John Connolly - The Reapers

“If anyone can do it, you guys can.”

Paulie got into the cab, having first carefully wiped it clear of glass, and started the truck. He let it run for a minute until he was satisfied that no damage had been done to the engine. Tony stood beside Jackie. Willis was still breathing, but only barely. Tony stared down at him. Jackie thought that he looked like he wanted to finish the job.

“You think Parker will be pissed at us?” he said.

The Fulcis admired Parker. They didn’t want him to be angry.

“No,” said Jackie. “I don’t think he’ll even be surprised.”

Tony brightened. He and Paulie dumped Harding’s body in the back of the dead men’s pickup, then tied Willis’s hands and legs with baling wire that they found in the cab and left him, unconscious, beside his dead colleague. Jackie then drove the truck into the woods and left it there, out of sight of the road.

“You think those guys were related?” Paulie asked his brother, as they waited for Jackie to return. “They looked like they was related.”

“Maybe,” said Tony.

“Pity they was such assholes,” said Paulie.

“Yeah,” said Tony. “Pity.”

There was a radio on the dashboard of the truck. It crackled into life just as Jackie Garner finished hiding the truck in the woods.

“Willis,” said a voice. “Willis, you there. Over.”

Jackie nearly didn’t answer it, then decided, aw, why not? He’d seen movies in which people found out the bad guy’s plans by pretending to be someone else on a phone or a radio. He didn’t see why it couldn’t work on this occasion.

“This is Willis. Over.”

There was a pause before the reply came.

“Willis?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Over.”

“Who is this?”

Dammit, thought Jackie, this is harder than it looks in the movies. I ought to learn to leave well enough alone.

“Sorry,” he said. “Wrong number.”

After all, there didn’t seem to be anything else to say. He put the radio down, then hurried back to join the Fulcis. They looked up in surprise at the sight of Jackie running.

“Time to go,” said Jackie. “Company’s coming.”

THEY DIDN’T DIE.

That was the first thing that struck Angel once they had made it to the trees: they were still alive. Running across the stretch of ground between the garage and the forest had been one of the most terrifying experiences of his life. All the time, he had been waiting for the moment of impact, the second when his body would buck as the first shot struck him, the sensation like a hard punch from a seasoned fighter, to be followed by searing pain and then…What? Death, either instant or slow. Another wound, Louis dragging him across the damp grass as he bled slickly, leaving a dark line as the life flowed from him, knowing that this time there would be no second chances, that he would die here, and Louis might die alongside him?

And so he had run hard, fighting the instinct to make himself as small as he could, knowing that to do so would slow him down. Be smaller, or be faster, that was the choice. In the end, he had opted for speed, every muscle in his body tense, his face contorted in expectation of the bullets that must inevitably begin to fly. He knew that he would be hit before he heard the shot that had taken him, so the silence, broken only by the sounds of breathing and footfalls, was of no consolation.

Both men zigzagged as they crossed the open ground, altering their pace and direction unexpectedly to throw off any shooters. The tree line began to loom closer, so close that, even in the murk, Angel could pick out details of bark and leaves. Farther back, the forest faded into shadows and gloom. There could be any number of men in there waiting for them, drawing a bead on the moving targets or holding their aim on a single spot, waiting for the target to come to them. Perhaps Angel would see the muzzle flash in the shadows before he died, the last flicker of light before the final darkness to come.

Fifteen feet. Ten. Five. Suddenly, they were among the trees. They dropped to the ground among the bushes, then crawled slowly away from where they had landed, careful to make as little noise as possible, avoiding undergrowth that might move and give away their positions. Angel glanced at Louis, who was about ten feet to his right. Louis raised a palm, indicating that he should stop. Something flew high above their heads in the dark, but neither man lifted his eyes to follow its progress. Instead, they waited, their attention fixed on the forest before them, their sight now adjusted to the darkness.

“They didn’t shoot,” said Angel. “How come they didn’t shoot?”

“I don’t know.”

Louis searched the woods for movement, for any sign that they were being watched. He found nothing, but he knew that there were men out there somewhere. They were being toyed with.

He indicated that they should move forward. Using the trees as cover, they made slow, careful progress, each taking his turn to move, then pausing to cover the advance of the other, conscious that they needed to watch not just what lay ahead of them, but what might appear from behind. They saw nothing. The forest appeared to be clear, but neither man fooled himself into thinking that this meant their presence was unremarked. The bodies had been left in the trunk of their car for them to find, and the car itself had been put beyond use. A message had been sent. They were alive, but only on the whim of others.

Louis thought again of the woman at the window. Was it too much of a coincidence that she should have appeared at just the moment that he and Angel had fixed their sights upon the house? Perhaps they had been permitted to see her, and then they had responded exactly as anticipated: they had aborted their plan and returned to their vehicle, but by then the trap had been sprung. Now they had no choice but to keep moving and wait to see how events played out, so they continued through the forest, never allowing their guard to relax even slightly, constantly turning, watching, listening. They were exhausted by the time they had gone only three-quarters of a mile, but by then the trees had begun to thin, and there was open ground visible in front of them. It sloped upward to the inner ring road. Beyond it was more forest.

They stopped while they were still hidden, the road a raised spine before them. They could see no sign of movement upon it. Louis sniffed the air, trying to pick up any hint of cigarette smoke or food that might have carried on the breeze, indicating the presence of men nearby. There was none.

He and Angel were almost within touching distance.

“I go on three, you go on four,” he whispered. The slight delay would make them harder targets if the road was being watched, the second man distracting from the first, sowing just enough confusion to give them an edge. He raised his right index and middle fingers, spreading them apart to form a V. “I go left, you go right. Don’t stop until you get to the trees.”

Angel nodded. They stayed low until they reached the edge of the forest, then Angel watched Louis’s lips make the count. One. Two.

Three.

Louis sprinted for the road. A second later Angel was moving, veering away from his partner, zigzagging once again but not as violently as before, intent only on getting across the open road, where he would be most vulnerable, as quickly as possible.

They did not even make it to where the ground began to rise. The first shot sent a spume of dirt into the air a couple of inches from Angel’s feet. The second and third struck the road itself, and then the scattered shots became a fusillade, forcing the two men back into the forest. They flattened themselves on the ground, and returned fire with the Steyrs, aiming at the muzzle flashes, keeping to short bursts in order to conserve their ammunition. Louis saw a figure running low, wearing a green combat jacket. He fired, but the man kept moving. He was beyond the limited range of the Steyrs.