Collision(75)

The nurse brought his dinner and Randall Choate thought, No, I’m not leaving tomorrow. I’m not leaving until the people who threatened my family are dead. And he felt a debt to the Dragon, a need to see justice done. He nearly laughed. He had not wanted a partner; now he was going to avenge the only one he’d ever had.





24

The bullet shattered the glass, tunneled through the door, and plunged bent and misshapen into Delia Moon’s right eye.

Ben caught her as she fell, dead. A second shot splintered the lock, the bullet passing above his neck as he knelt, lowering her. He flinched.

A third bullet boomed and the lock shattered.

Delia’s gun; he remembered she’d set it down on the kitchen counter.

Ben retreated to the kitchen. He grabbed the gun. Heard the front door kicked open.

The back door off the kitchen was a French door, studded with glass panes, painted a cheery yellow. The back door was visible from the front foyer, and for a few seconds when he rushed the door, he would be in the line of fire. But he hesitated, telling himself, Stop overthinking, just do; stop overthinking, just do, and over the rattle of his panicked breathing he heard a footstep on the tile.

He’d waited too long, let himself be cornered. Stupid. Now he couldn’t reach the back door. Not for sure, not without shooting the gunman.

So shoot him.

I can’t shoot another human being, he’d said, and meant it, but he also couldn’t stand there and allow Delia to die unavenged and himself to be killed. Pilgrim’s taunt—You don’t have what it takes—ran hard in his ears. Ben put both hands on the gun. He didn’t know what he was doing. But he would have to do it.

The house was suddenly as hushed as an empty church. The noise of his own breathing seemed loud as a drumbeat. He tried to swallow but couldn’t.

Ben aimed the gun at the opening in the far corner of the kitchen, which faced out onto the foyer. Where would the shooter think he would stand or hide? He had no idea. He hunkered behind the kitchen island, watching around the corner. He could retreat entirely behind the island, but then he couldn’t see from which way the shooter would come.

A rush of movement past the corner and Ben fired the gun; he didn’t anticipate the kick, and plaster flew from the corner where his bullet struck, well wide of the mark.

He pivoted further around the kitchen island’s corner, extending the gun again, and Jackie, the kid from the parking garage with the elfin dark Irish face, fired at Ben.

Ben felt a tug in his flesh through the jacket, then heat, and with horror he realized his arm was hit. Shot. He hesitated and tried to fire again and missed, the bullet plowing into the tile.

Jackie kicked Ben in his wounded arm. He gasped and Jackie shoved the barrel of his gun onto Ben’s forehead.

“Drop it!”

Ben obeyed, letting go of Delia’s gun. Ben closed his hand around his arm and blood pulsed between his skin and his cheap jacket.

“You’re Forsberg.”

Ben nodded.

Jackie yanked him to his feet. Dizziness washed over him. “Pilgrim. Where is he?”

“I don’t . . . know. He . . . took off.” I’m shot, he thought crazily.

“I don’t believe you.” He shoved Ben back with the gun, caught him off balance. “Tell me where Pilgrim is.”

“No.” Ben collapsed against the granite counter.

Jackie put the gun in his pocket and slipped out a large knife. Steel gleamed in the fluorescents and he seized Ben’s hair with one hand, put the knife close to Ben’s throat. He watched Ben’s eyes widen as the blade drew near to skin. “You ever hear of a pound of flesh? I’ll carve a pound off you. Then I’ll carve off another. Whittle you to the bone.”

Ben closed his eyes. If he convinced Jackie he was truly ignorant about where Pilgrim was, he was instantly useless. And therefore dead. “I won’t tell you.”

The tip of the knife twirled and Ben felt its edge pressing into his flesh. He opened his eyes.

Jackie gritted his teeth into a smile. The knife moved to Ben’s chest, sliced through his shirt, poked at a nipple. Ben felt flesh part under the steel. Then the tip danced along his stomach, downward toward his groin. Stopped.

“You’re holding your breath now. Wondering where I’m gonna stick it. Depends on you. Pilgrim killed my brother, you useless shit. You’re gonna tell me where to find him.”

“I . . . I . . .” In the quiet, they heard the rumble of a passing car from the shattered front door.

“Let’s go where we can have a nice productive chat. You help me, you live. I want Pilgrim dead more than I want you dead.” Jackie put the knife back against the side of Ben’s neck and hurried him toward the door, past Delia’s crumpled body.