“Why are you doing this?”
“Because it needs to be done.”
“You used to be a good guy. You used to believe in doing the right thing.”
“And what is the right thing, Holly? Working as a puppet like you?”
“I’m not a puppet.”
“No? Then what are you? You take orders from a government that doesn’t even know why they’re giving those orders in the first place. I mean, this is the same government that doesn’t give a shit for the lives of two kids. Goddamn it, Holly, isn’t that fucked up? Two children are being held hostage, and Walter … his hands are tied. He can’t do shit. Now you tell me, what’s the right thing there?”
“That’s not a good enough reason for becoming what you’ve become.”
“I haven’t become anything. I’ve always been this way.”
My foot jamming the pedal to the floor, pushing the Taurus forward, Atticus in my ear saying, “Four blocks away … three blocks away … two blocks,” Zane clearing his throat again and saying, “You should know how it is. Work is work, right? Remember, six hundred hours sharp,” and then disconnecting the call, the world going silent, no noise at all, everything around me a blur, tears in my eyes, and then Atticus saying, “One block away … Holly, why aren’t you slowing down?” and I reach the intersection, slamming on the brakes, flinging off my seat belt, jumping out of the car, Nova’s Beretta already in hand, walking toward the street Zane is coming down, the black utility van slowing at the stop sign, the driver somehow not seeing me, not as I’m twenty feet away, not as I’m ten feet away, not even when I walk right up to his window and raise the gun and pull the trigger.
Sixty-Five
My first two bullets take out the driver. My second two bullets take out the man in the passenger seat, the guy reaching for his weapon as pieces of the driver’s head splatter all over him, then jerking as he’s shot too, one in the throat, the other in the head.
The utility van is still in gear. The now dead driver releases his foot off the brake, and the van starts to drift forward.
I hear the rear doors opening, the sound of footsteps on the pavement. Zane’s voice, speaking rapidly, then a figure appears around the corner, a man with a rifle. I fire two more rounds before jumping for cover in front of the van, the van still drifting forward, now out into the middle of the intersection.
Zane’s voice again, much louder now, cursing at the children, and when I peek around the corner I can see him dragging both of them by the arms up the street.
I start to turn that way but then pause when the man with the rifle takes a few shots at me, the utility van picking up speed now, heading toward the corner of the intersection. I keep pace with the van, walking sideways, using it as cover. The man on the other side does the same, waiting for me to make my move.
I hear Zane cursing again, telling the kids to stop fucking around. They’re already one block up and that’s where I want to be headed. But I’m stuck here, the van twenty feet from the curb, moving even faster now, ten feet from the curb, the thing going to crash right into a telephone pole. I’m thinking the guy will expect me to come around behind the van so I take a breath and sprint toward the front, duck down, dive on the ground just as the van rolls into the pole, the guy not expecting me to be there, coming up in a shooting stance, both hands on the Beretta, firing one two three rounds into his chest.
I take off running then, right up the street, Zane and the children already a block up from me. Zane is still dragging them, a hand on each arm, and in the dim light of the street lamps I can see duct tape over the children’s mouths, which makes sense, because so far I haven’t heard either one of them scream or cry out.
Zane keeps looking back over his shoulder, trying to track my progress. When he sees that I’ve taken care of the last man and am headed his way, he has no choice but to let go of Casey so he can grab his gun, fire off a few wild, random shots.
None come close to me but I take cover behind a car anyway, waiting for the lull, then jumping back up, the Beretta aimed. But I can’t shoot. Not with the children so close to Zane … only Casey is a few yards ahead of Zane, already running, Zane looking back and forth between us, deciding which is more important. He sees me again and fires off a couple more rounds but he can’t get a good shot, not while holding onto David, the boy struggling now to free himself from Zane’s grip. Zane looks disgusted as he pushes David away, raises his other hand, squares himself to knock off two more rounds at me, these much closer, the car I duck behind this time getting hit, the rear windshield shattering, the car alarm going off.
When Zane threw David aside, David tripped over his feet and hit the ground. He recovers quickly, back on his feet, and sprints after his sister. Casey is still running, though she’s not getting very far. David has no trouble reaching her, scooping her up in a bear hug, running forward.
Okay, good. Now the kids are out of the way, at least somewhat. I can’t fire directly ahead—too much chance of hitting the kids straight behind Zane—so I make a run across the street,
