Forgive Me(107)

Angie gathered up the gun. She checked to make sure it was loaded—it was—and took an extra magazine just in case. She hesitated then decided to take the CZ 75 as a backup, stashing that weapon into the waistband of her jeans.

At the wall by the stairs, she flicked a switch, shut off the light, and plunged the room into complete darkness. She felt along the wall, careful not to knock down any of the tools, until she found the crawlspace under the stairs. Working quickly but quietly, she moved aside a tall cardboard box full of old coats, and climbed over a stack of paint cans without knocking any over. She pulled the box in front of her, sealing herself inside as if it were a tomb.





Raynor rounded the corner and aimed his rifle into the kitchen. He saw nobody there. The side door was closed and the window over the sink was intact. Perhaps she hid in a closet or food pantry? He checked both, but didn’t find her. There was another door in the kitchen he hadn’t checked, and when he opened that one, he smiled.

Behind it he found a set of stairs.





Angie gritted her teeth. Her heart raced in terror and sweat coated her skin. The room seemed to be spinning. A sound from above turned her blood to ice.

Footsteps.





Raynor used a switch at the top of the stairs to turn on the basement light. No reason for him to descend into darkness. He leaned his rifle—a Model 700 SPS Tactical from Remington, with a Vortex viper 6x24 scope and a suppressor from Dakota he had threaded himself—on the wall next to the basement door. The rifle had served its purpose well, and while the subsonic ammunition didn’t completely drown out the noise of the shot, it was enough for him to forgo ear protection. The usual thunderclap of the Remington was more like a car had backfired.

It had felt good in his hands, but since he wasn’t familiar with the layout of the basement, the rifle’s long barrel might prove a liability in a confined space. His original plan had been to use a tactical knife, a 12-inch fixed blade from Bowie, to cut Gabe and Angie’s throats. But the father might have armed himself as a precaution. Angie had progressed quite far with her investigation, and Gabriel had reason to be cautious.

As for Angie, she knew her way around guns, had a license to carry, and might also be armed.

Raynor liked his skills in close quarters combat, but he’d taken into account the two-on-one odds, plus the possibility of firearms in the mix, and decided the knife wasn’t the way to go. Better to use his rifle, take up position in the backyard, which offered plenty of tall trees to hide him from the neighbors and lots of windows for sighting his targets. His plan had worked stupendously, with one notable exception.

Angie.

He had been careless with her.

He would not be so thoughtless again.

The wooden stairs groaned under Raynor’s weight. It was quiet down there, but he knew his quarry was near. He could sense her the way he could that grouse on the day he murdered his father. He wouldn’t let Angie get the best of him again. He would anticipate her every move, same as he did that grouse.

In his hand, Raynor held a Glock 20 in 10mm auto—a massive piece of firepower, though without considerable recoil. He descended cautiously, surging forward, pausing frequently to scan the area for threats. Stairwells presented him with a unique tactical challenge, but his instincts told him Angie wasn’t waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

His instincts were right, and he stepped into an unfinished basement with a smooth floor, but rough walls. He saw no windows, nor any doors to the outside. The ductwork, electrical wiring, and pipes running overhead were all exposed. It was an open floor plan, with lots of boxes, and lots of places for her to hide. Which way should he go?

The space was like his Remington—good on utility, short on frills. It was clean and organized with an area for exercising off to Raynor’s right, and a place for storage and tools to his left. He scanned right but went left. Left offered more places to hide. The biggest mistake he could make would be to move too quickly. He inched his way forward, keeping two hands on his Glock at all times. The open area made it easy for him to slice the pie. No hallways or doors fragmented his focus. He would shoot at even the slightest bit of movement.

Sliding in front of the wall abutting the stairwell, Raynor trained his gun on the heating and cooling system in front of him. He wondered if Angie had taken refuge over there. He stepped in front of a pegboard of tools and came to a stop next to a tall cardboard box to his left. He kicked the box with his foot, not hard enough to knock it over, but just enough force to test the weight and see if Angie might be hiding inside. She wasn’t. He stepped away from the wall, stood with his back to the box and scanned the room once more.





Angie used her ears for eyes. It sounded to her like the man was right in front of the box. In fact, she saw the box move slightly, as though he had pushed it, perhaps checking to see if she were hiding inside. Footsteps followed, but not many, one or two at most. Then a shadow blocked out what had been a sliver of light seeping in where the top of the box and the lip of crawlspace met. He was directly in front of her.

Angie leveled her Ruger. And fired.





Raynor heard a gunshot behind him, and then he felt the burn.

He fell to the floor. The sticky collision with the bullet hadn’t knocked him over. That went against the laws of physics. It was his reaction to the gunshot that sent him tumbling. The bullet had entered through his side, and could have done internal damage, but it hadn’t stopped his heart. Without hesitating, he flipped onto his back and fired three wild shots aimed at the cardboard box. The noise was deafening, but not so loud as to drown out the sound of Angie’s scream.