Last Man Standing

54

Web was trailing Strait and Claire as best as he could. He was alternating with his NV goggles and his own eyes, but it was very dark here and even NVs needed some ambient light to work properly. He was relying more on his hearing than his eyes, actually, but he couldn’t fire at anything based on that, because he could as easily hit Claire as Strait.

He approached the Monkey House, slowed his pace and finally stopped. The ruined building looked ominous during the day; now it was completely unnerving. The problem was, if Strait was inside and Web moved past without clearing the building first, Strait could rear-flank him.

Web kept a tight grip on his MP-5 and quietly moved forward. He entered the place from the south end and stepped over the debris that littered the former animal prison. Shafts of moonlight came through the holes in the roof as the clouds overhead moved past. The light eerily washed over the wrecked cages and the sight was a test even for Web’s hardened nerves.

Moving through the space without making a sound was impossible and Web’s gaze kept darting in all directions in hope that he would see something that would give him the instant he needed to save his and Claire’s lives and end Strait’s in the bargain. There was the issue of Macy being out there too, and that was troublesome because the man did have some tactical skill.

Web immediately sank to the floor as he heard a creak to his left. He slipped on his NV goggles and scanned the space grid by grid.He looked overhead too because there was a catwalk up there. That’s when the garbled scream rang out.

He rolled and the shot hit right where he had been lying. He came up, his gun ready to fire. That had sounded like Claire’s voice warning him. He heard shuffling at the far end of the building and then feet running away. He was about to race after them when he saw the same thing he had seen before, gun barrel condensation. He dropped just before the gun fired, and the bullet hit one of the cages and ricocheted harmlessly into a wall.

Well, that was good to know—Macy, if that’s who it really was, wasn’t smart enough to realize his earlier error.

Web did a sweep of the space in the direction where the shot had come from with his MP-5, blowing junk in the air and rattling empty cages. When he stopped and put in a fresh clip he heard another pair of feet running away. He slipped out and took up the chase again grateful to be leaving the Monkey House behind.

He felt like he was closing in when Web sensed something to his left and hit the ground again. The shot smacked into a tree directly behind where he’d been standing.

Rifle shot, not pistol, he judged. It was Macy again, then, not Strait. He had probably dropped back again and was covering for his boss. “The wannabe against the real thing,” Web said softly. “Well, bring it on.”

As a sniper, Web would remain totally motionless when he was on duty. The rule was that in a standoff, the first man to move and give himself away died. Thus he could lie completely still while waiting to kill someone. He was able to slow down his pulse and even regulate the efficiency of his bladder so that he could go long intervals without having to urinate. He was like an anaconda lying in wait in the grass for a jaguar. When it came, the snake exploded, and no more jaguar.

As he lay there, Web wondered how Macy was able to track him as effectively as he had. That made Web start thinking about the equipment the guy might be carrying. Bates had given him an additional piece of information about the attack on the Frees’ compound. Two .308 slugs had been dug out of the walls. If Macy was carrying the same ordnance that HRT used, maybe he was carrying other equipment similar to what Web was using. Web recalled the photo of Macy in his paramilitary regalia. All those elements definitely fit the profile of a wannabe.

Web slithered forward on his belly, making only minimal noise. He wanted to test something, and giving away his position seemed to be the best way to do it.

A shot hit close to him.

Okay, that confirmed that, thought Web. The guy had night optics too.

He slipped on his NV goggles and did a sweep of the area. That’s when he saw it; only for an instant, but it was enough. It was just enough.

Clyde Macy was feeling good about his strategy. He knew that HRT members were very skilled, but he had always suspected they were also overrated. He had, after all, breached their perimeter at the Frees’ compound. And he had shot one of them down at the pool area. He hadn’t stuck around long enough to see Romano get back up. When Strait had grabbed Claire and run, Macy, ever the loyal lieutenant, had left to cover his boss’s back. Strait had been good to him, taking him under his wing at the detention center. And when Macy had gotten out and strayed into the world of the Frees, Strait had tracked him down and made him see the light. The Frees were amateurs. The debacle in Richmond showed him that. And, Strait had pointed out, they don’t pay you a dime, yet they expect you to help support them. And for what? Strait had pointedly asked him. For the privilege of associating with stupid people.

He had taken the sound advice and had worked with Strait for several years. The current gig had been the most lucrative. They had made a fortune with the drug running, and Macy had even gotten to set up the Free Society in the bargain. That and gunning down old Twan—it was all worth it. Now that the plan was disappearing as quickly as the sirens were heading their way, Macy had one more goal left. To kill London. That would prove his ultimate superiority. In a way, Macy had been training his entire adult life for this very moment.

He slipped on his NV goggles, fired them up and scanned the area where he had last seen London. The man was obviously losing it, moving around like that. He was overconfident and had suddenly found himself matched against a foe who was actually better than he was. And now it was time to finish it. Just as he thought this, he locked onto the green beacon blaring at him. For a second Macy was stunned, for he didn’t know what it was. And then he realized it must be a reflection from London’s night optics. He aimed, exhaled all his breath; muscle on muscle his finger slid to the trigger. He became absolutely motionless. And then he fired. The shot hit the beacon dead center and the light went out. It was only then that Macy realized his own night optics, turned on full power as they were, were probably giving off the same beacon. But one had to be looking through his own night optics to see the light, and he had just finished off London. He was just a split second quicker, and because of that he was alive and London wasn’t. That’s what it often came down to.

Before Macy could draw another breath, the bullet hit him squarely in the forehead. For a millisecond his mind didn’t react to the fact that half of his head was now missing. Then the gun fell from his hands and Clyde Macy slumped to the dirt.

Web rose from behind a small berm about three ticks on the clock away from where he had propped up his goggles on a stump and turned them on full power. He hadn’t had to rely on the green beacon coming from Macy’s night optics. As soon as Macy fired at what he thought was Web’s head, his muzzle flash had revealed his position. A second later, it was over. Final score: professional, one; wannabe, dead.

He didn’t have time to reflect further on his victory because the crash of feet rushing through the underbrush made Web hit the ground and aim his .308. When the pair cleared the tree line and stepped into his kill zone, Web hesitated and then rose on his knees, his rifle pointed directly at the man’s enormous chest.

“Put down the gun, Francis!”

Westbrook jerked and looked around in the darkness. Through his rifle scope Web could clearly see the giant push Kevin behind him, shielding the boy from this new threat.

“It’s Web London, Francis. Put the weapon down. Now!”

“Stay behind me, Kev,” said Westbrook as he edged away from the sound of Web’s voice.

“Last time, Francis; gun down and then you. Or you’ll be going down another way.”

“I getting Kevin out of here, little man. That all I want to do. No problems, no problems.”

Web aimed his shot at a tree branch ten feet above Westbrook’s head. The limb was cleanly cut in two and fell behind them. That was the first warning shot Web had ever fired in his career, and he wondered why he had even bothered. Kevin yelled out, but Westbrook said nothing. He just kept backing up. Then he did something that surprised even Web. He dropped his gun, knelt down and pulled Kevin up on his back. At first Web thought he was going to use Kevin as a shield, but Westbrook kept his body between Web and the boy. And he kept retreating.

“No problems, HRT. Just heading on out. Got things to do.” Web put another shot in the dirt to the left of him. A second warning. Shit. What the hell was wrong with him? Take the guy. He’s a criminal. A murderer.

“No problems,” said Westbrook again. “Just heading out, me and the kid.”

Web aimed the next shot at the man’s head. Then he realized that, with the ammo he was chambering he couldn’t shoot Westbrook, because the bullet might pass through even the big man’s thick body and hit Kevin. He could aim for the legs and drop the giant. He contemplated this and was aiming for the best possible location when he heard Kevin.

“Web, please, don’t shoot my brother. Please. He just helping me.”

Through his scope Web could see the boy’s face next to his father’s. He was holding on to the thick neck with both hands, his face filled with fear, tears running down his cheeks. Francis Westbrook looked calm, as though he were ready to face his death. Web recalled all the scars on the man’s belly. He had obviously faced down death many times. He was 120 in whitey years. Web’s finger slid to the trigger. If Web shot him in the leg, at least Kevin would be able to visit him in prison. It was the right thing to do. He was a cop. The man was a criminal. That’s how things worked. No exceptions. No involved internal deliberations. Just shoot.

And yet Web allowed the pair to slide off into the woods and disappear. Web’s finger moved away from the trigger. He screamed out, “Take him back to his home, Francis. And then you better run like hell, because I’ll be coming for you, you son of a bitch.”