and lights outside will make it hard for the snipers to see us using either regular or night-vision scopes.
“Keep going,” I grunt, trying to pull him to his feet.
Latham manages one step before falling.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
He’s breathing as heavy as I am.
“Legs not working?” I’m referring to the residual paralysis from his bout with botulism.
“Not working.”
This time I find his mouth, press my lips against it.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I have legs for the two of us.”
I prod Latham to his feet once more, then have him stand behind me and put his arms over my shoulders.
“Piggyback?” he says into my ear.
“Just hold on tight.”
His good arm locks around my chest. I lean forward, taking his weight, and manage four staggering steps.
“I kind of like this position,” Latham says.
I stop, lowering him down, catching my breath.
“Don’t like it too much,” I say between puffs. “I can only concentrate on one thing at a time.”
The
The snipers are shooting the outside lights.
I focus ahead, down the hallway. Maybe fifteen feet to the bathroom. I pick Latham up and go five more steps before losing my footing. We fall, Latham on top of me. My head feels like it has exploded, and I can’t take a breath.
Another shot. Another outside light winks out.
There are only four lights left. Then Latham and I will be completely exposed.
10:31 P.M.
PESSOLANO
THE COP IS SMART, doing that with the lights. Pessolano’s night-vision scope is too bright. Useless. He switches back to the Leupold scope, and the outside lights still make it impossible to see inside the house.
No big deal. He just needs to shoot out the lights, then switch back to night vision.
The first two are easy. Especially since he moved eighty yards closer. Even a child could have made those shots.
Pessolano doesn’t have any tree cover this time. He’s flat on his belly, legs out behind him, the TPG-1’s bipod legs resting on the wild grass across the street from the house. His pose is identical to the sniper that came in those packages of plastic green army men he used to play with as a child. Pessolano wishes he had a bazooka – he can picture the toy figure on his knee, a rocket launcher perched on his shoulder, ready to rain hell upon the enemy. That guy was his favorite.
He nudges left, seeking the lights on the garage, and frowns.
The dead cop – the fat one he shot on the driveway.
He’s gone.
What the hell is going on? First he shot the woman cop in the head, and she got back up. Now this.
Pessolano shakes his head, trying to clear it. He peers through the scope again.
Definitely gone. Just a small puddle of blood where he’s fallen.
No. It’s not blood. The liquid on the driveway isn’t red.
It’s brown.
The fat cop tricked him.
Pessolano begins to sweep the grounds, looking for where he ran.
10:33 P.M.
HERB
THE KEY TO THE RUSE was night vision.
Herb knew that night-vision scopes produced an all-green image. That meant blood would be green too. Surviving depended on two things: the sniper missing, and Herb’s acting ability.
Since he had no place to run or hide, he simply got up and jogged toward the house, hoping when the shot came, it would miss. Then it was simply a question of falling over, breaking open the bag of chocolate high-fiber shake in his pocket, bugging out his eyes, and holding his breath until they left him alone.
And it works. It works perfectly.
Until the outside lights come on.
When that happens, Herb knows they’ll switch from night vision back to their regular scopes. They’ll be able to tell the difference between brown and red, and they’ll shoot him where he lies.
Herb doesn’t wait around for that to happen. He gets up on all fours and beelines for Jack’s car, hoping to get inside and use the radio to call for backup.
The doors are locked. Herb bends down, peers under the car. He could fit his head under there, but nothing else. That might work for an ostrich, but not for him. Herb needs a different hiding place.
He scans the house, eyeing the shrubs. Too small. There are a few trees on Jack’s lawn, but they’re too thin; it would be like an orange hiding behind a pencil.
A shot. Herb bunches up his shoulders, lowers his head, trying to make himself small. But they aren’t shooting at him. A light above the front porch blows out. Followed by another.
Good. If they shoot out all the lights, then they might not notice…
The third shot drills through the windshield of the Nova, missing Herb by less than a foot. Herb flinches, recovers, then rears back and smacks his palm into the window, trying to break it. The safety glass fractures into several thousand cracks, but it’s still held in place by its protective coating. Herb hits it again. And again. The sheet finally gives way with a loud
Herb reaches a hand inside, fumbles for the lock.
Another shot punches through the back window, blowing apart Jack’s radio. Bits of plastic shrapnel embed themselves in Herb’s cheek. He ignores the pain, opening the door, reaching across the seats, tugging open the glove box, finding the remote control for the garage door.
Another shot. Latham’s car window shatters. The different angle means it’s a different sniper. He’s caught in another crossfire.
Herb raises the remote above dashboard level and presses the button.
Nothing happens.
He presses again.
Nothing.
Two shots in quick succession, taking out two more of the Nova’s windows. Herb is out of ideas. He puts his hands over his head and waits for the inevitable.
