"C’mon.” Ben looped Pilgrim’s arm over his shoulder. Pilgrim was only a couple of inches taller than him but he felt much heavier. Pilgrim—hurt— leaned hard against him. They couldn’t run down the street; the van would be here within seconds, and the shooter in the van was bound and determined to be sure Pilgrim was dead.
“I’m shot . . .”
“I know, come on, come on.” Ben pivoted Pilgrim, half-dragged, half-carried him back into the garage. They needed to hide. Now. Or the maniac in the van would cut them both down.
The crash of a wooden barrier breaking boomed on the opposite side of the garage. They ran, Pilgrim gasping, for the elevator. Ben thumbed the up button. The doors slid open at once and the two of them fell into the open elevator.
Ben rose on his knees and jabbed the controls. The roar of a car approached, and he’d gambled wrong; they were trapped. He dragged Pilgrim into the far corner of the elevator, where they couldn’t be seen.
The elevator doors slid closed as a van powered past and onto the street, its headlights sweeping the broken bushes and the empty sidewalk.
Pilgrim was gone. Jackie Lynch circled the parking garage twice, peering at the entrances, letting his headlights spill along the streets, lighting the couples and singles walking along toward the restaurants and nightclubs. He could guess Pilgrim’s point of impact from the mashed bushes—but the bastard wasn’t there. Which meant he wasn’t hurt, and he was running.
He turned around to drive back into the garage, but a large crowd of pedestrians—festival-goers, he guessed—were pouring into the garage as a light rain began to fall again. Too many people there now, too many witnesses.
Maybe they hadn’t gone back into the garage.
He drove up and down the neighboring streets, rage building in the cage of his heart. He scanned the crowds for a limping, bloodied man.
Nicky wouldn’t have missed him, not that close. Hell, he thought, kick Nicky off the pedestal. Nicky sure as hell missed when it counted.
The phone rang. He put the knife on the seat and clicked on the cell phone.
“Report.” It was Sam Hector.
Damn.
“They’re dead, they’re all dead . . . ,” Jackie started.
“You better mean Forsberg and Pilgrim.”
The name Forsberg meant nothing to him, but he said, “No, I mean your bloody Arab hired guns. All dead. Pilgrim killed them all.”
“It’s just you left?” Hector didn’t show any emotion; the iron control made Jackie dislike him more.
“Yes and I’m going to find that bastard and kill him . . . He’s gone; I hit him but he’s gone, he’s gone.”
“Get out of there. Now. Get Teach to my place. I’ll text directions to your phone.”
“But Pilgrim’s still—”
“Do what I tell you or I’ll forfeit your payment.”
Maybe I’ll just keep the woman, see how you like that, he thought in a blistering rage. But no. Sam Hector would be an extremely dangerous enemy to have. Better to deliver the woman. Get his money. Then see if there was any way to use Hector to find this Pilgrim bastard again.
Jackie drove until he saw the sign for I-35 and found an entrance ramp, heading toward Dallas, four hours north. Leaving the town now where his brother had died, and for the first time he wondered what would happen to Nicky’s body, where it would be buried, how he could ever get it home to Northern Ireland. He suspected he couldn’t. He started to tremble, not with grief. With rage.
Today wasn’t supposed to be this way.
Several blocks to the west a Volvo station wagon worked past the crowds.
13
“Pain is nothing,” Pilgrim muttered in agony. “Pain is a friend. If you don’t feel pain you’re dead.” He repeated it like a mantra.
“Pain says you need a doctor.” Ben drove west on Sixth Street, heading out of downtown, watching his rearview, trying to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He made a sharp turn, headed north for a few blocks, then turned east again. Brackenridge Hospital was on East Fifteenth Street—he could be there in a few minutes.
“No doctor. No hospital.” Pilgrim gritted his teeth.
“Don’t be a dumb-ass. You’re hurt.”
“No. I’m lucky. Haven’t ever been shot before. Haven’t ever fallen from a building. What a fricking day.”
“I’m taking you to a hospital.”
“No. Can’t go. We’ll be right back where we started. You’ll be in custody and I’ll be . . .”
“Where?”
“Hurts too bad to talk. Keep driving.” Pilgrim pressed his fist hard against his shoulder. “A federal agent pulled a gun on you and a killer had your name in his pocket and another killer just tried to shoot your head off. You might want to stay under the radar.”