feel it, and I yelled through my mask, 'Don't move. Don't you move an inch, or you're dead.'

Richie kicked out at Brinkley's gun, sending it skittering across the floor.

Six weapons were trained on Brinkley as I cuffed him, exhilaration flowing through me – even as Brinkley laughed at us.

I pulled off my mask, gagging a little from the phosphorus still in the air. I didn't know what Brinkley found so funny.

We had him. We had him alive.

'He was going to kill me!' Elena Brinkley shouted at Jacobi. 'Can't you keep him locked up?'

'What happened?' Brinkley said, looking over his shoulder into my face.

'Remember me?' I said.

'Oh, yeah,' he said. 'My friend, Lindsay Boxer.'

'Good. You're under arrest for your prison break,' I said. 'And I think we've got a reckless endangerment charge to go with it. Maybe attempted murder, too.'

Behind me, Jacobi was telling Elena Brinkley to hold still and he'd get her out of that chair.

'You have the right to remain silent,' I said to Brinkley.

Elena freed herself – ripped the fabric loose on one sleeve and, tearing open her blouse, released the other arm. She walked over to her son.

'I hate you,' she said. 'I wish they'd killed you.' Then she struck him hard across the face.

'Wow. What a shock,' he said slyly to me.

'Anything you say can and will be used against you,' I continued.

'Who are you kidding?' Brinkley shouted at me, seeming oblivious to the roomful of pumped-up law enforcement officers who'd love nothing more than to kick the crap out of him.

'All you can do is take me back to Atascadero,' Brinkley said. 'Nothing you charge me with is going to stick.'

'Shut up, asshole,' I said. 'Be glad we aren't zipping you into a body bag.'

'No, you shut up!' Brinkley said, shouting me down, spit flying, a hellish brightness lighting his face. 'I'm not guilty of anything. You know that. I'm legally insane.'

And suddenly I heard Elena Brinkley scream, 'No!' – as the dishwasher started its run.