Unwritten Laws 01(342)

“Don’t shoot,” he said in a level voice. “I need to talk to your boss.”

“Just who do you think we work for?” asked the man on the left, the shorter of the two.

Tom’s life now depended on a fifty-fifty gamble. Was the answer Brody Royal? Or had Frank Knox’s son eclipsed the older man in power? After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “Forrest Knox.”

The two men looked at each other. Then the one on the right said, “You’ve got a syringe and some vials with Sonny Thornfield’s fingerprints on them. Where are they?”

“I’ll discuss that with Forrest when I see him.”

The man with the pistol shook his head. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, Doc. This is the end of the road for you.”

Tom was sickened by the fear that surged through him. Only minutes ago he had resigned himself to death. But Caitlin’s message had resurrected the hope of something he’d given up expecting to live to see. Another grandchild. Maybe a grandson, this time. The realization that these two men meant to take that from him—to kill him on this lonely black shore—summoned a blast of adrenaline from his aging glands. Pain stabbed him beneath the left shoulder blade. He needed a nitro tablet, fast. But if he reached for one, the man holding the pistol would fire.

“That stuff isn’t here,” Tom said in a strained voice, closing his right hand around the pistol in his pocket. “Walt’s got it.”

“That Texas Ranger?”

“He’s lying,” said the taller man. “I’ll bet that junk’s right up there in the house.”

The shorter man was working up the nerve to pull the trigger—Tom could see it. The abstract thoughts that occupied his mind earlier had flown from his head like dandelion seeds. He was back in Korea, facing two captors who couldn’t understand a word he said. What he’d learned all those years ago was that speed didn’t matter that much in a gunfight. It was deliberation that counted. Deliberation and steady nerves.

Tom had already turned the gun in his pocket. For once he was grateful for the “geezer” slacks that did nothing to flatter their wearer. His vision telescoped down into a few square feet of the world: the shorter man’s eyes jumping from Tom’s face to his comrade’s, his gun trembling from the weight of the pistol and the knowledge of what he meant to do with it—

Tom fired as the taller man gave the order to execute him. The gunman staggered back and looked down at his belly, where a grapefruit-sized bloodstain was rapidly growing. As the short man tried to figure out where the bullet had come from, his partner grabbed for an ankle holster. Tom slowly pulled his pistol and aimed it at the man’s head.

“Be still, or I’ll kill you.”

When the man hesitated, Tom laid the barrel against the crown of his head. “Draw it slowly, with two fingers, then toss it into the water and stand up straight.”

After a couple of seconds’ hesitation, the man obeyed. After the splash, he rose slowly and gaped at Tom, clearly stunned by the sudden reversal of circumstances.

“Pick up your buddy and carry him up the hill,” Tom said, tensed against the pain in his shoulder and back.

“You’re not gonna shoot me?”

“I am if you don’t carry him up that hill.”

The tall man bent over and tried clumsily to lift his dead companion. While he did, Tom stuck a nitro tablet under his tongue.

“I can’t get him up,” the man almost whined. “I sure as hell can’t carry him all the way up to the truck. How ’bout I drag him?”

“Goddamn it!” Tom snapped, furious that he’d had to kill the man. “I once carried a wounded marine six hundred yards through barbed wire and shell holes. Grab him under the arms! That’s right … now get him up on his feet, like you’re hugging him from behind. Once he’s up, turn him around and heave him over your shoulders.”

Following Tom’s instructions, the thug heaved and grunted and cursed until he got the corpse over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Then he started trudging up the slope. Behind him, Tom powered down his cell phone and put it back in his pocket. After his heartbeat steadied, he slowly followed his would-be assassins up the hill. The pain in his shoulder burned like white phosphorous, but it reassured him of one thing as nothing else could.

He was alive.





CHAPTER 97




WITH CAITLIN’S HELP, I lay Sleepy Johnston down in the grass. Only now do I see the glitter of lights reflecting on water thirty yards away. That’s Lake Concordia, I think. This is Brody’s lake house.