Alpha Kill - 03 (25 page)

*

V
enn’s eyes flitted from the half-open door to the opposite window to the sill of the bay window above his head.

They were trapped. Any moment now, the end of the rifle was going to come poking over the sill, and even if the man holding it fired blindly, Venn and Harmony would either get hit by a lucky shot, or would be driven out into the center of the living room.

At which point, they’d be targets for three separate shooters.

In the corner of the living room to Venn’s right, he noticed an upright piano. He looked at Harmony, whose face was inches from his, lying prone as she was beside him. With a jerk of his head he gestured at the piano. Then he pointed upward with one finger.

She understood, nodded.

Venn counted down on his fingers -
three, two, one
- and took a deep breath and rolled across the floor, bracing himself for the volley of shots. At the same time Harmony pressed against the wall under the bay window and aimed her gun upward and began firing, sweeping her arm from left to right so that the shots angled up and out of the ruined window, generating a barrier of gunfire to keep the man with the rifle back.

Venn reached the piano and crammed himself behind it. At almost the same moment, the man at the door showed himself and fired three quick shots, two of them slamming into the piano’s body to produce a discordant jangling and the other whipping past the side of the piano near Venn’s elbow.

From where he was, in the corner of the room behind the piano, Venn could peek out on either side and see the window or the door opposite. He was, however, exposed to the bay window behind him. But if the rifleman showed himself above the sill, he too would be exposed.

The gunfire stopped, the silence hanging heavily.

From somewhere else in the house, on the same floor but toward the back, came a man’s voice. One Venn recognized immediately.

“Venn,” called Drake. “Just thought I’d let you know I’m here. Before I kill you.”

Venn wondered if Drake’s accomplices had deliberately aimed wide, so as to leave the
coup de grace
to Drake himself.

Far away in the distance, sirens began to sound, tiny as mosquito whines.

“You hear that, Drake?” Venn called back. “Cops are on their way. The longer you draw this out, the smaller your chances of escape.”

As he spoke, he glanced at the window. The early morning sun had emerged at some point from behind the clouds, and its slanting rays cast a shadow across the wall inside the living room beside the window.

The shadow was that of a man’s head, distorted by the angle.

Venn extended his arm, taking careful aim with the Beretta. Ricochets were near impossible to control, and it was genuinely impossible to judge the precise sweet spot. But if he fired several times in succession, he’d improve his chances.

“What do you say, Drake?” he continued. “You want to show yourself so we can get this over and done with?”

On the final word, Venn squeezed the trigger. Once. Twice. Three and four times. He aimed at the wall into which the window frame had been embedded, varying the angle a fraction each time.

In the instant the cry came, Venn swore he saw the shadow of the head change shape. Blood speckled the wall. Beyond the window, a heavy thump suggested the dropping of a human body on the ground.

One down.

“Son of a -” yelled a voice from the bay window. The last word of the curse was drowned out by the eruption of automatic fire.

The man’s aim was wild, and thrown by Harmony’s immediate raking of the air in front of the bay window with her own gunfire. Nonetheless, Venn felt the ferocious power of the high-velocity rounds pummeling the piano, felt it jerk and shift against his body. He crawled round toward the front of it to shield him from the onslaught, winced as one of the bullets penetrated straight through the piano and ripped through the wood in front, close by Venn’s shoulder.

His ears suddenly registered the most welcome sound they’d ever known. Namely, the clicking of the hammer on emptiness.

He had seconds, at most, before the man with the rifle shoved in a fresh magazine. Without thinking much about what he was doing, Venn rose upright from the piano’s cover and faced the bay window and fired.

The man out there snapped aside with a yell, disappearing from view. Venn discounted him for a moment and swung through ninety degrees to cover the half-open door. He fired twice into the gap, not assuming he’d hit the man waiting there but wanting to keep him back.

Harmony, still flattened beneath the bay window, screamed:
“Venn, to your right.”
Venn snapped his head round, brought the Beretta across.

Gene Drake burst through the far door leading into the depths of the house. He stopped, aiming his handgun side-on across his body in the classic Weaver stance.

Venn lowered his gaze, sighting down the Beretta at the middle of Drake’s chest.

On the periphery of his vision to the left, he saw the door they’d come through swing open and a man step in. He was aware that the man was aiming his own gun toward the bay window, and he assumed Harmony had a bead on him in turn.

A double Mexican standoff.

*

D
rake aimed the Kel-Tec at a point between Venn’s eyes.

To Drake’s right, Herman stood at the door, his gun trained on the black cop down on the floor beneath the window. She was flat on her belly, her piece covering Herman.

Drake had noted the blood on the window frame to the left, and from that and the silence beyond the window, he knew Walusz was dead.

Outside, the sirens were getting louder, and more numerous.

Without taking his eyes off Venn, Drake called: “Skeeter. You okay?”

He was answered with a yelp from beyond the bay window. “I’m
hit
, man. Christ.”

“How bad?” said Drake.

He watched the lank-haired man stagger upright at the bay window, hefting the M16 with his teeth gritted. One shoulder of his denim jacket was ragged and bloody, and Drake thought Skeeter probably had a bullet lodged in his flesh and bone.

Without looking round, Venn murmured: “He shoots me from behind, Drake, and I’ll know. In the final split-second, I’ll
know
. I’ll pull the trigger. You’ll be dead along with me.”

Venn cocked his head as though listening. “Those sirens are getting closer, Drake. They’re nearly here. Better get this over with.”

Through the bay window, Skeeter was starting his little hop from foot to foot, his eyes rolling. “
Do
it, man,” he hissed. “Waste him. And the bitch. Then let’s get outta here.”

Venn said, “You realize, don’t you, Drake, that these people will never let you get away alive? And I don’t mean the cops who’re about to arrive. I mean the people who helped you escape. Who manipulated you, played you like a puppet. Got you to kill Paul Brogan for them, and now me. All the while making out that they were doing you a favor by handing you access to two of the guys who helped put you away for life.”

Drake grinned. “God damn speeches. They won’t save you, Venn. Yeah, of course the guys who sprung me have motives of their own. But I could care less. This way, I get what I want, and they get their wishes. Everybody’s happy.”

“But you’re a loose end,” said Venn. “You and your cronies here. You’ll turn your masters over to the cops and the Feds. They can never allow that to happen. Why, I’ll bet they have things in motion as we speak, to ensure your silence.”

Drake felt a tightening in his face, his gut.

No. He wasn’t going to think about that.

*

V
enn saw it, the infinitesimal change in the muscles around Drake’s eyes and his jaw. And he knew he’d hit a nerve.

What could it be? Drake wasn’t stupid. He’d know the people who’d gotten him out of prison would try and dispose of him once he’d done their work. So it wasn’t as if anything Venn had just said came as a surprise to Drake.

No. There was something else. Some leverage they had over him.

If he could stall until the sirens reached the perimeter wall, it would be over. Drake would be arrested, or more likely gunned down, along with his friends. But Venn, and Harmony, would die too.

Unless he could find out what pushed Drake’s buttons.

“Gene,” he said, his voice a little lower. “Whatever it is, however they’ve managed to get you by the balls, I can make it go away. I already know the story with these guys. How they’re selling human organs on the black market. You probably didn’t know that, and you probably don’t care either. My point is, I’ve got these guys. They can’t escape. If they’re blackmailing you, I can put it right.”

From behind him, the man with the rifle, the man Venn had shot, screeched: “The fuck’s this guy talking about, Gene? Waste him. Or we’re all dead.”

Drake kept his eyes on Venn’s. Beneath the taut mask of his face, emotions, and calculations, churned.

Behind Venn, the rifleman muttered, “Ah, the hell with this.”

Venn saw Drake’s eyes widen, his gaze flick to a point past Venn’s shoulder.

The Kel-Tec shifted just a fraction to one side. It barked, once. Venn felt the shot whine past his ear.

Behind him, there was a shriek, then a crunch of gravel and a heavy clatter as the rifle hit the forecourt.

Drake said to Venn: “You were saying.”

From over to Venn’s right, the man who’d come through the door, the one in the standoff with Harmony, said, “Don’t do it, Gene. Don’t let him fool you.”

Without looking at him, Drake said, “Shut up, Herman. Or you’ll be next, so help me.”

Venn risked a step forward, his Beretta unwavering. Drake held up his free hand.

“Uh uh. That’s close enough.”

“Keep the gun on me, by all means,” said Venn. “You’d be a fool not to. But as soon as the cops get here, which I reckon will be in sixty seconds or so, put the gun down and raise your hands above your head. I’m not gonna kill you then. Not in front of a bunch of cops as witnesses. We’ll work something out. This whole thing is
big
, Gene. Big, as in political. You’ll plea-bargain your way down. Not completely out, but maybe down from a life sentence. If you don’t, you’ll end up dead, one way or another. Plus, whatever it is that these people have over you, will come to pass.”

“He’s lying,” said the other man, the one Drake had called Herman. “I’m leaving.”

Herman took a step backward to the doorway. Then another.

Behind Venn, Harmony growled, “No further. Or I’ll shoot. And you heard your boss. He’ll shoot you too.”

“Wrong,” said Herman calmly. “If you shoot me, I’ll fire straight back. And Drake won’t shoot me. Will you, Gene? Because the moment you take the gun off Venn, he’ll blow you away.”

He took three further steps, with increasing boldness. Then he was through the door. It swung shut after him.

“Dammit.” Harmony was on her feet and heading for the door.

“Harm,” said Venn. “No. Let him go.”

She glanced at Venn and Drake, and understood. Two against one. Drake was through.

A startlingly amplified voice, coming through a loudhailer, blasted up the lawns from beyond the perimeter wall. “Police. Drop your weapons. Come out with your hands raised.”

“You heard, Gene,” said Venn. “It’s over. Put the gun down.”

“You’ll shoot me.”

“If I wanted to do that, there are two of us now,” said Venn. “We’d have done it.”

The door Herman had recently gone through hadn’t closed completely, and it swung open. All three heads - Venn’s, Harmony’s and Drake’s - whipped round.

“Assholes,” rasped the apparition in the doorway. It was the guy with the rifle, Venn knew, though he’d only glimpsed him before as he’d shot at him through the bay window.

The left side of the man’s face was a bloody mess. His skull on that side was slightly concave, part of the bone shot away by Drake’s Kel-Tec. He lurched rather than walked. In his hand, instead of the rifle, he hefted a handgun that looked too big for his scrawny arm.

“Should of left you to rot in jail,” he grated, and fired.

Harmony was the first to hit him, the shots from her Glock punching the raddled body backward through the doorway. Venn saw Drake stumble and fall to his knees, his hands clasped across his belly and disappearing under a bubbling crimson flood.

Then the first of the cops came through the door and over the sill of the bay window, screaming and threatening, and Venn dropped his gun and held up his hands before they shot him.

*

H
e crouched beside Drake, whom he’d lowered to the floor on his back. The man’s face was a rictus of agony, his legs jerking spasmodically. The bullet must have damaged his internal organs, probably perforated his bowel. Maybe even wrecked his spinal column.

“Medic over here,” roared Venn, as the cops swarmed all around them.

He bent his head so that his mouth was close to Drake’s ear.

“What have they got?” he hissed with urgency. “What do these people have over you?”

Drake’s teeth chattered, his breathing coming in ragged gasps punctuated by groans of pain. “My... my kid,” he managed.

“You have a kid?”

“A boy... eight years old. Driscoll has him...”

Venn leaned in close to make sure he was hearing correctly. “Driscoll? Douglas Driscoll?”

Drake nodded rapidly, unable to speak.

Venn pressed on, even as the paramedics charged into the room carrying a stretcher. “Is Driscoll the man who set this all up? Sprang you from Horn Creek?”

“Yes.” It was barely a whisper.

“Okay.” Venn stood up as the paramedics moved in.

As the gurney was racked up onto its wheels, Venn said, “Drake, we’ll get your kid back. You have my word.”

Harmony stood by Venn’s side and they watched Drake being wheeled out the door.

––––––––

B
y the time Venn and Harmony made it back to Manhattan, it was after eleven in the morning. The hours in between were a blur of questions, phone calls, statements, both at Soper’s place and at the station house nearby.