Neither of them moved or responded.
Something had changed about the pair, though he couldn’t quite identify it. It was like they were now offering him a single reaction instead of two-as though they were somehow inside each other’s thoughts.
He could feel Reilly’s presence now, not only in his mind but also in his gut. Maybe they felt it too.
The agent would be coming. And Sandman would be ready.
Deutsch was in turmoil as she watched the cops pull back from their positions, but it wasn’t so much the sight of them that was causing it as it was Reilly’s words.
She knew he was going to make a move on his own and felt wracked by frustration about it. She had to do something, couldn’t let him deal with the situation on his own. She thought of calling it in, saying something, anything, to get the SWAT op reinstated, and pulled out her radio-and hesitated.
Reilly was probably already making his way into the target apartment. Calling in the troops might jeopardize whatever crazy plan he’d concocted. If he didn’t know SWAT was moving in again, her call might put him-and his friends-at risk. Furthermore, he was still a wanted man. She didn’t want him to end up in custody because of her, even if the move could save his life.
She struggled with the decision, torn by savage tugs from both directions-then she muttered a sharp curse and hurried up the sidewalk towards the target building.
She found its door busted open and pulled out her handgun as she stepped inside. She gave the lobby a quick scan. She saw the elevator and a couple of doors to one side of it. The elevator was on the sixth floor. She hit the call button, then thought better of it and opened one of the doors to find the stairs.
She headed up.
The noise speared Sandman’s attention.
It was barely audible; the faintest of disturbances skirting the edge of his consciousness, but it was definitely there.
He froze.
He concentrated his listening and identified the source: the low rumble of the elevator, announcing it was in motion.
He moved stealthily across to the apartment’s front door, giving the suppressor on his handgun a quick tug to make sure it was firmly in place.
He crept closer to the door, listened for a moment, then leaned across it to look through the peephole. He barely caught a glimpse of what looked like a SWAT guy swinging a battering ram before the door blew in and slammed against him.
56
I flung the battering ram aside as the door burst inward and following it right in with the Remington in both hands.
It was dark inside, but in the light coming in from the outside hallway, I caught sight of my shooter regaining his footing from being hit by the door. I spun around and swung the shotgun towards him, but he was already charging at me and grabbed its barrel before I fired, using my turning momentum to fling me around and slam me into the wall just as I pulled the trigger.
The explosion was deafening, but the shot was wasted. My shooter was clear of it and all it did was blast a framed art print and the wall around it into confetti. I held onto the shotgun as I hit the wall sideways, hard, barely having time to recover before he flicked it up ferociously, its stock connecting with my jaw like an expertly placed uppercut. I yelped as he then drove a boot into my shin, an instant before his right hand reigned several quick blows into my ribcage, sending me recoiling back, though not far enough to feel the full brunt of his left landing a hammer blow to the side of my head. I somehow managed to keep hold of the shotgun throughout this onslaught, but it was impossible to take aim. I tried twisting my entire body and stepping back, swinging the shotgun around toward his head, but he grabbed my wrist with his left hand and sent my aim down at the floor before slamming my hand against the wall and sending the shotgun to the ground.
He shoved me off to one side and dived for it, but I launched myself back and stomped on his hand just as it reached it, kicking the shotgun away and sending it skittering off to some far corner of the room at the same time as I heard some snapping tendons and his sharp grunt. He span around and sent a hammer of a punch with his left hand at my kidneys, winding me and causing me to go light-headed for an instant-enough for him to move in with his injured hand, aiming it right at my throat.
I saw it in time and ducked it, grabbing his arm and flinging him past me and spinning him around so I had him from behind, my arms now tight against him, one around his chest, the other around his neck-and I tightened my grip. He couldn’t move. I had my legs planted firmly and out of range and I could feel the momentum had shifted-I was choking the life out of him and he was waning. He was strong, though, and it was still taking everything I had to keep him locked in. He tried kicks, elbows, and punches, but nothing connected, and each one was getting less potent than the last.
I had him-at least, I thought so-his right arm stopped trying to pull me off his neck or pound me off him, and weirdly, his hand went down and he seemed to be doing a frenzied rummage through his pocket, and before I realized what was happening, I felt it: a stab, deep and sharp, like a bite-the bite of an injection, some kind of pressurized delivery, deep into my thigh.
My senses went haywire-I instantly knew what he’d done to me.
I was already dead.
Every neuron in my body went into hyperdrive, acutely aware to the poison that I knew was coursing through my veins, winding and weaving its way from my thigh across my torso and all the way up to my heart, where it would soon wreak havoc and cause some catastrophic failure that would kill me right there and then, in Gigi’s loft, in mid-fight, with my own killer in my hands.
I could feel odd sensations happening all over me-my arms going a bit numb, a tightening in my chest, a heaviness in my head, though I couldn’t tell if they were real or if I was imagining them. Either way, I knew I didn’t have much time left.
I had to end it here, right now.
I couldn’t let him walk away. Not after he’d killed me.
I wouldn’t be able to save myself, but at least Kurt and Gigi would walk away from this. Maybe.
I summoned every ounce of strength I could muster and went for the kill-I tightened my grip around his neck, then I quickly brought up my other arm, took his head in a vice-like hold and twisted it as brutally as I could. One move, the most unflinchingly savage and rage-filled act of my life. I just wanted him dead. I knew how hard it was to pull off, but I also knew enough about the body to know which vertebrae I needed to break in order to sever the spinal cord so as to kill him almost instantly and not just cause him slow respiratory failure or some kind of survivable paralysis. I haven’t killed that many people-my career is about locking people up, not playing judge and jury-and those I did kill, usually in self-defense, I’d dispatched with the help of some kind of weapon. I’d never killed anyone with my bare hands, though right now I could think of nothing I wanted more.
I saw Deutsch appear in the doorway, saw her aiming her gun at us in a two-handed stance as her mouth formed the words “Stop! Hands in the air,” but I was oblivious to her presence and her voice; all I could feel were the muscles, bones and tendons between my hands as I heard the telltale crack and felt his body twitch before it went limp in my arms.
I let go of him and he dropped to the ground like a rag doll, lifeless-just as I soon would be.
I spun around for a three-sixty, my eyes not really registering anything, unsure about whether Kurt or Gigi were still alive, unable to see much in the darkness and through the haze shrouding my senses, then my eyes settled again on Deutsch, and I staggered towards her.
Her face was locked in shock as I told her, “He hit me with a… Alami. Get me to Alami, fast.”
Then I hit the ground and all sight and sound faded to nothingness.