for why they’d fired at him in quiet San Marino.
Nick had Betty bring up a map of the botanical gardens, but he’d been here about five years ago with his father-in-law, who’d had some academic business at the research library here. It was the week that Nick had brought Val out to live with Leonard. He could find his way to the library, but the historic structure was near the center of this large urban mix of forests, flower gardens, formal Japanese gardens, and meadows, and although there might be security guards at the library, Nick didn’t want to get them involved.
The shooting trio had RadioShack walkie-talkies but kept shouting back and forth to one another. This was great sport to them and they’d obviously been drinking or using drugs. It became clear that they weren’t comfortable stalking someone in these manicured woods and meadows—they’d probably spent a good part of the last week shooting people in urban settings—but then, Nick wasn’t comfortable being stalked in the woods either. He would have preferred an alley.
He soon realized that they were making noise and firing at random in order to herd him to their left, toward Oxford Road bordering the gardens to the east. Nick didn’t want to go back east. He had business to the west and south.
It was starting to get light in earnest now. He had to get this over with.
He’d come into an area where a Doric-columned circular mausoleum stood in the middle of a clearing. Nick hobbled as quickly as he could across the clearing but his trackers still had time to get off two shots. One tugged at his jacket and then he was in the trees and panting to catch his breath. He’d seen the muzzle flashes and knew that the hunters were directly across the clearing from him. He shouted, “What do you want from me?”
“Everything you got, pal,” shouted one of the men. The other two giggled.
“Let’s meet in the middle and settle this,” shouted Nick. He ducked low and began running as quickly as he could through the thick undergrowth, no longer heading away from the shooters, circling the clearing back to the west, in their direction. There was a park road only a few meters to the north and he knew they’d also want to use the maximum amount of cover as they attempted to flank him.
Nearing the west end of the circular clearing, Nick stopped, knelt, and slipped in a fresh magazine of ammo. He crouched low and chambered the first round as silently as he could.
All three men came out into the clearing, crouching and silent. They were moving too quickly for Nick to get a clean shot at all of them at once. Counting on the fact that they were amateurs—no matter how many men and women they’d killed in recent days—Nick shouted, “Hey!”
Soldiers, mercenaries, or professional killers would have kept moving, throwing themselves in different directions. These three amateurs froze, turned, and opened fire. Even the Quarterback had a pistol in his right hand—while he carried the rifle in his left—and was joining in the shooting.
Two slugs caught Nick in his lower right side, not penetrating the Kevlar-3 he wore under his shirt, but cracking some ribs, knocking the wind out of him, and spinning him around. He knelt in a combat firing crouch, ignored the fusillade of bullets ripping branches just over his head, and fired eight times.
All three men went down hard. After a minute, seeing everyone’s hands empty in the increasing light of dawn, Nick crabwalked toward them, gun raised and steady in both hands.
He’d somehow managed to miss the great bulk of the Linebacker except for one high center-mass shot, but that had pulped the big man’s heart. Blood had exploded from the man’s mouth, ears, and eyes. He’d been dead before he hit the ground.
The Quarterback had taken two of Nick’s slugs center mass but it had been the third shot—a round, bloodless hole in the precise center of the ferret-faced man’s upper lip—that had done the job.
Billy Clanton had also absorbed three slugs but was still alive, writhing and curling in pain.
Nick kicked all the visible weapons into the bushes and crouched over the teenager.
“Help me, mister, please, help me, I hurt… oh, Jesus God, Jesus, it hurts… help me, please, for the love of Christ, mister, please…”
Nick studied the wounds. None was fatal in and of itself, but the boy would bleed out soon enough if he didn’t get medical attention. Nick was sure there’d be a medical station at the California Institute of Technology just a few blocks to the northwest.
“Where’s your car?” asked Nick, bending low so that he was hissing almost into the boy’s ear. “Where are the keys to your car?”
The mantra of pain and entreaty paused long enough for the boy to squint up at him. Like most young Americans, this one had never felt real pain for more than a few minutes at a time. He wanted a pill or shot or IV for this pain… and
“You’ll… help me? I didn’t wanna come along, you know. It was all Dean’s idea. I didn’t wanna…”
“Where’s the car?” whispered Nick. “Where are the keys? Medical help’s only a few minutes away by car. I can’t carry you.”
The boy nodded and then belched blood. This terrified him and he started babbling through his groans and weeping.
Dean’s blue Nissan Menlo Park was parked on Landor Lane, just half a block from where they’d shot at Nick. They all lived up in Altadena and were just regular guys, you know, and were coming home from having some night fun down in East L.A.—everybody was doing it this week—when they’d seen the moped and Dean’d said, one more for a nightcap, but…
“Keys?” hissed Nick.
“Dean… Dean’s pocket… Dean… front pocket, I think… help, for the love of Christ, mister, it hurts
Nick guessed that Dean was the Quarterback and found the keys in the dead man’s front pocket. The key ring was labeled NISSAN. Nick also checked both the dead Linebacker’s pockets and the moaning, writhing boy’s, as well as all three backpacks, but found only some extra ammunition, billfolds, cards, and some cash. He kept the cash and Dean’s NICC.
Nick opened his shirt and checked the Kevlar-3 undershirt on the right side. It had stopped both pistol slugs but there was definitely some damage to his ribs on that side. Trying to take deep, slow breaths, he buttoned his shirt back up. The bullet crease on his left calf had finally stopped bleeding, but not before soaking through the handkerchief and his pant leg. It would be a bitch to pull the solidly caked material free later.
“Please… mister… you promised… you promised… it hurts so much… you promised.”
Nick knelt over the wounded boy and decided that he really didn’t look much like the young Dennis Hopper. He didn’t look
“You
He could get Dean’s van, drive back here, load the kid in, and try to find some medical help before the boy bled out. Or he could point his would-be killer in the direction of the Huntington Library and tell him to crawl, although odds were low that he’d get there before he bled to death.
Either way, he’d be leaving someone behind who could describe him and the Nissan to the cops—if the cops were still a factor in this L.A. suburb—and raise Nick’s chances of being detained somewhere, thus lowering his chances of finding Val.
Nick used his left hand to shield his face and eyes from backspatter as he set the muzzle of the Glock within three inches of the boy’s pale forehead and white, widening eyes and squeezed the trigger.
The Menlo was parked right where the kid had said it would be. Betty whispered to him that there were less than twelve miles to go even if he avoided the Pasadena Freeway by taking Monterey Road to North Figueroa Street and the Nissan’s own nav system confirmed it. There might be roadblocks ahead, Nick knew, but one way or the other, he’d be at Leonard’s address in half an hour or so.
As the plane finally banked back toward the east an attractive female flight attendant wearing a kimono entered the cabin from aft and Sato said, “Are you hungry or thirsty, Bottom-san?”
Nick shook his head. The flight attendant took Sato’s order of
