The Unwilling(121)

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Jason’s plan had always been a simple one: distract Reece, then get in quickly and quietly, but very quickly and very quietly. Reece was a predator, and even predators could panic. Usually, that meant a hard run in a straight line, but Reece was the crazy kind of predator; and crazy was hard to predict. So Jason kept one eye on the house, and the other on the cops. His father was agitated and uncertain; they all were.

Right now, that was good.

The more the better.

And the cops were coming faster, too. Not a car here or there, but three or four at a time, light bars strobing. Jason waited for critical mass, then rolled left, and dropped over the wall. Best he could tell, the camera angles were almost perfect, but not quite. There were blind spots, and he used them, quick but smooth, stopping if he thought he needed to. He couldn’t go straight at the house, and remain unseen. It was more like, Twenty feet due north, then ten more at a diagonal. He stopped more than once to get his bearings. It made for slow going, but the house was close, tall and massive, with multiple wings. That was the tricky part—not just getting inside but finding his brother, and getting back out before the cops worked up sufficient nerve to storm the gate.

He was counting on the time.

And the alarm codes.

If the codes were bullshit, he’d have to improvise, but he was good at that. Violence, speed, sudden changes to whatever plan had blown up in his face. It was a skill set he’d honed in three years of war, the difference between living and dying, going home empty, or getting the job done. In all those hard years, Jason had learned to not expect much from the world, but sometimes it could be a giving place.

Kind of.

When the shots came, they were close, two quick blasts, followed by three more. Jason took off at a dead run. No pain, no thoughts of pain. He had a location, but knew these things, too: it was doubtful Gibby had the gun, and the cops would for damn sure be coming in. Jason weighed his options in terms of seconds, not minutes. He went hot on the M16.

Five seconds, straight ahead.

Left at the corner.

He made the turn, weapon up, and saw Reece in full flight for the back wall, a perfect silhouette twenty yards out and running in a straight line. Jason could put one in his skull, count one Mississippi, and still have time to put another in his heart, all before he hit the ground. He didn’t do it, though, and that hesitation surprised him. Maybe it was because he was tired of killing, or because there were a million cops beyond the gate. Maybe it was for X, or because Reece deserved something more than a clean, quick death. Whatever the cause, Jason’s finger came off the trigger. When he lowered the gun, he saw his brother, standing with Chance outside a basement door.

“Jason? What are you doing here?”

“Kid, it’s a long story.”

“What’s that noise?”

“That would be Dad and about a hundred cops. I suspect they’re taking down the front gate. Either of you hurt? Either of you shot?”

Gibby blinked.

And Chance blinked.

Jason had seen it before in raw recruits. “You’re in shock. You’re going to be okay, but I have to move, and you have a choice to make.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“It’s this simple, little brother. Wait for Dad or come with me. There’s no wrong answer, but you need to decide right now.”

“Where are you going?”

“Not far and not for long.”

“I’ll come with you.” No hesitation.

“Chance?”

“I go where he goes.”

“All right, then.” Jason slung his rifle as the gate came down. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”





47


The gate crashed to the earth in a cloud of splinters and dust, and the cops needed no more invitation.

Shots fired.

A blank check.

Tactical teams led the assault, but French cared for nothing but Gibby. He wanted to search the house at a dead run, but it was enormous, and Burklow was a very steady friend. “Just be still. Wait here. We have a lot of boots on the ground, and suspended or not, you’re still the ranking detective. Information will come to you first.”

Fear was the only reason he’d agreed: fear that he would find the remains of his son. He’d never felt anything like it. Nakedness. Raw terror. Those fears were only compounded when officers discovered a girl locked in the north wing. Burklow broke the news. “Tyra’s friend Sara.”

“Still no sign?”

“No sign is a good thing. Keep the faith.”

Easier said than done. The girl was distraught, but dry-eyed. She continued to repeat the same thing: “He was in the walls, I heard him in the walls.” They watched as she was led to a police car, and then to an ambulance.

“Something good,” French said. But he was more concerned about the body parts in the basement freezer. Eighteen-year-old parts or something else? No one could tell him. He stood at the front door. Twenty minutes since the gate came down. “Any word from the medical examiner?”

“Five minutes out. Can I get you a coffee?”

French didn’t want coffee. He wanted to know who fired the shots, who they were fired at and why. Dispatch had delivered three different messages from his wife. She wanted news. Where was her son?