No pain; no fear.
As he slowly readied his nine to fire, he visualized the next thirty seconds. He had to fade them out of position. Once the dying cop had them properly distracted, he’d have plenty of time to do what he needed to do.
He’d fired the gun enough times to know its idiosyncrasies. He aimed it directly at Detective Gomez’s throat. If his hand jiggled in any direction, it would still be a kill shot.
All he had to do was squeeze the trigger.
He closed his eyes and took a breath.
I am not a murderer.
11. The Clearing
“Mierda!!”
Bark exploded over Ernie’s left ear, sending him into the weeds.
“You okay, Ernie!”
“I’m okay. Gonna be pickin’ splinters out of my skull for a week, but I’m okay!”
“Where’d it come from!?”
“Straight ahead somewhere.”
“Stay low!”
“No shit!”
A second shot whistled over Lynch head. The bastard had them pinned.
“Son of a bitch!”
Ernie tried talking to him.
“Hey Philip! You’ve got…”
A flat rock shattered two feet from Gomez’s nose.
“Take it easy, man! I said you’ve got…”
A fourth bullet ricocheted off the side of stump close enough to Ernie to make him scurry backwards.
“Okay, okay okay! Stop it! I get the point!”
It was a stand-off. Every time the detectives made noise, they gave away position. Every time Philip fired, he did the same. They were keeping themselves concealed for different reasons. Philip didn’t want to get caught. The detectives didn’t want to get killed.
Lynch worked his way beside a dead, ant-infested old log, and raised his head. He’d lost view of his partner. His phone buzzed…a text. He ignored it. He got up on his elbows and started to crawl on his belly toward the field. His phone buzzed again.
“Jaime! Pull your cabeza out of your culo!”
Ohhhh! Idiot.
He read Ernie’s text.
THE FIRST BULLET WAS SHOT AT A DOWNWARD ANGLE. THAT LAST ONE CAME STRAIGHT ACROSS.
The angle of trajectory was decreasing. The shooter had climbed down a tree. He was on the move, but which way? His options were limited. He could head for his car or head deeper into the woods. He could make for the road or make for the wilderness. He could go to the right or go to the left.
Lynch texted back.
TALK TO HIM AGAIN.
“Hey, Philip! Come on, hombre! You can’t possibly think you’ve got a way out of this! Let’s talk!”
Silence…Philip wasn’t stupid.
“Flush him!”
Both detectives sprang to their feet and emptied their magazines high into the trees before hitting the ground again. For the next five minutes, they lay still, listening for rustling leaves or a snapping twig.
Nothing.
Lynch sent another text.
HOLD TIGHT. I’M GOING TO WORK MY WAY BACK TO THE CAR.
He never hit [send]. The distant “pop” of a pad lock stopped him.
“Fuck! The shed! Go, Ernie, go!”
The two detectives heaved themselves off of their bellies and bobbed and weaved as fast as they could toward the tree line. Lynch emerged first with Gomez a couple of yards behind.
The barn doors had been swung open, but the lock on the side door was still closed. They crouched down and moved as fast as they could, putting Lynch’s car between themselves and the window. The tires had been flattened. They ignored the implications and slipped around the back bumper to the near side of the open barn door. They were about to do a three count and storm the shed when they heard a sputter.
The sound was unmistakable.
“Is that…?”
“Shit!”
They darted around the side just in time to hear a second sputter turn into rev and a roar. They tried to raise their pistols, but it was too late.
All they could do was jump out of the way.
12. Racing to the Tree Line
Philip had only one plan: get to his car, and get his ass out of there. The resurrected bike would be no good on his uncle’s effed-up gravel path, but he could get close enough to the house to run the rest of the way. Then, he could be on the road heading for one of a thousand hiding places before the cops were half way across the field. He only wished he had his hands free to flip a double-bird behind his back.
He thought he heard gun fire behind him.
“Nice try, guys.”
He was too fast and too far away. In thirty years, some kid would find the bullets embedded in the field and wonder how they got there. Perhaps he’d do some research and find out about the showdown in Walter McKenzie’s woods. Then they’d read about Philip and how he singlehandedly brought down the whole damned thing. The kid would read about the empire that existed before Philip started his good works and become inspired to rid the world of the remaining evil. Maybe…just maybe.
The bike rumbled under him as he sped across the grass toward his goal. Wonderful memories of a simpler time coupled with a feeling of triumph blended into a new perfect moment. He couldn’t help but let out a Howard Dean war cry.
“Yeeeeeaaaaahhhhhh!!! Suck my…”
Uh oh.
The first black sedan burst into view, throwing up gravel as it crossed Philip’s path. Three more followed. Eighteen inches of turf went flying as he planted his right foot on the ground, jammed the handlebars to the right, and reversed direction.
He caught a glimpse of the two detectives. They’d stopped running. They’d stopped shooting. They were…just standing there.
“You knew I called Beck, right?”
“I tried to warn the guy, but he kept shooting at me.”
It mattered not. He still had one advantage over all of them. He knew his uncle’s woods. He knew the old trails. He hadn’t ridden them for years, but he knew them. The two idiots on foot were leaving the rest of the chase up to the idiots in the cars, and no car would be able to follow him where he was about to go.
The entrance was invisible to the naked eye. His pursuers would think he was either nuts, or about to dump the bike and run for it. If the driver was good enough, and didn’t care
