Kiss the Girls (Alex Cross #2)(96)

I SLID out of the Duster and ran in a low crouch down the middle of Franklin Street. The Glock was out, but held flat against my leg to be less conspicuous. Nobody panic and scream now. Let this go right one time.

The two of them must have spotted the trailing Duster earlier. I’d figured as much. As soon as I hit the street, they threw themselves out of opposite sides of the pickup.

One turned and fired off three quick shots. Pop. Pop. Pop. Only one of them had a gun out. Something clicked inside my head again: I remembered a quick scene from the woods. A connection made. A flash of recognition.

I ducked down behind a black Nissan Z that was waiting for the light, and yelled at the top of my lungs. “Police! Police! Get down! Get down on the ground! Get out of these cars!”

Most of the drivers and pedestrians did as they were told. What a difference between Chapel Hill and the streets of D.C., in that regard. I took a quick peek up the sheet-metal lane between the cars. I didn’t see either of the killers anywhere.

I slid alongside the black sports car, bent over more than double in a low-slung crouch. Students and store owners watched me warily from the sidewalk. “Police! Get down. Get down. Get that little boy the hell out of here!” I yelled.

I saw crazy things in my mind’s eye. Flashing images. Sampson… with a knife in his back. Kate… after they had beaten her to a bloody, helpless mess. The sunken eyes of the women prisoners back at the house.

I was keeping low to the ground, but one of the monsters saw me and went for a head shot. We both fired at almost the same time.

His bullet barely nicked a sideview mirror that was between us. It probably saved me. I didn’t see the final result of my shot.

I went down behind the cars again. The stench of motor oil and gas was almost overpowering. A police siren wailing in the distance told me help was on the way. Not Sampson, though. Not the kind of help I needed.

Just keep moving. Keep them both in sight somehow… two of them! Two versus one. Better way to think about it: two for the price of one!

I wondered how well they would deal with this. What they were thinking. Planning. Was Casanova the leader now? Who was he?

I looked up quickly and saw a cop. He was near the corner of the street and his revolver was out. I never had a chance to shout a warning.

A gun fired twice from his left and the patrolman went down hard. People were screaming all over Franklin Street. Jaded college kids didn’t look so blasé anymore. Some of the girls were crying. Maybe they finally understood that we’re all very mortal.

“Get down!” I shouted again. “Everybody get the hell down!”

I ducked behind the cars again and inched my way up on the side of a minivan. I saw one of the monsters as my eyes cleared shiny, silver sheet metal.

My next shot wasn’t so ambitious, no hero crap. I was willing to settle for a hit anywhere. Chest, shoulders, lower torso. I fired!

Trick shot, fuckhead. Watch this one. The bullet exploded through both passenger windows of a deserted Ford Taurus. It caught one of the bad guys high in the chest, just below the throat.

He dropped as if his legs had been pulled from underneath him. I sprinted as fast as I could, toward the place I’d seen him standing last. Which one went down? my brain was screaming. And where is the other one?

I darted in and out between the parked cars. He was gone! He wasn’t there! Where the hell was the one I had shot? And where was the other clever boy hiding?

I saw the one I’d hit. He lay spread-eagled under the traffic light at Columbia and Franklin. The death mask still covered his face, but he looked almost ordinary in his white hightops, tan khakis, and windbreaker.

I didn’t see a gun anywhere around him. He wasn’t moving, and I knew he was badly hurt. I crouched on my knees over him, my eyes darting around as I checked him out. Careful! Careful, I warned myself. I didn’t see his partner anywhere. He’s out there someplace. He knows how to shoot.

I peeled the costume mask off his face, the last fa?ade ripped away. You’re not a god. You bleed like the rest of us.

It was Dr. Will Rudolph. The Gentleman Caller lay close to death in the middle of the street in Chapel Hill. His blue-gray eyes were glazing over. A sopping puddle of arterial blood had already collected under him.

People were pushing in closer from the sidewalk. They were gasping in horror and awe. Their eyes stretched wide. Most of them had probably never seen anyone actually die. I had.

I lifted his head. The Gentleman. The murdering, maiming scourage of Los Angeles. He couldn’t believe that he’d been shot, couldn’t accept it. His darting, fearful eyes told me that much.

“Who is Casanova?” I asked Dr. Will Rudolph. I wanted to shake it out of him. “Who is Casanova? Tell me.”

I kept looking around behind me. Where was Casanova? He wouldn’t let Rudolph die like this, would he? Two patrol cars finally arrived. Three or four local cops ran toward me with their guns drawn.

Rudolph struggled to focus his eyes, to see me clearly, or perhaps to see the world one final time. A bloody bubble formed on his lips and then popped with a soft spray.

His words came slowly. “You’ll never find him.” He smiled up at me. “You’re not good enough, Cross. You’re not even close. He’s the best ever.”

A raspy howl rose from the Gentleman’s throat. I recognized the sound of the death rattle as I placed the death mask on the monster’s face.