Mortal Pursuit

53

Barbara pressed her ear to the crack between the closet doors.

“Gone.” She turned to the others. “They’ve gone.”

She felt an inexplicable lift of relief, as if there had been some personal threat, a menace directed specifically at her, in the remorseless march of boots.

“Do you think they’ll be back” That was Judy, addressing the pointless question to everyone and no one.

Unexpectedly it was Charles who answered. “They’ll be back.”

The words sounded curiously like a threat.

She remembered his agitation a short time earlier, the air of expectation in his body language, his intensely focused gaze. And now look at him-deflated, defeated, almost as if he’d wanted the killers to come.

A shiver kissed the back of her neck, tickling the short hairs at the edge of her coiffure.

For a moment she wondered … she asked herself … if Charles … could he …

He seemed to feel her stare. He blinked at her.

“They’ll be back,” he said again. “They said they’d bring Ally, didn’t they”

Ally. So that was it. That was why he’d leaned forward in anticipation, and why he was slumped and sagging now.

“Of course, dear.” Barbara smiled, dispelling whatever ridiculous notion had teased her thoughts. “Of course they did.”

Cain heard the Porsche howl through the front yard as he joined Lilith in the foyer, her hand still resting numbly on the gate switch.

Together they watched the coupe vanish down Skylark Drive, taillights shrinking.

He deliberated only a moment. “We’re going after him. As backup.”

Lilith blinked. “But … Mrs. Kent”

“She’s lived forty-three years. Another half hour won’t matter.”

“You said the cops might start to figure it out before long. That was fifteen minutes ago.”

“Schedule’s tight, but we can get it done. Robinson and the girl-then Barbara. Come on. We’ll take the van.”

He hustled her out the door, toward the open gate. She pulled off her mask, and he saw her lower lip jutting ominously, a prelude to a tantrum.

“I wanted Mrs. Kent.” She pouted, hands balled into fists. “I was all set.”

“Look on the bright side. Maybe you’ll nail Robinson personally.”

A blink, a sudden smile, everything all right again. “Think so”

Cain shrugged, breaking into a run. “Somebody’s got to.”

Trish checked the Glock’s magazine.

Eleven rounds, plus one in the chamber.

In her gun belt’s dump pouch were two spare mags, one fully loaded, the other partially expended by the sentry she’d subdued.

The chase boat sped closer. She made out two men aboard.

“How far to shore” she asked Ally.

“Another couple miles. Maybe four minutes.”

Trish shook her head. Four minutes was too long. The FireStar would overtake them much sooner than that.

“Keep driving,” she said. “And stay low.”

Blair pushed the boat to its limit, watching the tachometer register five thousand rpm.

He glanced at Gage and caught his kid brother’s infectious smile.

“I’ll steer,” Blair shouted through a mist of spray. “You shoot.”

Swinging out of her seat, Trish crawled over the stem and knelt on the port swim platform. The jet drive throbbed through the fiberglass like a straining heart.

With one hand she clutched the grab handle on her left. With the other she aimed the Glock.

She tried using the laser sight.

No good. The choppy ride made it impossible to direct the beam.

The FireStar loomed nearer, drums and guitars keeping up a steady beat. She could see the passenger leaning over the port side, a pistol shiny in his hand.

Steadying her gun, she fired.

Muzzle flash from the Sea Rayder.

“Bitch is shooting!” Dimly Blair perceived a kneeling figure. “In the stern. The stern!”

Gage leaned farther out, reckless with exhilaration, and returned fire.

From the FireStar, a volley of gunshots.

Bullets slapped the water. Trish threw herself onto the stern’s fiberglass cover, sprawling flat on her belly, legs twisted awkwardly.

Couldn’t be intimidated. Had to keep the chase boat at a distance.

Leaning on her elbows, bracing the gun in both hands, she squeezed off another three rounds.

Blair was closing fast on the Sea Rayder, wild laughter riding on his lips, laughter born of speed and danger and “Do Wah Diddy Diddy” pounding like a movie soundtrack all around him.

He wished he still had his gun or, better yet, an automatic weapon, a machine pistol or an AK-47. Then he could be a real Hollywood hero, ripping bodies with bullets to the wail of a synthesizer in a hectic, garish dance.

Jump cut: Trish Robinson’s throat opening like a second mouth.

Jump cut: Ally Kent screaming, cut down by another spray of bullets.

Jump cut: the Sea Rayder plowing into a sandbar and igniting in a Technicolor whoosh.

Jump cut: Gage twisting backward, then dropping heavily into the companion seat, his Glock cradled loosely in his lap.

Drunk on adrenaline, Blair almost didn’t realize that this last image was no film-clip fantasy.

It was real.

Gage had been shot.

“Jesus,” Blair hissed, the truth clamping hold.

The bitch cop had hit him. Gotten him bad.

The right side of his face was peeled open to red bone. His ear dangled on a flap of skin.

Blair throttled back and leaned over his brother.

“Stay with me. Gage. Stay with me.”

Trish saw the chase boat drop back.

The guy riding shotgun was no longer firing at her. Reloading, maybe.

She glanced over her shoulder, past Ally. A dark land mass approached. The lake’s north shore No, not yet. Only the weedy hump of a small island.

Shore was still far away.

Too far.

Gage blinked, focusing blearily on Blair. His lips moved, but the feeble noises he produced were swallowed by Manfred Mann.

Blair looked ahead. The jet boat had widened the gap.

There was no time for him to minister to Gage-not if he still wanted Robinson.

He rammed the throttle forward and snatched the gun from his brother’s hand.

Facing aft, Trish saw the FireStar surge ahead with frightening speed.

Muzzle flash. The pilot was the one shooting now.

The bullet struck the stern inches away. She averted her face from a shower of fiberglass splinters.

Close.

A second shot slammed into the underside of the boat. The pitch of the engine abruptly lowered as the Sea Rayder bucked.

Hit the motor. He must have hit the motor—

Her left leg jumped.

For a dazed instant she was baffled, wondering why it would jerk that way, like a dead frog’s leg in a science experiment.

Then she felt a sudden curious numbness below her knee, numbness overtaken a heartbeat later by the worst pain she had known in her life.

It was a hot poker lancing her leg.

It was a thousand cigarettes branding her.

It was needles and electrified wires and steel claws.

Shot. Shot. Shot.

That one word caromed off the corners of her mind with dizzying velocity.

Her stomach twisted. She spat up something hot and wet.

Blood Was she hemorrhaging Had the bullet caught her higher than she realized In the gut, the lungs

No, it wasn’t blood. Wasn’t even vomit. Just saliva unspooling from her mouth in a thick, ropy strand.

The boat bounced, jarring her leg, and the pain leaped up, so strong she could hear its screaming whine in both ears, and see it too, a brilliant white glare that fogged her vision, erasing the night.

“We’re losing speed!” Ally’s shout. “I think-“

The breathless pause told Trish the girl had turned in her seat, had seen her.

“Trish-oh, God-look at you-“

“I’ll be okay.” Her mouth was very dry. “What’s our speed”

Ally checked the gauge. “Twenty-five. Still dropping.”

Trish pushed pain away, forced herself to think.

The other bullet must have damaged the jet drive-broken an impeller blade or disabled the pump.

Whatever the specifics, the boat now had no chance of outdistancing its pursuer. And in her present condition she couldn’t hope to hold off another attack.

She scanned the area. On her left lay the island she’d seen earlier, small and dark, barely more than a floating clump of reeds.

“Can you steer” she yelled.

“Think so.”

“Hook left.”

Ally wrenched the wheel to port. The Sea Rayder, cornering sharply, hurled up a brilliant cascade that hung briefly in the air, Niagara’s glistening veil.

The island swung around the boat, briefly eclipsing the FireStar.

“Jog north again,” Trish ordered.

Ally locked the wheel to starboard, then straightened it.

With agonizing difficulty Trish pulled herself into a crouch. She holstered the Glock, fastened the strap.

“Now jump.”

“What”

“Jump-and swim.”

Without waiting for a reply, Trish dived into the lake.