Last Man Standing (77 page)

Well, that was good to know—Macy, if that’s who it really was, wasn’t smart enough to realize his earlier error.

Web did a sweep of the space in the direction where the shot had come from with his MP-5, blowing junk in the air and rattling
empty cages. When he stopped and put in a fresh clip he heard another pair of feet running away. He slipped out and took up
the chase again grateful to be leaving the Monkey House behind.

He felt like he was closing in when Web sensed something to his left and hit the ground again. The shot smacked into a tree
directly behind where he’d been standing.

Rifle shot, not pistol, he judged. It was Macy again, then, not Strait. He had probably dropped back again and was covering
for his boss. “The wannabe against the real thing,” Web said softly. “Well, bring it on.”

As a sniper, Web would remain totally motionless when he was on duty. The rule was that in a standoff, the first man to move
and give himself away died. Thus he could lie completely still while waiting to kill someone. He was able to slow down his
pulse and even regulate the efficiency of his bladder so that he could go long intervals without having to urinate. He was
like an anaconda lying in wait in the grass for a jaguar. When it came, the snake exploded, and no more jaguar.

As he lay there, Web wondered how Macy was able to track him as effectively as he had. That made Web start thinking about
the equipment the guy might be carrying. Bates had given him an additional piece of information about the attack on the Frees’
compound. Two .308 slugs had been dug out of the walls. If Macy was carrying the same ordnance that HRT used, maybe he was
carrying other equipment similar to what Web was using. Web recalled the photo of Macy in his paramilitary regalia. All those
elements definitely fit the profile of a wannabe.

Web slithered forward on his belly, making only minimal noise. He wanted to test something, and giving away his position seemed
to be the best way to do it.

A shot hit close to him.

Okay, that confirmed that, thought Web. The guy had night optics too.

He slipped on his NV goggles and did a sweep of the area. That’s when he saw it; only for an instant, but it was enough. It
was just enough.

C
lyde Macy was feeling good about his strategy. He knew that HRT members were very skilled, but he had always suspected they
were also overrated. He had, after all, breached their perimeter at the Frees’ compound. And he had shot one of them down
at the pool area. He hadn’t stuck around long enough to see Romano get back up. When Strait had grabbed Claire and run, Macy,
ever the loyal lieutenant, had left to cover his boss’s back. Strait had been good to him, taking him under his wing at the
detention center. And when Macy had gotten out and strayed into the world of the Frees, Strait had tracked him down and made
him see the light. The Frees were amateurs. The debacle in Richmond showed him that. And, Strait had pointed out, they don’t
pay you a dime, yet they expect you to help support them. And for what? Strait had pointedly asked him. For the privilege
of associating with stupid people.

He had taken the sound advice and had worked with Strait for several years. The current gig had been the most lucrative. They
had made a fortune with the drug running, and Macy had even gotten to set up the Free Society in the bargain. That and gunning
down old Twan—it was all worth it. Now that the plan was disappearing as quickly as the sirens were heading their way, Macy
had one more goal left. To kill London. That would prove his ultimate superiority. In a way, Macy had been training his entire
adult life for this very moment.

He slipped on his NV goggles, fired them up and scanned the area where he had last seen London. The man was obviously losing
it, moving around like that. He was overconfident and had suddenly found himself matched against a foe who was actually better
than he was. And now it was time to finish it. Just as he thought this, he locked onto the green beacon blaring at him. For
a second Macy was stunned, for he didn’t know what it was. And then he realized it must be a reflection from London’s night
optics. He aimed, exhaled all his breath; muscle on muscle his finger slid to the trigger. He became absolutely motionless.
And then he fired. The shot hit the beacon dead center and the light went out. It was only then that Macy realized his own
night optics, turned on full power as they were, were probably giving off the same beacon. But one had to be looking through
his own night optics to see the light, and he had just finished off London. He was just a split second quicker, and because
of that he was alive and London wasn’t. That’s what it often came down to.

Before Macy could draw another breath, the bullet hit him squarely in the forehead. For a millisecond his mind didn’t react
to the fact that half of his head was now missing. Then the gun fell from his hands and Clyde Macy slumped to the dirt.

Web rose from behind a small berm about three ticks on the clock away from where he had propped up his goggles on a stump
and turned them on full power. He hadn’t had to rely on the green beacon coming from Macy’s night optics. As soon as Macy
fired at what he thought was Web’s head, his muzzle flash had revealed his position. A second later, it was over. Final score:
professional, one; wannabe, dead.

He didn’t have time to reflect further on his victory because the crash of feet rushing through the underbrush made Web hit
the ground and aim his .308. When the pair cleared the tree line and stepped into his kill zone, Web hesitated and then rose
on his knees, his rifle pointed directly at the man’s enormous chest.

“Put down the gun, Francis!”

Westbrook jerked and looked around in the darkness. Through his rifle scope Web could clearly see the giant push Kevin behind
him, shielding the boy from this new threat.

“It’s Web London, Francis. Put the weapon down. Now!”

“Stay behind me, Kev,” said Westbrook as he edged away from the sound of Web’s voice.

“Last time, Francis; gun down and then you. Or you’ll be going down another way.”

“I getting Kevin out of here, little man. That all I want to do. No problems, no problems.”

Web aimed his shot at a tree branch ten feet above Westbrook’s head. The limb was cleanly cut in two and fell behind them.
That was the first warning shot Web had ever fired in his career, and he wondered why he had even bothered. Kevin yelled out,
but Westbrook said nothing. He just kept backing up. Then he did something that surprised even Web. He dropped his gun, knelt
down and pulled Kevin up on his back. At first Web thought he was going to use Kevin as a shield, but Westbrook kept his body
between Web and the boy. And he kept retreating.

“No problems, HRT. Just heading on out. Got things to do.” Web put another shot in the dirt to the left of him. A second warning.
Shit. What the hell was wrong with him? Take the guy. He’s a criminal. A murderer.

“No problems,” said Westbrook again. “Just heading out, me and the kid.”

Web aimed the next shot at the man’s head. Then he realized that, with the ammo he was chambering he couldn’t shoot Westbrook,
because the bullet might pass through even the big man’s thick body and hit Kevin. He could aim for the legs and drop the
giant. He contemplated this and was aiming for the best possible location when he heard Kevin.

“Web, please, don’t shoot my brother. Please. He just helping me.”

Through his scope Web could see the boy’s face next to his father’s. He was holding on to the thick neck with both hands,
his face filled with fear, tears running down his cheeks. Francis Westbrook looked calm, as though he were ready to face his
death. Web recalled all the scars on the man’s belly. He had obviously faced down death many times. He was 120 in whitey years.
Web’s finger slid to the trigger. If Web shot him in the leg, at least Kevin would be able to visit him in prison. It was
the right thing to do. He was a cop. The man was a criminal. That’s how things worked. No exceptions. No involved internal
deliberations. Just shoot.

And yet Web allowed the pair to slide off into the woods and disappear. Web’s finger moved away from the trigger. He screamed
out, “Take him back to his home, Francis. And then you better run like hell, because I’ll be coming for you, you son of a
bitch.”

S
trait had heard the sirens too and he couldn’t believe how quickly everything had gone to hell. Story of his life. He put
his gun against Claire’s head and pulled out her gag. He had already untied her so he wouldn’t have to carry her.

“Afraid you’re my ticket out of here, lady. And even that might not be enough. But just so you don’t get your hopes up, if
it looks like they’re going to take me, I’m gonna shoot you.”

“Why?” wailed Claire helplessly.

“’Cause I’m pissed off, that’s why. ’Cause I worked my ass off for nothing, that’s why. Now come on.” He jerked her along
as they made their way toward the equestrian center. There were trucks there that maybe, just maybe he could use to get out
of here. They were approaching the center from the east and when he saw the peak of the big hay barn, Strait actually smiled.
The farm was vast and its topography complex, and the cops would come in the front, no doubt, while Strait left from the rear.
By the time they realized what was going on, he would have ditched the truck, gotten to the little safe house he had set up
just for this contingency and then quietly disappeared, not with all his money, but with some of it.

They cleared a rise in the land and started down toward the horse stalls. The man came at them from out of the darkness. At
first Strait thought it was Macy, but then the clouds moved past and the moonlight revealed Billy Canfield standing there,
shotgun in hand. Strait instantly held Claire in front of him, the gun to her temple.

“Get out the way, old man, I ain’t got no time for you.”

“Why, because the cops are coming? You damn right they are, ’cause I called ’em.”

Strait shook his head, a vicious look on his features. “And why’d you do that?”

“I don’t know what the hell you been doing on my farm, but I do know you been sleeping with my wife. You must think I’m stupid
or something.”

“Well, somebody had to be screwing her, Billy, ’cause you sure as hell weren’t.”

“That’s my business,” roared Canfield, “not yours.”

“Oh, it’s my business, all right, and let me tell you it was some damn fine business. You didn’t know what you were missing,
old man.”

Canfield raised his shotgun.

“Yeah, go on and fire, Billy, and with that scattergun you’ll kill this nice lady too.”

The men silently stared at each other until Strait completely realized his advantage.

Still using Claire as a shield, he pointed his pistol at Billy and prepared to fire.

“Billy!”

Strait looked over in time to see Gwen and Baron charging straight at him. He yelled, pushed Claire away and got off two quick
shots. And then a bullet hit him in the head, instantly crumpling him.

Web had rushed out of the woods, quickly taken in what was happening and fired, killing Strait. Baron reared up and his front
hooves came down on Strait’s body.

Web quickly ran to Claire’s side. He didn’t have to check Strait. He knew the man was dead.

“Are you okay?” he asked Claire.

She nodded, then sat up and started crying. Web hugged her and then looked over and saw that Billy Canfield had shuffled over
to a dark mass and then dropped to his knees. Web rose, and went over to him and looked at where Gwen lay on the ground, her
chest covered by a pool of blood where at least one of Strait’s shots had hit its mark. She looked up at them both, her breath
coming in painful gasps. Web dropped to his knees, ripped open her shirt and saw the wound. He slowly covered her chest back
up and looked at her. His expression obviously told her the truth.

She gripped his hand. “I’m so scared, Web.”

Web knelt down closer as Billy just squatted there, staring at his dying wife.

“You’re not alone, Gwen.” That was all he could think to say. He wanted to hate this woman for what she had done to him, to
Teddy Riner and all the rest. But he couldn’t. And it wasn’t just because she had saved his life, and Claire’s and Kevin’s.
It was because Web didn’t know what he would have done had he been in the woman’s shoes, with all that rage and hatred building
up over the years. Maybe he would have done the same; he just hoped not.

“I’m not scared of dying, Web. I’m scared I won’t see David.” Blood dribbled from her mouth and her words were a little garbled,
but Web understood her.

Heaven and hell; that was it? With maybe purgatory not even an option.

Her eyes were starting to lose focus and Web could feel her grip loosening.

“David,” she said weakly. “David.” She looked to the sky. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned . . .” Her voice trailed
off and she started sobbing.

Web assumed the woman would have crawled to her little chapel if she’d had the strength. He looked around for something, anything.
And then it appeared in the form of Paul Romano walking stiffly over to them. He had driven off in the truck that had been
hooked to the trailer by the pool, flat tires and all, thanks to Web.