William Bernhardt - Double Jeopardy

Travis felt a hollow pounding in his heart. “Are you sure we should carry guns?”

“You want to bust in on this probable mobster unarmed? It’s an incredibly stupid, life-threatening idea with guns. Without them, it’s suicide.”

“I don’t … like guns.”

“You don’t—You used to be a cop, for Pete’s sake!”

“That was before—” Travis leaned against the glass counter. It was all surging back. Everything he had worked so hard to suppress.

Cavanaugh placed her hand on his shoulder. “Travis, it wasn’t your fault:”

“If I hadn’t had a gun … it wouldn’t have happened.”

“You’re not thinking straight. If there hadn’t been a crazy man who attacked you, it wouldn’t have happened. If there hadn’t been a crowd, it wouldn’t have happened. If you didn’t care about other people, it wouldn’t have happened. It was a tragic juxtaposition of circumstances. But it wasn’t your fault.”

The aching in Travis’s chest was almost more than he could bear. “I’m sorry, Cavanaugh. I don’t think I could fire a gun. Ever again.”

Cavanaugh sighed. “Okay. Could you at least carry a gun? That might keep someone from pulling one on you. For at least a second or two.”

Travis reached for the nearest pistol and felt a tidal rush of nausea sweep over him. In a flash, the entire scene played out before his eyes—the frantic struggle, the report of the gun, Angela’s face on the pavement, eyes dark. He shook his head and turned away.

“Okay,” Cavanaugh said. “How about this multistrike weapon? It looks more like a toy than a gun. And it shoots red paint pellets.”

Travis glanced at the weapon. It had two barrels, one mounted over the other, both oversized. She was right, it didn’t look real—more like a Nerf gun.

He pointed to the second barrel. “More paint pellets?”

“Well … no. That one spews bullets.”

“Paint pellets and bullets?”

“That’s why it’s a multistrike weapon. You have your choice.”

Slowly, Travis reached out and picked up the weapon. His stomach was still churning, but not nearly so badly as before. It seemed so harmless. Maybe he could pull it off.

“Okay. I’ll try,” he said quietly.

“Great.” She set aside a .44 Magnum and several rounds of ammunition. “I prefer something a bit stronger myself. Someone has to be ready for the bad guys.”

She peered out the storefront windows and saw the orange sun beginning its descent. “It’ll be dark in a few hours. Shall we wait till all the villains are snoring soundly in their beds?”

“No,” Travis said. “Not while Staci’s in danger. The longer we wait, the greater the chance that … something will happen to her. Let’s go now.”

He had been driving the streets for over twenty-four hours, trolling like a psychotic serial killer in search of his prey. He had covered every district in metro Dallas, and then covered them all over again. It was boring, mind-numbing. But necessary.

It was his own fault. If he hadn’t been such a stupid fool, if he hadn’t allowed that amateur Byrne and his girlfriend to get away from him at the library, it would all be over now. But he had hesitated. He had been careless. And during that momentary lapse, they had managed to get away. He would not let that happen again.

He drove all morning, his eyes bouncing back and forth between the road and the tracing beacon scanner, until finally he saw what he was looking for. A red blip on the scanner. The homing tracer was on the same highway moving in the opposite direction.

He whirled his Jeep around and crossed over the white stone median. The bottom of his Jeep scraped, making a hideous noise and sending sparks flying. Not good for the vehicle, but he had no time to waste.

He pulled into the fast lane and floored the accelerator. The blip returned to his scanner, clear as a bell. His prey was maybe two miles ahead of him, moving fast. Excellent. Wherever the blip went, so would he.

He lightly fingered his pistol, his ammunition, his Puukko knife. Noting that the sun was setting, he checked his infrared glasses. Still operational. He was ready. All he had to do was tag along and wait for the right moment.

This time Travis Byrne would not get away from him.

61

5:05 P.M.

MARIO AWOKE IN A flash of panic. His body was suspended horizontally, but he couldn’t tell where or how. He couldn’t feel anything beneath him or above him. It was as if he was floating in midair. But that was impossible. If he was still alive.

He opened his eyes, but couldn’t seem to get his bearings. Everything was black; he couldn’t see anything, or touch anything, or hear anything. He was totally disoriented. He tried to move, but found his hands and feet were locked tightly in place. He was helpless, pinned down like a bug in the middle of … nothing.

What had happened to him? He remembered thinking he should call Tony to guard his home. But before he could lift the phone, his worst nightmare walked into the den—Al Moroconi, back from the dead. Moroconi had clubbed him over the head with his pistol, and Mario had awakened here. But where the hell was here?

Mario felt beads of sweat dripping down his face. If this was supposed to frighten him, it was working. He was terrified. And he was sweating profusely. It was extremely hot, especially beneath him.

He swung his body back and forth, as much as the restraints on his hands and feet would allow. He heard a rushing sound. Something trickled inside his shirt and down his shorts. Water? What the hell?

Suddenly the overhead lights burst on. Mario squinted, trying to shut out the offending light. His head began to throb. He heard a shuffling noise, then a soft, horrifying chuckle.

Mario slowly opened his eyes. He knew where he was. He should—it was his own basement rec room. He could see the pool table, the sauna, the high-tech exercise equipment. Of course—he was in the hot tub! Moroconi had tied him down in the goddamn hot tub!

“Get me out of here, you sick motherfucker!” Mario bellowed.

He saw Moroconi’s leering face emerge over the edge of the Jacuzzi. “You ain’t in a position to give orders.”

“After my boys get here—and that won’t be long—you won’t be in a position to walk, you slimy bastard.” That was it, Mario told himself, keep it rolling. His bluff had worked on Kramer; maybe he could cow Moroconi, too. “Get me the hell out of here!”

“Hot tubs are supposed to be relaxing, Mario. You don’t seem relaxed at all. Here, lemme add some, more water.”

Moroconi disappeared momentarily from view. Mario heard the squeak of the faucet as Moroconi turned up the water flow. Twisting his head around as much as possible, Mario saw that he was stretched clean across the hot tub, floating atop the water, tied down to the jet hooks on the bottom. His head was already much higher than his hands. Soon the water would rise and stretch his arms to their full length.

The horrible truth struck him like a blow to the head. That was Moroconi’s plan, of course. Once Mario couldn’t rise any higher, the water would rush over his head—and he would drown. In his own hot tub.

“I called my boys just before you arrived, Moroconi. They should be here in five minutes. Ten at the outside. If you’re still here, you’ll be dog meat.”

“Izzat so?” Moroconi’s grin was sickening; yellow teeth were visible between his lips. “Lemme tell you somethin’, Mario. You’ve been out cold for over an hour. Your boys are runnin’ late. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were lyin’ to me.”

Mario put on his nastiest sneer. “You’re a dead man, Moroconi. Might as well go buy your coffin. When my boys are done, you’ll be less than a smear on the carpet. We should’ve taken you out four years ago—”