Deadly Cross (Alex Cross #28)(62)

“You trust me?” I said.

“I do.”

“I’m putting you across my shoulders, fireman’s carry. We’re getting out of here.”

“Ohhh,” she moaned. “That’s gonna hurt.”

“Better than dying.” I grabbed her, hoisted her up over my left shoulder, staggered to my feet, and bolted down the path in the dark, bullets clipping the ground behind me.





CHAPTER 69





I STEPPED OFF THE BANK. With Althea’s weight across my shoulders, I landed awkwardly on the slippery, rocky shore. My knee twisted, but I stayed on my feet and moved left.

The night was near pitch-dark with the rain clouds, which did not help. My knee burned as I gingerly took one step after another up the shoreline. I kept my eyes wide open, blinking against the rain, because in low light, we see better peripherally than straight ahead.

My knowing that fact probably saved both our lives.

“Not far now,” Althea said in a gurgling voice that made my fears real. I could hear that her lung was filling with blood.

Out of the corner of my left eye I caught movement between the side of her cabin and the bank. I pivoted and tried to raise my pistol and aim at the movement, but Althea’s weight threw me off balance. I staggered right. The shot just missed me and went into the lake behind us.

He won’t miss twice, I thought. Not at this range.

My instinct was to put Althea down and get on her to protect her. But before I could, Mahoney turned on his Maglite from thirty yards up the shore, revealing a pro in black with an AR rifle equipped with a banana clip, a night-vision scope, and a silencer about to shoot me and Althea.

The light blinded the guy. Mahoney touched off twice. Both rounds punched him in the throat. He fell and the light went off.

I moved fast toward Mahoney. He was taking cover behind a blown-down tree.

“She’s hit,” I whispered. “Chest wound. There’s a boat somewhere here.”

“Boat’s right behind us, pulled up on the rocks. Go to it. Get her in. I’ll cover you.”

“They’ll shoot at us going out of here.”

“I’ll get that guy’s gun with the night scope. Even things up.”

“How you doing, Althea?”

“Can’t breathe good,” she rasped.

“One more pull, okay?” I said and didn’t wait for an answer. I brought her toward the lake, trying not to kick any rocks, knowing the sound would carry back into the woods.

I toed the side of the metal johnboat, then eased her off my shoulders and onto the floor of the skiff. She moaned and shifted.

There was nothing I could do for her until we were safe, so I felt my way to the outboard engine, found it cocked up out of the water. I heard footsteps coming.

“Ready?” Mahoney whispered.

“Can you see with that thing?”

“Plain as day, pretty amazing.”

“We slide it into the water, you get up front and cover the shore. This engine is going to draw them.”

“Let’s do it,” he said and went around to the bow of the skiff.

Together we slid the metal, flat-bottomed boat, scraping and squealing, into the water. I went up to my knees, felt Mahoney get in, and was about to climb in after him when the shooting started once more. The first rounds hit the bow right in front of Ned, who shot back as I scrambled aboard, found the starter cord, and pulled. It coughed but did not catch.

“Prime it,” Althea gasped. “The bulb on the gas line. Then choke.”

Another bullet pinged off the hull of the boat. Others knifed into the water around us and Mahoney unleashed a firestorm on them, ten, twenty, thirty straight rounds.

During that time, I found the priming bulb, squeezed it three times, then groped for the choke lever and shifted it. I grabbed the starter cord again and yanked.

The engine coughed, sputtered. I eased the choke until it caught, put it in reverse, and gunned the outboard just as Mahoney ran out of bullets with the pro’s weapon and shifted back to his pistol.

I spun us broadside to shore, wincing at every shot coming at us, shifted out of reverse and buried the throttle. The outboard engine roared. We blew out of there, away from the point toward the big lake and open water.





CHAPTER 70





TWO DAYS LATER, MAHONEY AND I sat in our SUV, looked at each other, nodded, and then, carrying manila files, climbed out of the car and into stultifying heat and humidity. But given what we had to do that morning, I’d have walked through an inferno and been grateful for the experience.

We entered the august firm of Carson and Knight and smiled at Reggie the receptionist as if we were old friends. He looked at us as if we were ghosts, then jumped to his feet, waving.

“Bobby’s not here,” he said. “He’s gone to — ”

“He’s here,” Mahoney said. “We saw him go in the front door ten minutes ago, so if you don’t want to be charged with obstructing justice, Reggie, I suggest you sit down and shut up. Where is he?”

The receptionist glumly pointed at the closed door of the conference room.

Mahoney led the way, and we entered without knocking to find four people around the conference table: Nina Larch, the executor of Kay Willingham’s will; Bobby Carson, Kay’s second cousin; and Dr. Nathan Tolliver and Dr. Jeanne Hicks, Kay’s shrinks from West Briar.