At the stairs he paused.
Burglars didn’t normally break light bulbs on their way through a house. He looked up into the solid wedge of darkness above him, feeling a flare of excitement.
What if it wasn’t a burglar who’d found access to his home? What if it was someone else entirely?
He half expected to see the stranger appear from the gloom, as he had in his recent nightmare, the flashes of gunfire lighting up his features as he came at Markus. He almost welcomed the scene, because this time he was ready for him.
Knuckles pounded on the front door.
He was caught in a moment of flux: what should he do? Answer the door or check for the intruder? What if both were connected and the person banging at the door was a distraction to allow the one inside the house to steal up on him in the dark? He understood now why the bulbs had been broken — it was a deliberate act in order to confuse him.
He took a tighter grip on his gun, and placing his back to the wall next to the door, he kept an eye up the flight of stairs. Then he snatched his gaze away for the briefest of seconds to peer through the dingy glass in the door. A shape moved beyond the murky glass: a shadow only, cast by the headlights of a vehicle parked on the street.
The banging came again. ‘Charles Peterson?’
‘Who is it?’ Markus yelled.
‘Police. Open up.’
How the hell had the police made the connection to him? Whoever it was upstairs must have called them, he realised. They had seen the photographs, been horrified by their discovery and immediately telephoned the police.
There was more banging on the door. ‘Open up, Peterson.’
There was no possible way that he could allow himself to be arrested. Not yet. Markus had a single recourse, and it forced his hand.
He lifted his gun and fired, directly through the wood. He was wise enough not to shoot through the door, as the cop out there would not stand directly in the line of fire. He angled his shots so that they passed through the worm-eaten walls to either side of the door. He heard a yelp of pain, and the thud of someone going down hard on the porch. There was a corresponding shout from another person more distant. He knew the likelihood of other cops surrounding the house was very high, but he also doubted that they would have come in force based only on a tip-off. They would wish to investigate first, and then arrest Markus after establishing just cause.
Markus quickly pulled the door open a few inches, peering down at the cop rolling on the porch in agony. He saw a man in a navy-blue suit, with dark hair that had flopped over his pale face. Markus ignored him, seeking instead the source of the second voice. He spotted a large fair-haired man rushing towards the house, his gun held out in the two-handed grip as he sought to cover his fallen comrade, and to find a viable target at the same time. When the big cop caught sight of Markus it was too late. Markus fired directly at the cop and hit him high in the chest, knocking him down. The cop let out a yowl that was more anger than it was pain, and Markus realised he was probably wearing a bulletproof vest. He fired again, seeking to hit the man in a more telling place. The cop came up to his knees, and then scrambled for cover. He was yelling at Markus to drop his weapon, but didn’t yet return fire.
Markus stepped out of the door.
He quickly scanned around, seeking the hiding places of other cops, but saw that other than the one car drawn up at the rear of his own vehicle, no other cruisers were on the scene yet.
He smiled, the momentary concern of before replaced by savage satisfaction at having defeated the cops sent to interrogate him. They would definitely call in reinforcements, but not if he snatched that opportunity away from them. He looked again for the big cop and saw that he’d managed to place a shrub between them. The bush offered no protection from Markus’s gun, but did make targeting more difficult. Markus fired two rapid shots into the greenery, and saw the big cop throw himself flat. He wasn’t sure if he’d killed him or not, but immediately turned his attention to the nearer detective.
There was a gun lying out of reach of the man. In any case, he didn’t look capable of lifting it. Markus could now see that his shots through the wall had been deadly — or would prove to be so judging from the copious amount of blood pouring from the man’s neck. The cop had both hands on the wound, and his mouth was opening and closing in silent shock. His dark eyes were pools of despair as he stared up at his slayer.
Markus pointed the gun directly at the cop’s face.
He pulled the trigger.
The gun cracked noisily.
Aimed directly at the cop’s skull, the nine mm round would kill him, but Markus’s aim was knocked askew at the last second.
He did not see where the bullet struck, but it was not in human flesh from the resounding crack! Markus let out a shout of anger, as much at missing his shot as at the man who grappled with his gun hand. He felt his wrist twisted violently, somebody trying to tear the gun from his grip with such sudden violence that it tore skin from his fingers.
Rage struck Markus in a flash flood. He should never have taken his attention off whoever was lurking in his house. Now he’d allowed himself to be captured. Goddamnit, no! He would not give up. He struck out, throwing all his weight against his attacker. He rammed his elbow backwards, but though he struck, the body was too prepared to be hurt badly. Instead he pivoted, hard and fast, and head-butted the face of the man struggling with him. It wasn’t the stranger — it was Jared Rington. The man was momentarily dazed, and Markus plucked his hand free. He swung to gut shoot him.
Another gun blazed, someone coming down the stairs fast. Markus skipped back and on to the porch, almost tripping over the fallen cop, missing his opportunity to finish Rington. Thankfully the man’s large body blocked the doorway and thwarted his friend’s aim. But now Rington was going for his gun. He could still kill him and quite possibly the stranger as well. But then the fair-haired cop joined the shooting party. His shots were ill aimed, and punched into the walls of the house. Rington ducked back inside, swearing loudly, and Markus understood the notion of discretion being the better part of valour. Caught in the sights of three guns he didn’t stand a chance. He turned quickly and leaped from the porch, charging across the unkempt garden for the low wall. The cop had no clear target through the foliage and Markus capitalised on his blind shooting, knowing that it would also pin down the other two men.
‘Goddamnit, Jones!’ someone yelled. ‘Hold your fire. He’s getting away!’
The cop either didn’t hear or didn’t care. He fired again at the house, just as Markus went over the wall and landed on the hood of his car. He was inside it in seconds, the car squealing away from the kerb, leaving behind twin ribbons of rubber on the asphalt. As he forced the car round the first bend, Markus was grinning savagely. He was adrenalised, the blood raging though him. Now that was just the kind of warm up he required for the night ahead.
Chapter 35
The last thing either of us expected was Detectives Jones and Tyler arriving at the front door. Their appearance warned of untold problems to come, but there was nothing to do but follow through with our course of action and kill Markus. By grabbing Markus when he did, Rink assuredly saved Tyler’s life, but I wasn’t sure that would win us any brownie points in the eyes of the law. Tyler was too shocked to understand he’d survived such a near miss — let alone recognise us as his saviours — but Gar Jones was still alive and fully aware. Perhaps aware was a poor choice of words, because he was indiscriminately firing his weapon at the front of the house, causing us to retreat while Markus made his escape. It was a response born of shock and panic, and I wasn’t sure if he even realised he was allowing the murderer to get away.