John Connolly - The Reapers

Bliss shifted his weapon and closed in.

“So which way did they go?” asked Willie.

He and the Detective were standing upwind of the smoke. Behind them, the Fulcis were moving the Toyota so that the way would be clear for them if they decided to continue on their current road. Jackie Garner was admiring the destruction wrought upon the grain store. Jackie liked things that exploded.

“It would make sense for them to get as far away from here as possible,” said the Detective. “But then we’re talking about Angel and Louis, and sometimes what makes sense is not what they’re inclined to do. They came here to kill Leehagen. It could be that none of this has changed their minds. Knowing them, it might have made them more determined. They’ll stay off the roads for fear of being seen, so my guess is that they’ll be heading for the main house.”

At that moment, they heard the first shot.

“Over there!” shouted Jackie, pointing over Willie’s shoulder. West, Willie thought, just like the man said.

Two more shots followed in close succession. The Detective was already running.

“Jackie, you and the brothers take the truck,” he said. “Follow the road. Try to find a way to get there quickly. Willie and I will go on foot, in case you strike out.”

He looked at Willie. “You okay with that?”

Willie nodded, although he wasn’t sure what appealed to him less: the thought that he now had to run, or the possibility that he might have to use his gun again once he stopped running.

It was the damp that finally forced Angel to move. Such a small thing, such a minor discomfort in light of all that had befallen them that day, yet there it was. The dampness was causing him to itch and chafe. He shifted his lower body, trying to loosen his trousers, but it was no good.

“Louis?” he called again, but as before only silence greeted him. There was a warm sensation behind his eyes, and his throat burned. He was, he knew, already grieving, but if he were to allow grief to overcome him then all would be lost. He had to hold himself together. Louis might only be injured. There was still hope.

He considered his situation. There were two possibilities. The first was that Bliss had chosen to remain in place, hoping to get a clear shot at either Angel or Louis. But Louis was out of sight, and Louis, Angel knew, was Bliss’s primary target. Angel only mattered insofar as he might interfere with Bliss’s attempts to finish him off. From his original firing position, Bliss must have been unable to see Louis once he had fallen, otherwise he would have fired upon him again. He couldn’t have been sure that the shot that hit him was a fatal one.

Which raised the second, and more likely, possibility: that Bliss was approaching, moving in on the two men to ensure that the job was completed to his satisfaction. If that was the case, then Angel might be able to break cover without being hit. It was a gamble, though, and while Angel had worked hard to cultivate a number of vices, gambling was not one of them. Even throwing away fifty bucks once at Sarasota Springs had plunged him into a depression that lasted a week. Then again, were he to lose his life now it was unlikely that he would have much time to regret his final decision, and if he stayed where he was then he, and Louis, would certainly die, if the latter was not dead already, and that was a prospect that Angel, for the present, refused to countenance.

He needed Louis’s gun. If he could get to it, then they might have a chance against Bliss.

“Shit,” said Angel. “Hell, hell, hell.” He was experiencing a rising anger at Louis’s selfishness. “Today, of all days, you had to get shot. Out here, in the middle of fucking nowhere, leaving me alone without a gun, without you.” He felt his body tensing, the adrenaline coursing. “I told you I wanted that gun, but oh no, you had to have it. Mr. Big Shot needed his weapon, and now where has it left us? Screwed, that’s where it’s left us. Screwed.”

And at the height of his self-induced rage, Angel ran.

Bliss’s advance had been made easier by the rise and fall of the land, making it harder for Louis’s partner to trace his progress than it would have been if he was crossing level ground. The disadvantage was that, while he was in the slight depressions, he was unable to see the lower part of the woods in which Angel was hidden. He was also aware that Louis might have recovered sufficiently from his wound to enable him to look for cover, but while Bliss had maintained his vigil there had been no sign of movement over the small patch of clear ground between the place where Louis had fallen and the woods in which his lover cowered. Bliss anticipated that the fear of being shot would keep Angel in the woods, but in case he overcame that fear Bliss had quickly covered the ground between his original position and his targets, despite squatting and crawling much of the way. Now he was within touching distance of the rise overlooking the forest. He calculated that Louis lay perhaps ten feet to his right behind it.

Bliss put the Surgeon to one side. He would retrieve it once his work was done. Instead, he removed the little Beretta Tomcat from its holster beneath his arm. It was the perfect coup de grâce weapon, a comparatively cheap yet reliable.32 that could be disposed of quickly and without regret. Slowly and quietly, Bliss worked his way along the slope of the incline. Ten feet. Eight. Five.

He stilled his breathing. There was saliva in his mouth, but he did not swallow. He heard only birdsong, and the gentle shifting of the branches.

In one graceful movement, Bliss raised the gun and prepared to shoot.

Angel was halfway between the woods and the body of Louis when Bliss appeared. He was caught in the open, unarmed. He froze for an instant, then continued his run, even as Bliss altered the angle of his weapon to deal with the approaching man, the muzzle now centered on Angel’s body.

Then two voices spoke. Both were familiar to Angel, and both said the same single word.

“Hey!”

The first voice came from behind Bliss. He swiveled to face the new threat, and saw a man kneeling in the grass, a gun leveled on him. Some distance behind him, and clearly struggling with the terrain, was an overweight man in his sixties, also carrying a gun.

The second voice came from below Bliss. He looked down, and saw Louis lying on his back, a gun aimed at Bliss’s chest.

Bliss almost smiled in admiration. Such patience, he thought, such guile. You clever, clever boy.

And then Bliss felt force and heat as the bullets entered his body, spinning him where he stood and sending him tumbling down the slope. The rain had stopped for a time, and the sky above him was a shard of clear blue as he died.

ANGEL NEEDED A MOMENT to take in what had happened. Once he had done so, his rage was no longer self-induced, and found an appropriate target in Louis.

“You asshole!” he shouted, once it was clear that his partner, lover, and now object of his ire was not dead. “You piece of shit.” He kicked him hard in the ribs.

“I got shot!” said Louis. He pointed to a damp patch on his right arm where the bullet had grazed him, and the hole in his coat.

“Not shot enough. That’s a scratch.”

Angel’s boot was poised for another kick, but Louis was already scrambling awkwardly to his feet.

“Why didn’t you say something when I called to you?”

“Because I didn’t know where Bliss was. If he heard me speak, or saw you react to something I said, he’d go for the long shot. I needed him to get close.”

“You could have whispered! What the hell is wrong with you? I thought you were dead.”

“Well, I’m not.”