But how can I survive a bullet between the shoulder blades? My heart has no right to be still beating.
The backpack. It’s got a Kevlar hide.
I got shot in the backpack.
Thank you, baby Jesus.
And to think I nearly didn’t take the backpack from the Algerian guy ’cause he wanted twenty bucks for it. Eventually he threw the bag in gratis with the flash bangs. I should call that guy and give him one of those true customer stories for his Web site.
Mike is out of his seat and coming toward me, his brow knitted as he tries to figure it out. In his place, I would be very concerned for the health of the poor Irishman stuck to my window and help him inside for a cup of tea, but Mike predictably doesn’t go down the humanitarian route, instead he pulls a nickel-plated revolver from his armpit and points it at my head.
I don’t know who Mike thinks he is but I wish he would pick one stereotype and stick to it. I was just getting used to his Plastic Paddy act and now he thinks he’s Jesse James.
Nickel plated?
Apparently Mike has decided to shoot first and ask questions through a psychic because he cocks the weapon and places the barrel level with my eye, dinking the glass.
This is ridiculous. He’s gonna shoot through his own window now, rather than slide the door across?
I see Fortz grinning behind him. I think he’s grinning, it might just be the gum shield where his teeth used to be. When he realizes that he just paid Mike several grand to find a man who was in Mike’s back garden all the time, it might alleviate his happiness somewhat. Every cloud as they say.
I wish Sofia wasn’t here. I don’t want her to see me like this. With any luck my face won’t be recognizable and she won’t think to check my pecker.
Mike never gets the chance to fire because someone else does it before him.
The second shooter.
I feel a vibration jump from the window to my cheekbone, then glass is showering over me. Through the rainbow hail I see Fortz’s head disappear. I don’t hear the shot, or the second one that makes Krieger’s heart explode.
This guy is good. Three shots; three tens.
The window collapses inward and I keel over into the house with it. Mike has already turned tail, and seconds later I hear his Benz growl as he makes his getaway. I realize that I will never know if Sofia and Zeb made it out because of that bloody Prius.
I strain my ears listening for the polite hum of an electric motor and I think I actually hear it, until I notice a beer fridge in the corner of the office.
Balls.
So I lie here, in the Deliverance position, waiting for the shooter to finish me off. Krieger is in my eye line and I see that he still has a black eye from the punch that porn star dealt him. Of course the gore-ringed cavity in his chest is a little more serious. I tell myself to look away, but it is too late, the image is already seared into the gallery of horrors in my mind.
Maybe this will be my hell; a slideshow of all the dreadful things I have seen or caused.
Still alive.
It’s true. The guy hasn’t killed me yet. He could if he wanted to, no doubt about that. The sniper managed to squeeze off three kill shots before anyone reacted. That’s competition-level shooting right there.
So, why am I alive? The only thing I can think of is that the guy don’t need me dead.
He was after Krieger and Fortz and probably thought I was about to warn them. Maybe he will leave me alone here and Mike can shoot me when he comes back.
Oh, wait.
The dog has abruptly ceased to whine. The main man is coming.
I wish I could put up a fight. At least go out like a professional, but all I can do is lie here. I could probably make a supreme effort and thrash about a bit, but I don’t want to die thrashing. There’s something silly about that and who wants to go out silly? I realize that I never left instructions for anyone to look after Sofia. Maybe Zeb will take care of her and keep his pants zipped.
Sure. Zeb is king of the humanitarians. It’s all about the fellow man with Zebulon.
I feel a strong hand press down on my backpack. Then the hand moves to my shoulder and the guy flips me onto my back like he’s turning over his last card in a poker game. I see his gloved hand dripping with blood and I realize that he’s just doing cleanup now. Finishing me is no more significant to him than putting the dog out of its misery.
The guy is all kitted out like a ninja except for his boots, which are army issue almost identical to mine. There’s a rifle over his shoulder with a super-long suppressor on the barrel, which explains why I didn’t hear any shots. I don’t recognize the rifle but it looks expensive, top of the range. Sometimes you can tell on sight how valuable something is. Not wine though. You would have to be one hell of a sommelier to put a price on a bottle based on the color alone.
Ninja sniper shrugs his shoulder in a move that seesaws the rifle under his arm so the trigger guard lands in his fist and the silencer points directly at my face.
Nice move. Practiced.
I could beg now, I got the breath. But this guy is a pro. I might as well argue with Arnold the Terminator from the first movie where he was relentless, but not the second one, where Arnie turned good robot.
Then something happens. Seems like the guy recognizes me. His head jerks back maybe an inch and I see his eyes widen a fraction.
“You,” he says.
And it is me. No denying it. I hope against hope that for once in my life, being me turns out to be a good thing.
“Yeah,” I cough, and it is no mean feat to cough and speak at the same time. I wasn’t intending to cough, it just came out.
“Motherfucker,” says Ninja, and shakes his head. He makes a sound like three quick shots through a silencer, maybe he’s laughing.
Ninja places the silencer’s tip between my eyes, then wags a gloved finger at me, spattering my face with blood and the meaning is clear.
Do not come after me.
He needn’t worry. I ain’t ever coming after this guy. Shoot me once, shame on you; shoot me twice, shame on me, and I got enough shame in my life already, believe me.
As he wags his finger a fourth unnecessary time, Ninja’s sleeve rides up a little and I see an inch of skin between the glove and cuff. Sallow skin with two colored string bracelets looped around the wrist.
I force myself to not think about this now. Do not show any recognition, because that could change Ninja’s mind about sparing me. I close my eyes tight and act like I’m totally and utterly ruined. It ain’t really an act.
I count to thirty trying to concentrate on the numbers. Nothing else. No conclusions drawn. Then I open my eyes, see the Ninja has gone and I think:
Pablo.
Feck me, it was Pablo. Edit’s personal trainer obviously has a couple of non–gymnasium-based talents.
Krieger and Fortz were loose ends so they had to be clipped.
Why was I spared?
Stupid question. I was spared because Ronnie warned Edit that if anything happened to me, she would come looking.
Pablo got lucky that he shot my backpack.
It’s genius really. Edit sends Krieger and Fortz to the local gangster’s house to ask for help locating me. Then Pablo takes them out. Mike don’t wanna be caught with two bent cops in his manor so he’ll probably dispose of the bodies.
Sweet and neat. Except I threw my monkey dick in the machine.
Luckily my monkey dick was wearing a Kevlar backpack.
It takes me about five minutes to get to my feet and check the party room. Plenty of abandoned champagne glasses littering the floor but no people. Zeb did what he was told for once and got Sofia the hell out of there. After another five minutes pass I feel ready to tackle climbing the wall. But before quitting this rural abattoir I make myself pee in the water bottle from the hotel. I don’t really need to go at the moment, but I carried the bottle all the way out here so damned if I ain’t gonna use it.