Jack Daniels Six Pack (141 page)

“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
BOOM
of a gunshot, and the room gets a hair darker. I glance out the window.

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

T
HE 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.

Chocolate milk,
Pessolano thinks.

The fat cop tricked him.

Pessolano begins to sweep the grounds, looking for where he ran.

10:33 P.M.
HERB

T
HE 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
pop
, tiny squares of glass falling onto the driver’s seat.

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.

10:43 P.M.
JACK

M
Y TEMPLE THROBS
in time with my heartbeat, but I manage to get both feet under me one more time, supporting Latham on my back.

More shots are fired, but the outside lights stay on. I stagger the remaining few steps to the bathroom, and Mom meets me in the hallway, helping to drag Latham inside. We lean him against the sink. I flip on the overhead light and gently peel back his shirt, getting my first look at his injury. An ugly black hole, just above his armpit. No exit wound. The bleeding is minimal.

“I think you’re going to make it,” I tell him, my mouth near his.

“Good. I was worried you carried me all the way here for nothing.”

I put my hands on his face, stare into his eyes. “I love you, Latham.”

“I love you, Jack.”

“I love you more.”

“No, I love you more.”

We briefly touch lips.

“So he doesn’t need any of my blood, right?”

I pull away from Latham, frowning. “You’re safe for the moment, Harry.”

“Actually, I’m not.” Harry motions for me to come closer.

“What?”

“It’s important, Jackie. Come here.”

I get within whisper range.

“I have to go,” he says.

“It was great seeing you. Come back soon.”

Harry makes a face. “The beer I had, Jackie. It wants to be set free.”

I blink. “You have to go to the bathroom?”

“Yeah. So can you, like, distract Mom while I piss in the sink?”

“You are
not
urinating in my sink.”

“Fine. Just open up the toilet and I’ll aim for it.”

I glance over my shoulder. The toilet is five feet away.

“Absolutely not.”

“I can hit it. I’ll arc the stream.”

“I don’t have time for this, Harry.”

“I’m going to wet my pants.”

“Not my problem.”

“Fine. I want my blood back.”

I consider my sink, realize I’d never use it again if Harry violates it, but don’t see any other alternative. I cross my arms.

“Okay, Harry. Make it quick.”

“Stand between me and Mom. I don’t want to sully her high opinion of me.”

I hit the lights and play blocker. More shots, outside. But no familiar tinkling of window glass, or slugs impacting the fridge.

“I need help with my fly,” Harry says.

“No way in hell.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“Come on. I haven’t had a single obscene thought about you since I found out we’re related.”

I turn, pat his cheek. “Bad news, bro. You’re going to have to wet your pants.”

Mom is taping and gauzing Latham’s wound, her hands so gnarled that he has to help. More shooting. No sounds from inside the house. What are they firing at? Each other?

“I have to check something out,” I say. I pick up the rifle and sneak into the hallway.

The remaining outside lights still glow brightly. I move slowly, hunching over, peering out the living room window, trying to find the snipers’ locations. Another shot. They’ve moved closer, to within a hundred yards. I check to see what they’re aiming at, see the wreck that is my car. And in the car…

Herb!

I run to the front door, second-guess myself, and backtrack to the garage. I swing it open, hitting the garage door opener button on the wall, planting both of my feet, and snugging the rifle up against my shoulder.

“Herb!” I scream.

I fire my first round across the street, aiming where I’d seen the muzzle flash. I immediately load the second round and shoot again.

Herb doesn’t waste time. He slides face-first into my garage before the door even gets halfway up. I hit the button again, and Herb rolls to the left, bumping up against the wall of cardboard boxes. Two bullets ping off the garage floor, chewing hunks out of the concrete. I rush over to Herb, hooking my elbow around his, straining to get him back to his feet.

He bellows. Herb’s hands flutter around his knee, as if indecisive about whether or not to touch it. My partner had hit the ground hard—especially hard considering his age and weight. His pants are bloody, but I don’t know if his earlier gunshot wound has opened up or if this is a new injury.

“Did you get shot again?”

He shakes his head, his jowls flapping. “Knee!”

“Broken?”

He replies through his teeth—a keening cry that makes my stomach vibrate.

A round punches through my garage door, making a hole the size of my fist.

Then another. And another.

I have to get Herb out of here.

“We need to get you in the house.”

“Leave me here.”

Bullets continue to ventilate my garage door, and the light coming in from the holes dims. They’re shooting the outside lights again. Once those are gone, they’ll switch back to night vision.

Then we’re screwed.

“On three,” I say. I set down the rifle and take hold of his collar. “One…two…three!”

Herb moans deep in his throat, and I pull while he uses his three functional limbs to drag his broken one. We reach the doorway into my house, then I collapse next to him, both of us breathing like asthmatics at a hay festival.

“There’s a saw.” Herb points to the workbench at the back of the garage. “Cut my leg off. That will hurt less.”

My chest heaves. “At least you still have your sense of humor.”

“No joke. I’ll pay you twenty thousand bucks to saw off my leg.”

I blink away the motes, wipe some sweat from my forehead. “Let’s go again.”

“Please, no.”

“On three.”

“Why do you hate me so much?”

“One…two…three!”

Another strangled cry from Herb, but we make it into the house, across the living room, and to the front of the hallway before fatigue drops me to my knees.

“Here is good,” Herb wheezes. He’s directly in front of the bay windows. The only possible way he could be an easier target is if he had antlers.

“We…we have to get you to…to the bathroom.”

“I…I like it here.”

Another shot. The last of my outside lights blows out.

“On three.”

“Jack…if I…if I don’t make it…”

“No time for this now, Herb. One…”

“I just want to say…”

“Two…”

“That I’m cutting you out of my will…”

“Three!”

Herb cries out again, but he gives it his all, and so do I, and even though my knees are rug burned and even though he can barely move and even though bullets tear up the carpeting around us, we make it all the way to the refrigerator, and to the bathroom.

Safe. For the moment.

“Did you?” I gasp at Harry, pointing at the sink.

He shakes his head.

“Where?” I ask.

Harry reaches into the fridge and removes a pickle jar.

“Remember to throw this away later,” he says.

I stick my face under the faucet and take gulps of water so big they hurt going down. Mom fusses over Herb, winding an Ace bandage around his knee. I eventually catch my breath, and give Herb half a dozen Dixie cups’ worth of water.

“Now what?” Mom says.

The five of us are crammed into the bathroom pretty tight. We couldn’t have fit someone else in here if we buttered them. I stand near the sink, next to Harry. Latham sits on the toilet. Mom leans over Herb, who occupies most of the floor. The temperature in here is ten degrees warmer than the rest of the house.

“Anyone up for charades?” Harry asks. He points at Herb. “Lemme guess…Moby-Dick!”

Herb and Harry don’t get along, from way back.

“How’s the pain?” I ask my partner.

“Hurts,” Herb says.

“One to ten?”

“Ten. Blew the knee out. And the medication has worn off from my gunshot wound.” His face is pouring sweat. “I’m hoping I pass out.”

Mom uses scissors to gently cut up a side of Herb’s pants leg. His stitches have ripped open, and his knee is swelled up to the size of a honeydew.

“Does anyone know you’re here?” I ask.

He shakes his head, wincing from the movement. “No. The Grouch, he wanted to talk to you. Threatened to go to your old apartment. I came here to find you.”