Inertia tugged Tyler through the doorway. As he was sliding out, she remembered his ammo pouch. She fumbled at it, hoping to grab a spare magazine-too late.
Tyler fell, bouncing and flopping on the road, then rolled away in a confusion of limbs.
She twisted upright and saw the double yellow line whip into another switchback coil.
Spin of the wheel, the van slewing, a cloud of gravel pelting the chassis, and then the road straightened and she pumped the brake pedal.
The speedometer dipped to fifty. She kept it there. Still a reckless speed, but she couldn’t afford caution, not now.
Momentarily she took her hand off the wheel to check Tyler’s Glock.
Empty.
Lilith’s ammo pouch might contain a spare mag, but there wasn’t time to stop the van and climb into the back.
No medals for quitters.
She would go in unarmed.
78
Charles coughed, an incongruously delicate sound. “We’ll … we’ll have to do them all.”
“Of course.” With his gun Cain motioned to the prisoners. “On the couch.”
Wordlessly Philip and Judy sat at one end of the sofa, facing Ally. Torn cushions deflated under them like punctured tires. Barbara seated herself at the opposite end, shoulders back, lips pursed.
A woman sitting for a portrait. She made a telling contrast with her husband-restless, anxious, sweating, a false smile glued to his face.
Cain stepped back, preparing for the bloody but necessary work at hand.
“Are you going to …” Charles swallowed. “I mean … right here”
Cain nodded. “Right here.”
Philip drew his wife close. Barbara stiffened, waiting.
“They’ll know it was you.”
The small, tremulous voice was Ally’s. She stared directly at her father.
Charles flicked a glance in her direction, then looked hastily aware. “They won’t know anything. I’ll say I escaped. I’m the sole survivor.”
“They won’t believe you.”
He nearly delivered some sharp retort. Cain cut him off.
“She’s right, Mr. Kent.”
Charles took a moment to register the words. “What”
“It’s too convenient this way.” Cain tried not to think of the money, the five million, his better future. “With other witnesses to verify your story, you would have been in the clear. Without them, you’ll be the obvious suspect.”
“Nobody can prove-“
“They won’t have to prove. They’ll interrogate you. They’ll make you crack.”
“I can handle them. I’m a lawyer, God damn it!”
“You’re weak.”
The two words, uttered so softly, absorbed Charles’s tirade like a pillow absorbing a fist.
“You’ll fold. You’ll talk. You’ll implicate me.”
“Why … why would I”
“To cut a deal. You’re a lawyer, like you said. You know all the angles.”
“This is crazy.”
“It’s what you’ll do. It’s what men like you always do. I’m just the hired hand, the trained ape. You’ll sell me out without a second thought … if you can.”
Comprehension flashed on Charles Kent’s face.
His gun came up fast.
He fired at Cain.
A single shot at a distance of ten feet, the report echoing in the room. Judy screamed.
And Cain laughed.
Directly ahead, the Kent estate, gate open. Trish slowed to forty, gripping the wheel in preparation for a tight turn.
The driver’s door banged fitfully against the frame. She’d never closed it.
Forget the door. Get ready.
Now.
She veered to the right, and the van hooked sharply, leaning on two wheels, and the wrought-iron gatepost slammed into the open door and sheared it from its hinges in a shower of sparks.
Then the gate was behind her, the house rushing up. Through the bay window the living room was visible.
Posed in the glow of a single lamp, a waxworks tableau: the Kents, the Danforths-and Cain.
Trish floored the gas.
*
Cain’s laughter rose over the distant rumble of the van pulling into the yard. There was a metallic bang-Tyler might have hit the gate-but he didn’t turn and look. His full attention was focused on Charles, poor Charles, bewildered and shaking and about to die.
“Should have checked the clip more closely, Mr. Kent. The gun in my duffel-it’s one of our spares. We used it in our training exercises. It’s loaded with blanks.”
“Blanks,” Charles whispered.
“Handloaded ‘em myself. Black powder in extra-length cases.” Cain raised his Glock. “My gun has live ammo.”
Squeeze of the trigger, a loud percussive jolt, and Charles stiffened, staring down at his lapel, where a dark red trickle ran like spilled grape juice.
“See the difference” Cain asked.
Charles didn’t answer, didn’t move, just stood there, still holding the gun in a white-knuckled grip.
Cain pivoted toward Ally. His Glock brushed her cheek. Her eyes were round and unblinking above the gleam of the barrel.
“Your turn, freckle-face.”
Barbara screamed. Cain tightened his finger on the trigger—
And the bay window blew apart in a shower of shards.
He looked up.
Glare.
Headlights like a dragon’s eyes. The van bursting through the front wall.
And he knew.
Robinson.
79
Trish steered through a dazzle of flying glass, aiming the van at Cain and Charles Kent, the only standing figures in the room.
Cain leaped sideways out of her path. Barbara rolled with Ally behind the armchair. Philip pulled his wife to cover.
Only Charles remained motionless, stiff and dazed, showing no reaction even as the van bore down.
Thump of contact, and he was hurled onto the hood, head and shoulders bursting through the windshield. Trish averted her face, crumbs of safety glass dusting her hair.
