Tom knew right then that she was gone, and nothing else mattered.The howl that had been building inside broke in a terrible roar, and he threw himself forward. The rage was stronger and crueler than anything he had ever known, and he lowered his head and charged, slamming his shoulder into the man’s gut, straining forward with every muscle and sinew, the breath whistling out of Jack’s lungs, and something falling, the gun, shaken loose, and Tom kept pushing, slamming him up against the door frame. He hammered a punch into Jack’s stomach, then wound up and did it again. This close he could smell sweat and after-shave, could see the texture of his shirt, the perfect straps of the empty shoulder holster. He would tear him apart, yank his arms from their sockets and twist his head off his body. Jack brought his elbows down on Tom’s back, the impact like lightning, but he wasn’t letting go, he would never let go, he’d take everything this fucker could dish out. He threw another furious blow into the man’s side and was rewarded with a sharp gasp, and knew that he was going to win.
Then Jack’s right hand squirmed between their bodies to find Tom’s left. He gripped the bandaged fingers and jerked them back, and Tom’s legs gave in a flash of white agony.
THE WAY HALDEN stepped backward into a shaft of sun, it looked like the light had speared him, like the sun had turned him red and wet and yanked his insides out. His mouth was open as if surprised. Anna stared, one hand reaching, like if she could catch him, she could somehow put him back together, and then there was another roar and his body spun and splashed and the pistol fell from his hand and she turned back to see the man from the mall with a shotgun raised to his shoulder, turning now toward her.
She ran.
There was another roar, and the windshield exploded in a rain of sparkling prisms. Her foot hit the edge of the curb and she stumbled, nearly fell, but got her balance and lunged forward, aiming for a narrow path that ran between two buildings. Her brain was on automatic, an animal desire to get away, she was every hunted thing that had ever run through the forest, and the corner of the building blew up, brick chunks flying, one of them touching her face with razor edges, red dust like sand, and then she was down the path, her arms pumping. Behind her she heard a curse, and the sound of heavy footfalls.
THERE WAS NOTHING but the roar of blood in his ears and the pain shivering up his nerves, the agony so sharp and hot it seemed to blend senses, to be something he could taste and smell and hear. Tom told himself to get up, that he’d been winning, but Jack got hold of his little finger, the broken one, and wrenched it sideways, and the air sucked out of his lungs.
A fist smacked into his nose, the blunt intimacy stunning, stars popping behind his retinas. He felt Jack let go of his hand, and rocked forward, hugging it to his chest, fighting for breath. His head was inches from Sara’s body, and he imagined what the bullet would feel like, how he would fall across her, and he welcomed it.
He told himself to move, but his body didn’t respond. Darkness beckoned, and from it, Anna.
IN HIS HURRY, Marshall hadn’t seated the shotgun properly, and the stock had twice punched his shoulder like a giant’s fist. Adrenaline muted the pain, but the mistake had caused him to miss two easy shots on the woman.
It didn’t matter. When he’d played ball, he could clock a sprint to first faster than anybody. He raced after her, holding the Remington one-handed.
The path between the buildings was narrow, maybe three feet, and by the time he’d hit it, she was rounding the corner. He leaned into his run. There was a rattle of wood and metal, and he burst into a back patio just in time to see her drop to the other side of a wooden privacy fence. He charged it dead-on, planted a foot and let the momentum carry him enough to grab the top one-handed, then rocked over and down to the concrete of an alley. He raised the Remington, but she was already spinning down another path, heading back the way they’d come.
A mistake. As long as she’d zigzagged and used the cover, he would have had to run her down. But now she was heading back toward the street. Jack had said she was the smart one, but the silly cooze wasn’t thinking, because the street was wide and clear, and a magnum slug was accurate to a hundred yards.
Marshall took the corner with his left hand against the edge to keep his velocity, and then poured it on for the length of the path.
Rehearsed the moves in his head: break clear, stop, spread his feet, seat the shotgun properly.
Anna Reed had maybe ten seconds to live.
A FIST HIT HIM AGAIN, this time in the cheek, and Tom’s head snapped sideways. The world was wobbly and wet.
“Fucker,” Jack said above him, his voice guttural. “Mother-fucker.”
A boot cracked one of his ribs. In his crib, Julian cried, his voice thin.
“I bet you wish you were back in your safe little life now,” Jack said. “I just bet you do.”
A strange calm had settled over him. Everything hurt, but the pain, like the fear, was too large to grasp. He almost welcomed the blows. Anna was gone. The harder Jack beat him, the sooner he would be with her again. That was all that mattered. His vision was screened by cotton, but when he looked at Sara’s face, he thought he saw a strange peace in it. Idly, he wondered why she had run in here, where she would be trapped. Trying for the phone on the night table, maybe.
He saw Jack bend over, push through the junk on the ground, then come up with the key. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” Jack said. “There aren’t that many storage lockers in Chicago. I’ll find it eventually.”
The thought of Jack winning brought anger, and a keener pain than his injuries. But it wasn’t enough. Not without her.
ANNA’S FEET HURT, and her face where it was cut. She could hear the man behind her. She didn’t think he was any closer, but he hadn’t fallen behind, either.
Almost there. You have to make it. Tom needs you.
She tore down the path, one hand tracing the edge of the building. The street lay just ahead. Safety. The man’s footfalls grew louder as she burst into sunlight. She’d ended up right where she’d hoped to.
Funny, the way the thing had drawn her eye from the first moment she’d seen it, weeks ago. Like she’d known even then. It was heavier than she’d expected, and felt wonderful.
She turned around and leaned across the hood of her car, arms braced on broken safety glass, hating the seconds passing, the time she wasn’t able to help Tom. The fear for him and the frustration and the hatred all boiled up in her like a scream.
When Marshall came into sight, she let it go, and yelling words she didn’t hear, Anna pointed the gun she had taken from Halden and pulled the trigger again and again, until his chest was pocked with red, until he fell backward and slid down the wall with an expression of disbelief frozen on his features, until the pistol stopped kicking in her hand.
THE PUNCH SHUT HIS LEFT EYE with a sick feeling. The end was coming soon. Tom knew it, could see by the look on Jack’s face as the man squatted in front of him.
“Okay, Tom. Save me the trouble. Tell me where that storage locker is, and this will all stop.”
What difference did it make? Jack would find it sooner or later. And a bullet was all that stood between him and Anna.
Then he remembered that Jack had killed her, had killed Sara, had torn their life apart. Had taken everything that mattered to them. All for money. Bits of colored paper. He straightened as much as he could, his body barely under his control. Forced a smile, tasting blood from the broken nose. He coughed and then said, “Fuck you.”
The man stiffened, and Tom braced for a blow. But Jack chuckled, said, “You know, it’s funny. I kind of like you. You and her both. You’ve got spunk.” He laughed again, then reached out to pat Tom’s cheek in a soft slap. “It’s good that you’re being a man about this. Taking responsibility.” He stood up, stepped back. “Took you long enough.”