I closed to within four car lengths of them inside the city limits. No way to tell if they knew I was there. Probably they did. Chapel Hill's version of rush hour was in progress. Franklin Street was a narrow winding stream of traffic rolling slowly alongside the tree-lined campus.
Up ahead I could see the funky Varsity Theatre, where Wick Sachs had gone to a foreign movie with a woman named Suzanne Wellsley. It had been adultery, nothing more, nothing less. Dr. Wick Sachs had been set up by Casanova and Will Rudolph. Sachs had made a perfect suspect in the case. The local pornographer. Casanova had known all about him. How was that?
I was close to getting them now; I could feel it. I had to think like that. They caught a red light at the corner of Franklin and Columbia.
Students wearing ratty T-shirts with Champion and Nike and Bass Ale logos jaywalked between the stopped cars. Shaquille O'Neal's “I Know I Got Skillz” played loudly from somebody's radio.
I waited a few seconds after the stoplight turned red with a noisy click-click sound. Then I went for the whole enchilada. Ready or not, here I come.
Alex Cross 2 - Kiss the Girls
CHAPTER 112.
I SLID OUT of the Duster and ran in a low crouch down the middle of Franklin Street. The Clock was out, but held flat against my leg to be less conspicuous. Nobody panic and scream now. Let this go right one time.
The two of them must have spotted the trailing Duster earlier. I'd figured as much. As soon as I hit the street, they threw themselves out of opposite sides of the pickup.
One turned and fired off three quick shots. Pop. Pop. Pop. Only one of them had a gun out. Something clicked inside my head again: I remembered a quick scene from the woods. A connection made. A flash of recognition.
I ducked down behind a black Nissan Z that was waiting for the light, and yelled at the top of my lungs. “Police! Police! Get down! Get down on the ground! Get out of these cars!” Most of the drivers and pedestrians did as they were told. What a difference between Chapel Hill and the streets of D. C.' in that regard. I took a quick peek up the sheet-metal lane between the cars.
I didn't see either of the killers anywhere.
I slid alongside the black sports car, bent over more than double in a low-slung crouch. Students and store owners watched me warily from the sidewalk. “Police! Get down. Get down. Get that little boy the hell out of here!” I yelled.
I saw crazy things in my mind's eye. Flashing images. Sampson ... with a knife in his back. Kate ... after they had beaten her to a bloody, helpless mess. The sunken eyes of the women prisoners back at the house.
I was keeping low to the ground, but one of the monsters saw me and went for a head shot. We both fired at almost the same time.
His bullet barely nicked a side view mirror that was between us. It probably saved me. I didn't see the final result of my shot.
I went down behind the cars again. The stench of motor oil and gas was almost overpowering. A police siren wailing in the distance told me help was on the way. Not Sampson, though. Not the kind of help I needed.
Just heep moving. Keep them both in sight somehow ... two of them! Two versus one. Better way to think about it: two for the price of one! I wondered how well they would deal with this. What they were thinking. Planning. Was Casanova the leader now? Who was he?
I looked up quickly and saw a cop. He was near the corner of the street and his revolver was out. I never had a chance to shout a warning.
A gun fired twice from his left and the patrolman went down hard.
People were screaming all over Franklin Street. Jaded college kids didn't look so blase anymore. Some of the girls were crying. Maybe they finally understood that we're all very mortal.
“Get down!” I shouted again. “Everybody get the hell down!” I ducked behind the cars again and inched my way up on the side of a minivan. I saw one of the monsters as my eyes cleared shiny, silver sheet metal.
My next shot wasn't so ambitious, no hero crap. I was willing to settle for a hit anywhere. Chest, shoulders, lower torso. I fired! Trick shot, fuckhead. Watch this one. The bullet exploded through both passenger windows of a deserted Ford Taurus. It caught one of the bad guys high in the chest, just below the throat.
He dropped as if his legs had been pulled from underneath him. I sprinted as fast as I could toward the place I'd seen him standing last. Which one went down? my brain was screaming. And where is the other one?
I darted in and out between the parked cars. He was gone! He wasn't there! Where the hell was the one I had shot? And where was the other clever boy hiding?
I saw the one I'd hit. He lay spreadeagled under the traffic light at Columbia and Franklin. The death mask still covered his face, but he looked almost ordinary in his white hightops, tan khakis, and Windbreaker.
I didn't see a gun anywhere around him. He wasn't moving, and I knew he was badly hurt. I crouched on my knees over him, my eyes darting around as I checked him out. Careful! Careful, I warned myself. I didn't see his partner anywhere. He's out there someplace. He knows how to shoot.
I peeled the costume mask off his face, the last facade ripped away.
You're not a god. You bleed like the rest of us.
