Griffin’s alert eyes scanned all present, the room. Broker had zipped his jacket to hide the pistol, but the rifle was still in plain view on the table. Griffin adjusted immediately, low-key. Said something about Kit could help him load the oak. Be fun in all the snow. Kit’s eyes darting, confused.
Broker lifted Nina’s coat off the hook by the door, stood waiting. Sinking, she crossed the room, grabbed at the pack of cigarettes and lighter on the island. Eyes lowered, she walked past Harry and Kit, took the coat, and followed Broker out the door.
Chapter Forty-six
Shank hunkered in the thick spruce maybe sixty yards from the garage, squinting into the blowing snow. He’d hoped to spot the wife, coming back from running. Couldn’t see shit. Thought he saw some lights for a minute. Then a wall of whiteout erased the shadow of the house. The terrain had disappeared, the road, the woods, just this white plasma blob. Maybe Gator was right, should have broke in, waited in the house. Problem was, what if they came back and saw the forced entry? Scare them off. Better this way, he decided. He had his hood pulled up under the hood of the smock, one gloved hand on the cell phone in his left pocket, the other on the SIG in the right pocket. Not that uncomfortable, still warm from looking over the house, getting focused. In fact, he liked the harsh wind, working an edge off the storm charge in the turbulent air. And appreciated the way it banished the noises he started hearing when Gator left him. Those creepy
Fuck a bunch of wolves, just big dogs. Had to laugh, really; he’d killed nine men. Count ’em. Not the time to worry about animals. Still, every time he picked up a weird twist to the wind…
Then, faint headlights in the white gloom. Somebody coming up the driveway. Okay, let’s get this show on the road. Okay, folks, what’s going on here? Windows still dark in the house. Looked like. When he could see the fuckin’ house. The minutes stretched like chilly ivory dominoes, clicking end to end. Then, finally, he saw the headlights again. Closer. The green Toyota had returned, was pulling around the back of the house, backing up to the side of the garage. Like it was before. Uh-huh, that’s Broker, getting out of the truck. Impossible to make out his features in the blow, but the same brown coat and black hat. Hank’s heart skipped a beat, seeing the smaller figure get out of the passenger side. Must be the kid, in a blur of green coat and hat, something, a scarf maybe, tied around the face. This’ll be a first. He forgot, was it a boy or a girl? Fuck it. Green target. He hadn’t seen the woman but assumed, given this weather, she was inside.
He watched them start loading pieces of wood into the truck bed. Now he was waiting on Sheryl to get back in position. More white dominoes. Then, finally, the cell buzzed in his pocket. He whipped it out, removed his glove, and punched answer.
“I’m back,” Sheryl said. “But I can’t see shit.”
“Showtime. They’re home. Start your drive.”
He ended the call, replaced the phone in his pocket, then stuffed the glove in with it. When he looked up, he saw Broker and the kid climbing the steps to the back deck, going in the sliding patio door.
Okay. See better in the house. He was up, removing his other glove for a surer grip on the SIG. He unzipped the front of the camo smock, not liking the way it bound his chest and arms. Swung his arms-more freedom of movement. Shank pulled the ski mask down around his neck and stepped from the cover of the pines. No more detours, go straight in. Get it over with.
Kit stood at the end of the kitchen, by the basement door, unwinding her scarf. Griffin dusted snow from his hat, removed it. Seeing the frozen fix of her eyes, he went to her and gently brushed snow from her freckled cheeks. “Hey, honey, it’ll be all right.”
She looked up at him with an awful anger in her eyes. “You
He reached to hug her, and she stepped back, arms raised, warding him off.
Let her be, he thought. Then he turned, started for the cabinet next to the stove, glanced out the patio door. “Funny, huh. We take a break and the snow lets up. Should be some hot chocolate in here-”
Something. A snap of red in the corner of his eye.
Whipping around, he saw that it wasn’t all right.
The figure of a man emerged from the trees, white camo flapping around something red underneath. One second he was obscure in the blowing snow. Then the wind stopped and the snow disappeared, and Griffin clearly saw the black pistol in his hand. The man started jogging toward the house.
Griffin didn’t waste time with how or why. He dropped instantly into threat and response, judging time and distance. He was in the middle of the room, between Kit and the table with the familiar rifle and magazine on it. Guy was fifty yards out…
First get Kit free. Out of the line of fire. The basement.
“Kit, come here, fast!” he shouted. Galvanized by his tone, Kit hurried to him, her face shaking. “Take this.” He whipped the cell phone from his pocket, opened it. “Now listen to me. Go in the basement. If there’s shooting, unhook the window, crawl out and get into the woods. Punch in 911. A nine and two ones. Press this button, here. Send. Tell them a man with a gun is coming into the house. Go!” he shouted, spinning, lunging for the AR-15 on the table.
Shank came up the steps two at a time, swinging up the pistol, saw a flurry of movement in the lighted kitchen. Shit. Musta seen him. Broker picking something up off a table…Then Shank’s boot slipped on the top step, and he skidded, righting himself, and his heart caught in his throat.
Broker was slapping a magazine into a serious military-type rifle, pulling the thingy in back, taking aim.
Nothing happened.
Close enough to see the look of surprise in Broker’s eyes, jerking at the operating rod.
Shank fired twice through the glass, saw Broker go down through a splatter of shattered glass, flung open the siding door, and fired a wild shot at the wide-eyed kid who ducked down a doorway at the other end of the room.
Stepping over…wait…paused a second, looking down at the waxy face of the man laying on the floor. Hit him solid, twice in the chest. Then…Where’s the fucking eyebrows?
Not sure why he’d lived, not knowing why he was dying, Harry Griffin opened his eyes and watched his killer step over him and dash down the stairs after Kit. Wouldn’t you know, the same old familiar things; the brimstone scent of cordite, the copper taste of blood. He lay on his right side, right arm trapped beneath him. Couldn’t move it. His left hand was detached. Couldn’t feel it, sprawled there on the floor, tremoring, having its own local death. A foot away from his palsied left hand, along the baseboard, level with his eyes, he saw the.257 Roberts laying on the floor, muzzle pointed in the direction of the basement stairwell, bolt pulled open.
Heard a snarl from the basement, stuff crashing, thrown around.
Hardest thing he ever did, resurrecting that left hand, willing it to reach over and tug the rifle along the floor. Way too weak to lift it. He fingered a bullet from the sidekick bandolier on the stock; trembling, he inserted it in the chamber.
Heard the guy yell, raging, “Why, you little shit!”
Tasting blood, Griffin smiled. She got out. Good girl. Run. He slid the bolt forward, locking in the round. Second hardest thing he ever did, feathery, his left hand went off on a journey, searching for the trigger, nudging the muzzle along the floor, centered on the stairway. Found the trigger as the heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs. Something going through his mind shutting off the lights on the way out…
Craning his neck, Griffin managed to catch a glimpse of the guy’s face and shoulders, clearing the top step;
