real world.
Somehow, the young Arab had freed his hands and came up with a thin box cutter Cujo must have missed in his sock. He’d lashed out at Bo, catching him with the razor blade just below the knee.
Bo kicked out, connecting with the Arab’s ribs. His legs still taped, the man rolled away, but came up again with the blade. Blood pouring from a long gash in his jeans, Bo whipped the pistol from his waistband at the same instant Megan realized she had a rifle in her hands. She spun in her chair, bringing the weapon around in a flash. Her finger tightened on the trigger.
“Holy hell,” Thibodaux’s voice boomed down the hall. “Y’all don’t shoot him!”
Mahoney froze. At this distance, she had to look over the top of the scope to make out her target. Seeing the growing swatch of fresh blood on Bo’s pant leg filled her with the overwhelming urge to blow the Arab’s head off. If he happened to look at her face now, she was pretty sure he wouldn’t be seeing any mercy.
The Cajun was large enough he took up most of the hallway, but he moved with incredible speed. Snapping out with a left foot, he kicked the box cutter from the startled Arab’s hand. He grabbed the man by the back of his belt and the scruff of the neck and hoisted him to chest level before slamming him facedown against the carpet. Any remaining fight the young Arab had left him along with the blood that gushed from his nose.
Mahoney felt her hands begin to shake and eased her finger away from the trigger.
Thibodaux squatted to wind fresh tape around the groaning prisoner’s hands. “We can’t talk to him if you blow him to pieces, you know.” His jaw muscles tensed as he worked.
Jericho suddenly appeared from the bedroom door, making his way solemnly down the hallway toward the stunned prisoner. His eyes shifted to Thibodaux and he shook his head. Over his forehead, running in a dripping arc from his hairline to his right eyebrow was a line of fresh blood. At first Mahoney thought he must have cut himself; then she realized it wasn’t his blood.
Jericho nodded toward the prisoner, asked him something in Arabic. He slouched against the wall without moving. He ignored the question completely and muttered a sullen prayer to himself. Jericho shrugged, and then breathed the sigh of a truly exhausted man. He squatted beside the prisoner, thumping him in the forehead to make certain he had his attention. The Arab’s face stayed pointed toward the floor, but his eyes rolled slowly upward, staring in an unspoken challenge. Jericho stayed where he was, less than a foot from the man who had just tried to kill his brother. He fired off another line in Arabic, softer this time and more deliberate. The younger man’s eyes fell again. His entire body began to shake as if suddenly stricken with a fever.
“That’s the first reaction we’ve had from this yahoo,” Thibodaux said. “What did you say to him?”
Jericho groaned, pushing off the wall to get to his feet. “I told him his friend had talked but we needed to confirm his story. That he bravely endured unmentionable pain, but in the end it had done him no good. Then I told him it was his turn.”
Mahoney stood, holding the rifle to her chest like some sort of security blanket. She didn’t know what to do with herself. She wanted to scream. She wanted to tell Jericho that she’d thought it through, that she understood why he had to do what he’d done… what he was about to do. She was sure he’d be able to see it in her eyes, if he’d just look, but he refused to meet her gaze.
“Jacques,” he said softly. “Let’s get this one moved to the back room…”
CHAPTER 47
Bo’s BlackBerry squawked from the holster on his belt, freezing everyone in place and buying the young Arab a moment of reprieve. A gravel voice with a thick Texas accent suddenly broke squelch.
“Bo, this is Ugly,” the voice said. “We got a towel-head in a light blue Pontiac rental car coming up the road. He’s eyeballin’ that gal’s house pretty hard. Looks like he’s your guy. He’s missing a couple of fingers… Wait, I think he’s stopping…”
“Watch yourselves,” Bo warned, clenching the grip of the pistol in his fist.
“Hang on, Bo,” Ugly said. “Watch him, Jim! Shit, he sees us-”
Ugly’s voice stopped abruptly, covered by the staccato sound of gunfire both over the phone as well as outside and up the street.
“Talk to me, Ugly.” Bo rushed toward the door, gun in hand.
Jericho went after him, grabbing him by the shoulder. “Wait!” he said. “Don’t just rush out headlong. We don’t know how many there are out there. Our lives aren’t the important thing here. We have to do this the smart way.”
Bo shrugged away, using the barrel of his gun to push aside the window blinds. “Shit! I can’t see anybody. They must be just over that rise.”
Jericho stood to his left, scanning up and down the road. “Nothing,” he said through clenched teeth as more gunfire erupted outside.
“Ugly! Jim!” Bo snapped. “What the hell’s going on?”
He was met by nothing but silence. “Dammit!” Bo hissed through clenched teeth. “I’m gonna go check on them.”
“I’ll come with you.” Jericho stepped to the door. “Remember, no matter what else happens, we can’t let Zafir get away.”
A deadly look clouded Bo’s face. “I hadn’t planned on it, brother.”
Ugly’s gritty voice popped across the radio again, broken this time and higher in pitch. “Jim’s down! He took a bullet in the guts… The son of a bitch shot me, too, but I think I got him…”
Jericho’s heart raced. “Bo,” he snapped. “You tell him to watch out! This guy’s not dead until he’s DRT.”
“Okay, boss…” Ugly’s voice came back across the radio before Bo could issue the warning. It was still high- pitched, but slower, calming down. “Yeah, I got the bastard. Looks like he’s dead-”
The pop of small-arms fire peppered the air again, followed almost instantly by the roaring slap, slap, slap of an American motorcycle engine.
“Hey!” It was Ugly’s voice again, screaming, panting as if he was running down the road. He kept the mike keyed as he moved. “Boss! You better get out here! He’s getting away… Hey, get off my bike!”
CHAPTER 48
“I need to borrow your Harley,” Jericho said as he threw his leg across the Night Rod parked in the middle of the living room. “You go check on your guys, I’ll go after Zafir.”
“Take her!” Bo said. “But remember, she’s not a two-story building like your Beemer. You gotta watch the corners.” He kicked open the front door, a pistol in his hand. “Now go! We’ll take care of this end.”
The Night Rod came to life with a deafening roar, straight-shot dual mufflers shaking the walls of the little house. Jericho shot a glance at Mahoney as he kicked the bike into first. She smiled. “Bo’s men are hurt,” he yelled. “See if you can help them. I’ll take care of Zafir.” Quinn tapped the Bluetooth device in his ear. “Jacques, sorry to leave you with the baggage. Give Palmer a call and he’ll send someone to pick them up. I’ll call out my locations on the radio. Get to the car and follow me as soon as you can.”
“We got this, beb,” the big Cajun yelled over the thumping motorcycle engine. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Jericho goosed the throttle, burning the Harley’s fat rear tire through the carpet as he hopped the threshold out the door. He shot off the front porch and landed with a thud in the front yard, planting a boot on the concrete sidewalk to keep from spilling. Bo was right. The bike had very little ground clearance and she was a beast at low speeds. Up the hill, nearly a hundred yards up the street he could see the Pontiac. It was dead and steaming in the middle of the road where Ugly had put several rounds through the radiator. Both bikers were on the ground but looked to be alive and sitting up. A man on a red motorcycle disappeared over the crest going east on Lafayette.
Jericho took the hill four seconds later and caught sight of the fleeing bike, which now had almost a full block
