Blam! Blam!
Small stones spray across my face. The Roman’s grip loosens. And I fall to the wet grass, coughing and hacking as oxygen reenters my lungs.
Above me, the top edge of the husband’s grave is shattered from one of the bullets. I stare at The Roman, who spins to face me. His blue eyes flit anxiously. There’s a brand-new hole in his shirt, at the center of his chest. But no blood. He staggers backward, but not for long.
On my left, just a few feet away, Lisbeth is on her feet and breathing heavily, her own hand bleeding as she grips The Roman’s gun. As she lowers it, she thinks she’s won.
“Lisbeth…” I cough, fighting to get the words out. “His vest!”
Lisbeth’s eyebrows leap up.
Snarling like a cheetah, The Roman lunges toward her.
Panicking, Lisbeth raises the gun and clenches the trigger. Two shots go off. They both plow into The Roman’s chest. He’s moving so fast, they barely slow him down. Inches away, he grabs for the gun. Lisbeth pulls the trigger one final time, and as the pistol explodes, a single bullet rips through the side of The Roman’s neck. He’s so lost in rage, I don’t think he feels it. Lisbeth steps backward, barely able to get a scream out. He’s all over her within seconds.
Ripping the gun from her hands, The Roman tackles her head-on. As they fall onto the stone path, Lisbeth’s head slams back into the concrete. Her body goes limp. Taking no chances, The Roman pins his forearm against her throat. Her legs aren’t thrashing. Her arms sag at her sides.
Shaking off my own beating, I hop to my feet and run my hands through the grass, my fingers brailling against the scattered shards of broken granite. On any given day, I’d have no chance against a six-foot, 220-pound, Secret Service-trained steel wall of a man. But right now The Roman’s got a fresh wound in his neck and another in his hand. And I’ve got a sharp hunk of granite headstone clenched in my fist. As I run toward him, he’s still bent over Lisbeth. I don’t know if I can take him. But I do know I’ll leave one hell of a dent.
Cocking the jagged shard back, I grit my teeth and swing at the back of The Roman’s head with everything I have left. The shard is shaped like a brick cracked in half, with a tiny point in the corner. It strikes right behind his ear. His scream alone is worth it — a throaty whimpering grunt even he can’t contain.
To his credit, as he slaps his hand against the side of his head, he doesn’t fall over. Instead, he catches his balance, turns back to face me, and lumbers to his feet. Before he can completely turn around, I take another full swing, cracking the granite block across his face. He stumbles back, falling on his ass. I still don’t let up. Stealing from his own playbook, I grip the front of his shirt, pull him toward me, and aim for the cut above his eye. Then I wind up and hit him again. The blood comes quickly.
A strand of drool falls like a silk thread from my bottom lip. He’s the reason my mouth won’t close, I tell myself as I swing again, driving the edge of the granite into his wound and watching the blood cover the side of his face. Like me. Like mine.
His eyes roll back in his head. I hit him again, determined to widen the wound. My drool sags lower, and I pummel him harder than ever. I want him to know. I want him to stare at it. Each granite blow takes another hunk of skin. I want him to live with it. I want him to turn away from his own reflection in storefront windows! I want him t—
I stop right there, my arm in midair, my chest rising and falling as I catch my breath. Lowering my fist, I wipe the saliva from my lip and once again feel the polite rain as it drips from the tip of my nose and chin.
I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
And with that, I let go of The Roman’s shirt. He collapses across my shoes.
The granite block falls from my hand, clunking against the concrete. I spin back to Lisbeth, who’s still lying on the ground behind me. Her arm is twisted awkwardly above her head. Dropping to my knees, I check her chest. It’s not moving.
“Lisbeth, are you—? Can you hear me?” I shout, sliding on my knees next to her.
No response.
Oh, God. No. No, no, no…
I grab her arm and feel for a pulse. There’s nothing there. Wasting no time, I tilt her head back, open her mouth, and—
“Hggggh!”
I jump back at the sound as she violently coughs. Her right hand instinctively covers her mouth. But her left — with the wound — stays stranded awkwardly above her head.
She spits and dry-heaves as the blood rushes back to her face.
“Y-You okay?” I ask.
She coughs hard. Good enough. Glancing sideways without moving her neck, she spots The Roman’s body just a few feet away. “But we need — we hafta—”
“Just relax,” I tell her.
She shakes her head, more insistent than ever. “But wh — what abou—?”
“Slow down. We got him, okay?”
“Not him, Wes—her.” My throat locks as the light rain pats my shoulders. “Where’s the First Lady?”
113
Striding up the block, her umbrella still over her head, the First Lady glanced over her shoulder. Behind her, from the cemetery, two more gunshots exploded. Her ankle twisted at the sound. She didn’t slow down. Hobbling for a moment, she quickly found her balance and continued to march forward, still trembling.
She knew it would end like this. Even when things were quiet, even when she first realized whom she’d inadvertently aligned with, she knew it would never go away. There was no escaping this mistake.
Another two shots rang out, then a final one that echoed from behind the tall trees. She flinched hard at each blast. Was that The Roman or—? She didn’t want Wes to die. Along with Boyle, Wes’s being shot at the speedway was the thing she’d never been able to shake, even after all these years. That’s why she always tried to be supportive… why she’d never objected when her husband brought him back on board. But now that Wes knew the truth… She shook her head. No. She was tricked. She was. And only trying to help.
With a sharp right, The First Lady turned the corner, her heels clicking against the pavement as she entered the small parking lot that ran along the south side of the cemetery. At this hour, it was empty — except for the shiny black Chevy Suburban that The Roman had brought her over in.
Racing for the driver’s door, she ripped it open and climbed inside, already rehearsing her side of the story. With Nico there… with the hole in Lisbeth’s hand… that part was easy. America loves to blame the psycho. And even if Wes managed to survive…
Playing out the permutations, she reached up to adjust the rearview mirror. There was a sharp hiss from behind. A dime-sized black circle burst through the back of the First Lady’s hand as the rearview mirror shattered. At first, she didn’t even feel it. In the few remaining shards of glass, she could see a familiar figure in the backseat, his fingers creeping along his rosary.
“I saw you when you drove in,” Nico said, his voice calm.
“Oh, God… my hand,” she cried, seeing it and clutching her shaking palm as the fiery pain shot up to her elbow.
“You’re taller than I thought. You were sitting during the competency hearings.”
“Please,” she begged, the tears already welling in her eyes as her hand went numb. “Please don’t kill me.”
Nico didn’t move, his right hand holding his gun in his lap. “It surprised me to see you with Number One. What did they call him? The Roman? He hurt me too.”
In the cracked mirror, the First Lady saw Nico look down at the top of his rib cage, where he’d been shot.