I Will Find You(95)

“You’re a lunatic.”

“No, listen to me.”

And that’s it. We are about twenty yards from the front door now. I turn and rush him and grab him by the throat with one hand.

I hear Rachel again say, “David.”

But I don’t care. I am about to throw Hayden Payne to the ground when I hear another voice, a man’s, calmly say, “Okay, that’s enough.”

The man is heavyset with dark hair. He wears a black suit.

He also has a gun in his hand.

“Let him go, David,” the man says.

The man speaks casually, softly even, but there is something in the tone that makes you pull up and listen closely. His eyes are cold and dead in a way I’ve seen too often in prison.

And right there and then, I have an epiphany.

I don’t know if that’s the right word, but it’s close enough. It all happens in less than a second. I know men like him. I know the situation. I know that he is armed and on a private residence. I know that he is here to kill me. I know in the end I have to protect Rachel and Matthew and that for me, there are no consequences.

With all that in mind, I move very fast.

I still have my hand around Hayden’s throat. I pull him in front of me, using him for the briefest of moments as a shield.

With my free hand, I pull out my gun.

This isn’t the first time I’ve handled a gun. My father was a police officer. He was big on gun safety. He and Uncle Philip used to take Adam and me to the range with them in Everett on Saturday afternoons. I became a pretty good shot, not so much with stationary targets, but the simulation exercises where cardboard cutouts pop up at random times. Sometimes it would be a bad guy. Sometimes it would be an innocent civilian. I wasn’t the best at differentiating the two, but I remember what my father taught me.

No head shots. No aiming for the legs or trying to wound. Aim for the center mass of the torso and leave yourself the most room for error.

The man quickly sees what I am doing.

He raises his weapon. But my boldness, the suddenness of my actions, plus using Hayden Payne as a temporary shield, gives me the advantage.

I fire three times.

And the man goes down.

Hayden screams and runs toward the front door. I turn to follow him, but then I spot another man pulling out a gun.

No hesitation.

I fire three more times.

This guy goes down too.

I don’t know whether the two men are dead or injured. I don’t care. Hayden is inside the door.

I run toward the first fallen man. His eyes are closed, but I think he’s still breathing. I don’t have time to check. I bend down and pry the gun from his hand. Then I turn back toward Rachel.

“Come on!” I shout.

Rachel does. We hurry toward the front door. I worry that it may be locked, but it’s not. Who needs to lock a front door when you live in a place like this? We enter the foyer. I close the door behind me and hand her one of the guns.

“David?”

“For protection. In case anyone tries to get in.”

“Where are you going?”

But she knows. I’m already heading up the stairs where I hear running footsteps. I don’t know how many armed men they have. I have already shot two men. I don’t care how many more I’ll need to shoot. I just worry about the bullet count.

The home is pure white, sterile, almost institutional. There are very few splashes of color. Not that I see any of that. Sound echoes. I follow it.

“Theo!”

Hayden’s voice.

I tighten my grip on the gun and continue down the corridor. An old woman steps out into it and says, “Hayden? What’s going on?”

“Pixie, look out!”

When the old woman turns, our eyes meet. Hers widen in recognition. She knows who I am. I hurry down the corridor where I heard Hayden’s voice. The old woman doesn’t move. She stands and stares in defiance. I’m not ready to bowl over an old woman, though I will if I have to, but I don’t think there is a need. I rush past her on the side and keep running, “Pixie?”

It’s Hayden again. He’s right up ahead, in the bedroom on the left. I rush into the room and raise my gun because he’s going to tell me where my son is or…

And there’s Matthew.

I freeze. The gun is in my hand. My son is staring up at me. Our eyes meet and the eyes are still my boy’s. In Times Square I felt a sensory overload. Here I experience something similar, but it is all internal, in my blood and veins, a thrum that rushes through every part of me with no outlet, no way to escape. I may be shaking. I’m not sure.

Then I notice the hands on his shoulders.

“Theo,” Hayden says, trying hard to keep his tone even, “this is my friend David. We’re playing a game with the guns, aren’t we, David?”

My first thought is a strange one: Matthew is eight years old, not four. He’s not falling for that line. I can see it in his face. Part of me just wants to end this now, to raise my gun and blow this motherfucker away and deal with the aftermath. But my son is here. Like it or not, this is the man he sees as a father. My son is not scared of him. I can see that. He is, heartbreaking as it sounds, scared of me.

I can’t shoot Hayden in front of Matthew.

“David, this is my son Theo.”

I feel my finger on the trigger. Then again, I’ve already shot two people. What is one more?