The Speed of Sound (Speed of Sound Thrillers #1)(92)

By the time the National League East fans had adjusted their eyes, Barnes could no longer be seen. “Target’s on the move,” said Giles. He scanned his half of the property, knowing his partner would be doing the same on his side.

“Copy.” Murphy scoured the rear of the property. There was no sign of Barnes. So he closed his eyes and listened. There was no indication of movement. Crickets were chirping, but that was about it. The air was still. Tense. “He’s good.”

“We’re better.” Giles continued scanning around him, methodically looking from left to right, then back again. He was a machine. Patience was the key. And they could wait all night. Sooner or later, the target would reveal himself. And if he could see them, they could see him. It was their advantage, two-to-one.



What the National League East fans hadn’t counted on was how well Barnes knew his property, which had more in common with a paintball combat zone than a traditional backyard. He literally knew every angle. Which meant he was playing chess and his hostiles were playing checkers. If either one of the shooters had moved, Barnes would have heard it.

The shooter on the west side was closest to him. The hostile had taken his shot from behind the canned-ham trailer, which was located twenty yards from Barnes through poorly tended hedges. This shooter’s bullet was the one that had removed part of Barnes’s ear. That meant the shooter had probably been standing. Barnes guessed the assassin was still within six inches of the trailer corner he had used to steady his sniper rifle.

The trailer walls were a combination of clapboard and aluminum siding. A bullet’s trajectory would deviate less than one degree if fired through it. The hedges wouldn’t affect the projectile’s trajectory at all. Barnes decided to fire three shots in quick succession. Each would be six inches apart horizontally and twelve inches apart vertically, because it was possible the target had decided to kneel. Barnes rehearsed the quick three-shot several times, and then fired without pause. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!



Giles, whose position was between a stack of tires and a swing set, could see the muzzle flashes in the distance, and immediately returned fire. He would soon learn none of his shots had found the mark.

Murphy, however, never saw the gunfire, because the trailer blocked his view. The three shots ripped through the wood and metal siding like it was Swiss cheese. The first bullet missed him, but the second and third did not. The second shot punctured Murphy’s abdomen, perforating his descending colon and shattering his pelvis. The third shot hit him in the leg, obliterating his right femur, along with his quadriceps and adductor muscles. He collapsed instantly. He grimaced, clenching his teeth. “I’m hit.”

“How bad?” his partner asked urgently.

“Doc’s gonna earn his pay.” He was referring to the emergency-room doctor they had on retainer. First, they needed to reach him, but there was no way Murphy would be able to move on his own. All he could do was lie there, writhing.

Giles needed to help his partner, but couldn’t until Barnes was neutralized. He knew this was no time to get emotional. He needed to think clearly and strategically. His enemy would expect him to give his partner aid. That was why he couldn’t. But what wouldn’t Barnes expect? Giles quickly considered his options. Then dialed 911.



Barnes had no way of knowing the severity of his opponent’s injuries. He heard the body collapse behind the trailer, so he knew at least one of his shots had found its mark. He got into position in case the second shooter attempted to help his partner, and then waited for his enemy’s next move.

Barnes liked his odds better now that it was one-on-one, but he was injured, and his remaining opponent wasn’t. He couldn’t afford to be as patient as the other shooter could. His advantage was his knowledge of the terrain, and Barnes needed to capitalize on it while he still could. As he devised his strategy, he heard a siren in the distance. Then two. And more. They were getting louder. Son of a bitch, he thought. Now that was clever. He had to give his opponent props. What was once an open-ended game would now be decided in less than sixty seconds.

He thought fast. Ghosts weren’t supposed to draw attention to themselves, but this one just did. Whoever was employing these two wouldn’t be pleased. Even if they completed their assignment and he didn’t survive the night, this would be viewed as unacceptable. It might even mean the end of their chosen careers. In fact, the more Barnes thought about it, the more sure he was they had decided this was their swan song. Which meant they were in the same situation he was. They would disappear before the night was over. The only question now in Barnes’s mind was how much pride they took in their work. He was about to find out.

Barnes retraced his steps, moving quickly toward the Impala. Using only his right arm, he stood the storage container on its narrow side, leaning it against the open trunk of the car. He somehow ignored the searing pain shooting through his left shoulder and used the vehicle as leverage to lift the back end of the heavy container and slide it into the trunk; it just barely fit. Keeping his eyes on the driveway in front of him for any movement, he hopped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. He saw no movement through the windshield. Are they actually letting me go? It didn’t matter. Barnes did not intend to exit via the driveway, anyway. Behind him, along the rear of his property, ran an old wooden fence about six feet high that kept the neighbors from getting too curious about what he did back there. It also created an emergency exit if the need ever arose. Barnes put the transmission in reverse and slammed his foot on the gas.