James Patterson - Second Honeymoon

I reached for my Glock and could hear Sarah doing the same. Meanwhile, the shots outside had stopped. Was it over? Or just intermission?

I whispered to Sarah. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she said. “You?”

“Yeah. One nicked me, that’s all.”

“You sure?”

I pressed my palm against my shoulder. There’s bleeding and then there’s bleeding. Luckily, it was the former.

“I’m fine,” I assured her. “Window or door; which one you got?” As in, which one do you want to cover?

“Door,” she said.

I raised my arms toward the window, locking both elbows. The only other window, a tiny one, was in the bedroom, but we were clear of it.

“What’s he got? M16?” I asked. It was my best guess, given the three-round bursts and slightly higher pitch of the weapon.

“That or an M4 carbine,” she said. “Tough to tell, given the distance.”

“At least forty yards.”

“Maybe more,” she said.

“And he cuts the power first?”

“Goggles,” we said in unison. The shooter had to be wearing night-vision goggles.

“Shit, where’s that flashlight?” I asked. We had two of them in the cabin. But where were they?

“More important,” said Sarah, “where is everybody?”

She was right. Where was our backup, the four agents we had around the perimeter? Even with the shooter behind them, they still should’ve located him by now.

Unless he got to them first.

No. No way. Not all four agents.

Sure enough, the two-way radio at my waist suddenly crackled with static. “Anyone hit?” came a hushed voice.

I grabbed the radio, whispering back. “We’re good so far,” I said. “He must be wearing—”

“Yeah, goggles,” said the agent. “Moving in with the same. Two to a side.”

I’d lost track of who was on what shift around the cabin. At least this guy sounded experienced.

“Which one is he?” I asked Sarah.

“Carver,” she reminded me. “Agent Carver.”

Cavalry was more like it.

Chapter 90

THE ONLY THING worse than the sound of all hell breaking loose around us was the feeling of helplessness that came with it.

All of it happened so fast. The bright beam of light outside our window followed by a barrage of gunfire echoing through the woods.

Four against one out there. I didn’t have to be Jimmy the Greek to like those odds. But it was what came after—the stone-cold silence and the feeling of dread sweeping over me—that I didn’t like. Not one bit.

There was nothing Sarah and I could do. Agent Carver’s radio was off. All the radios were off.

I slid across the floor amid the shards of glass, leaning up against the wall next to the window.

“What are you doing?” whispered Sarah, the subtext being that whatever it was, I shouldn’t be doing it.

But I had to look. I had to try to see what was happening. A quick peek, that’s all.

Not quick enough.

My head barely made it past the wood trim alongside the window when— pop-pop-pop! —I nearly caught one between the eyes. My neck snapped back, pure reflex at the sound of the shots, as more glass rained all over the cabin.

“Shit!” said Sarah.

I immediately knew what she was thinking. I was thinking the same thing, and it wasn’t just how lucky I was to be alive.

I grabbed the two-way again, jamming the Talk button with my thumb. “Carver!” I said. “Carver, are you there?”

He didn’t answer.

I tried again, and again all I got was silence. I flipped to the other frequencies, the ones assigned to the remaining agents. Four against one, for Christ’s sake!

Not one of them answered, though. Nothing. Not a peep.

Dead silence.

I could feel the sweat dripping down my forehead, my heart pounding relentlessly against my chest. What the hell happened out there?

Then we heard it. The crackling of my radio again, followed by Carver’s voice going in and out. He barely had enough strength to push the Talk button, let alone actually talk.

“Three…down,” he managed to get out. “Help…”

There were no more words, only the sound of his labored breathing. It was horrible, just horrible. But it only got worse.

Pop-pop-pop!

Another quick three-round burst shrieked over the radio, the ear-piercing feedback leaving little doubt that the shots were fired at close range. A few yards. Maybe even less.

And just like that, Carver’s breathing was gone. He was gone. All that remained was that same feeling of dread I’d had, only a million times worse. I was drowning in it.

“We’ve got to get out there,” I said to Sarah.

Only it was too late. The sound of footsteps heading toward us had broken the silence again.

We’d set a trap for the Honeymoon Murderer, but now we were the ones who were trapped.

He was coming in.

Chapter 91

I COULD BARELY see Sarah across the cabin, but I could hear her scrambling over to the sofa. Was she setting up behind it?

No.

“Got it!” she said, slapping something against the palm of her hand. One of the flashlights.

There was no time to discuss strategy. I took it on faith that we were thinking the same thing. If she saw the night-vision goggles over his eyes, she’d blind him with the light. If not, the flashlight would remain off and we’d have a fair contest. No one could see.

All I could hear now were the footsteps getting closer. The door of the cabin was to my right; the window—or at least what remained of it—to my left. I had my back jammed hard against the knotty-pine paneling, almost as hard as I was gripping my gun.

Breathe, O’Hara, breathe.

A split second—that’s all Sarah and I would have. Crouched down low, I felt like a defensive lineman trying to anticipate the snap count of the quarterback. Time it right, we’d win.

But time it wrong?

I kept listening, the footsteps getting louder and louder. Then it was the strangest thing. It caught me so off guard all I could do at first was freeze.

The footsteps stopped getting louder. They were softer now. No; that wasn’t the right word.

They were disappearing .

He wasn’t running at us, he was running past us. And now he was getting away.

Sarah and I both jumped up, bursting out of the cabin with the light of her flashlight leading the way. We couldn’t see him; he had too much of a head start. But we knew where he was heading.

About a hundred yards down a dirt trail was a small clearing off the access road where our Jeep was parked. The glove compartment even had a registration in the name of my alias, Zach Welker. We presumed we’d thought of everything.

“Damn!” I yelled as we heard the sound of the engine at the end of the trail. He was already at his car. The son of a bitch probably parked right next to us.

“You have the keys, right?” asked Sarah, midstride. She was booking along ahead of me and barely breathing hard. She was obviously no stranger to a treadmill.

“Got ’em,” I said, double-checking they were still in my pocket. I was huffing and puffing. My chest was burning.

In my head I was already behind the wheel, the car chase in full swing. The setup was perfect, a winding and narrow road at night lined with unforgiving trees. I’d cut my headlights and follow his taillights, and if he tried to do the same I’d still have his brake lights to guide me. What he’d have, though, would be the broad side of a pine tree.

Let’s see if you drive as good as you shoot, asshole.

Sarah and I reached the small parking lot. Our Jeep was sitting there waiting for us. I pulled out the key fob to unlock the doors when, even in the pitch-black darkness, I noticed something.