He took the vest from Angelo and hefted it in despair. So much weight.
"While you're standing here thinking, you're cooking," Angelo said.
"What?"
Turning, Cavanaugh discovered that he'd been too preoccupied to realize that the fire was starting down the stairs. Flames licked the ceiling. The heat became overwhelming.
"No time. Jamie," he said into the walkie-talkie. "Mrs. Patterson. Get to the front. We're leaving. William, take my rifle."
"I don't want it." He had a wet towel around his neck, his once-beautifully tailored suit a drenched mess.
"For God's sake, do what I tell you. I need my hands free." Cavanaugh strapped on the bulky vest. "There's a round in the chamber. All you need to do is point and pull the trigger. Just don't shoot any of us."
He yanked his car keys from his pocket and pressed a button on the remote control, unlocking the doors. When he pressed another button, the engine started. He took a deep breath so hot it warned him that he couldn't wait any longer. A flaming chunk of wood crashed onto the stairs.
Go! he told himself.
24
Burdened by the heavy vest, he banged the screen door open, leapt off the porch and kept running the moment he landed. He focused all his attention on the passenger door. Something snapped past him as he pulled the latch. The moment he yanked the door open, a bullet whacked it, the door's armor preventing the projectile from going through.
Another bullet struck his vest, pounding an area between his shoulder blades, knocking him forward. Gasping, he didn't allow himself to think of anything except lunging into the vehicle and sprawling across the seat as bullets struck the open door. Fragments spun toward his eyes. Averting his face, he rammed the gearshift into reverse and stomped the accelerator. The vest squeezed him. His back hurt.
Tires ripping up earth, he sped backward until he was away from the lodge. With sharp rapping sounds, bullets hit the front, rear, and driver's side of the car. They cracked against the reinforced windows on those three sides. Straining to ignore them, he shifted into forward, swung the steering wheel toward the lodge, and sped so close to the porch that he almost hit the front steps. He stopped on an angle so that the rear of the car was closer to the porch than the front was, providing cover just as the open front passenger door did.
Awkward in the vest, straining to catch his breath, he leaned into the back seat, fumbled for the latch, and thrust the porch-side rear passenger door open.
"Come on!" he yelled.
When he saw the flames looming inside, he realized that he didn't need to shout encouragement. The door burst open, Jamie and Mrs. Patterson rushing out while Angelo shoved William. The soaked towels draped over their heads were steaming. The group pounded across the porch, Jamie shoving Mrs. Patterson into the front passenger seat, Angelo thrusting William into the back, scrambling in after him, screaming, "My arm! Mierda."
Next to Mrs. Patterson in the front, Jamie slammed the front door shut. Angelo did the same with the back.
"How bad are you hit?" Cavanaugh shouted to Angelo, speeding away from the lodge. He needed to raise his voice-the bullets striking the car sounded like hail.
"Grazed me! I can still use the arm! Hijo de puta, the bleeding!"
Jamie yanked open the glove compartment, grabbed a roll of duct tape, and threw it back to Angelo.
"The gunfighter's friend." Angelo gave William his rifle, then unclipped a folding knife from a pants pocket, thumbed it open, and cut off the sleeve on his left arm. Cavanaugh got a glimpse of him wrapping duct tape around the wound as the Taurus rushed across the meadow, bullets pelting the vehicle.
"Seat belts!" he warned, fumbling to secure his.
The bullet-resistant windows developed stars. While the reinforced glass could withstand widely spaced bullets, it could be shattered if several struck the same spot. Cavanaugh flinched as more stars developed in them.
Then he worried about something else. Tensing his hands on the steering wheel, he felt his right front tire shudder from a bullet's impact. A tire with a bullet hole could support a car for perhaps five miles before the tire completely deflated. But repeated bullet impacts were another matter.
These tires are reinforced, though, Cavanaugh fought to assure himself. It's fine, it's okay, it'll still do its work.
The gunmen in the trees didn't have sound-suppressed rifles. To Cavanaugh's left, the horses galloped insanely, the din of the shots overwhelming.
"Somebody'll hear and call the police," William said.
"The nearest neighbors are a couple of miles away. They hear us shooting all the time." Cavanaugh pressed the accelerator, throwing up dust. "It's a private canyon. The ridges muffle the shots. Nobody pays attention."
"But they'll see the smoke and call the authorities," William said.
"It'll take time before the smoke rises above the canyon. Then it'll take more time before emergency crews arrive."
"Couldn't you lie to me just once?"
The horses reached the trees to the left and veered in panic.
Don't you dare hurt them, Cavanaugh silently warned the gunmen in the trees.
Out of control, the horses galloped toward the Taurus now. More bullets starring the windshield, Cavanaugh aimed toward a gap in the trees: the lane that would take him to the road. The horses threatened to cut in front of him, making him afraid he'd hit them.
Blood spraying, a horse flipped, its momentum twisting it over and over.
In a fury, Cavanaugh veered around it, then urged the Taurus into the gap between the trees. Now the gunmen at the eastern and western sides of the canyon couldn't see the car. Only the shooters in the woods to the south could be a threat. The left front tire felt mushy, the same as the one on the right, but the lane was only a quarter mile long.
We'll soon reach the road, Cavanaugh hoped. Rounding a thickly treed curve, he pressed the button that would open the gate, only to realize that the button was useless-the electricity wires had been cut.
His thoughts were shattered by the sight of a van parked sideways, blocking the lane. The trees were dense on each side, giving him no room to veer around it. He'd be forced to ram it, striking the van where it had the least weight-at the fender behind the rear axle. The mass of the Taurus's armor would give it enough force to shift the van and allow the Taurus to squeeze past. But the moment Cavanaugh flicked a switch to deactivate the Taurus's air bags, he noticed how low the van was. Something in it was enormously heavy.
I'll never be able to force it aside.
As a man stepped from behind the van and fired toward the Taurus's windshield, beads of glass flew inside the car. Cavanaugh stomped the brake pedal and skidded to a stop, his passengers jerking forward despite their seat belts. He yanked the gearshift into reverse and sped swiftly backward along the lane.
A bullet whacked through the front windshield.
"Everybody down!"
Cavanaugh sped backward around the curve. He reached an area where the lane widened, took his foot off the accelerator, and simultaneously twisted the steering wheel a quarter turn. The Taurus spun a hundred and eighty degrees, grazed a tree trunk, and now faced ahead. Immediately, Cavanaugh shoved the gearshift into forward and pressed the accelerator. The rear wheels threw dirt toward the pursuing gunman, who fired at the Taurus's rear tires, the dust ruining his aim.
But Cavanaugh knew that it wouldn't be long before the rear tires had bullet punctures, also. Already, the deflating front tires made his steering hard to control. The stress from the 180-degree turn had worsened their damage. As he sped from the trees and into the meadow, he felt the front wheels settle onto the plastic ring that he'd attached to the center of each rim, a tire within a tire. Without the cushion of the normal front tires, the Taurus jounced and slammed over holes in the lane.