Guilty (11 page)

But Macklin wasn't hurting enough for Groove. When Groove was through, there wouldn't be anything left of Macklin to bandage.

Groove slid a satchel off his shoulder, his tiny eyes never leaving Macklin's impassive face. It was time to scrag this asshole for good. Twice Groove had seen Macklin. Twice Macklin had looked like easy prey. Twice Groove had watched his friends endure agonizing deaths.

He lifted a Molotov cocktail from the satchel and hefted it in his hand. The gasoline sloshed inside the Coke bottle. Groove grinned and ran his forearm across his sweaty brow.

Groove dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. He flicked it. The light from the flame danced on the damp skin of Macklin's face. He touched the flame to the rag sticking out of the bottle and grinned again.

"Burn, you fucker," he hissed, tossing the Molotov cocktail. In that same instant, Macklin's eyes flashed open and he squeezed the trigger of the .357 he held under the blanket.

The bullet tore through the blanket and blasted apart the Molotov cocktail. It exploded in midair, igniting Macklin's blanket and splashing a wave of fire over Groove. The Bloodhawk fell screaming against the wall, his body melting into a ball of flame.

Macklin shook his head at Groove's flailing, fire-consumed body. "You never learn."

He casually tossed the burning blanket over him and pulled himself to his feet, his face knotted in pain. Macklin hobbled towards the door, glanced back once at the bedroom, now a chamber of pulsating fire, and then stumbled out, his singed legs smoking.

# # # # # #

Wednesday, June 19, noon

Brett Macklin's name was chiseled in the marble tombstone. The fresh dirt underneath it was strewn with cut flowers. The grass surrounding the grave was flat and torn from the dozens of people who had stood mournfully an hour ago and listened to Father Harriman's standard eulogy.

He shifted his gaze from the distant tombstone, squinted up at the blazing afternoon sun and then down at his wristwatch. The crystal was cracked, but he could still see that only an hour had passed since the funeral, since he had crept behind this tree, lifted the binoculars to his bloodshot eyes, and watched his daughter, a hundred yards away, shake with sobs.

Not many men get to see their own funerals.

"This won't work, Mack," said a voice behind him. Macklin turned and saw Shaw approaching quietly, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his black slacks. Right on time. Macklin had called Shaw after escaping from the fire. Shaw made sure Groove's corpse was identified as Brett Macklin.

"If I'm dead, the Bitch will stop," Macklin said. "She'll let down her guard, get careless."

"She's sharp. She won't buy the ruse that you died in that fire." Shaw leaned against the tree and studied Macklin's face. "Even if this works, you aren't going to see Cory again, are you?"

Macklin shook his head. "Everyone I love dies. I want to spare my daughter. The money from our life insurance policies should guarantee her security."

Using the arm that had been in the sling, he put the tiny pair of folding binoculars in his pocket and walked away. The motion hurt bad. The pain was so strong, Macklin had a hard time remembering what life had been like without it. The pain wasn't only physical. His heart had been torn out and buried with the corpses of his loved ones. Mordente's body, jerking against the impact of his gunshots, danced in front of his eyes.

"What can you tell me about the Bitch?" Macklin asked.

Shaw shook his head. It had gone too far already. Giving Macklin any information now was like giving a lunatic a loaded gun.

"Nothing," Shaw said.

Macklin grabbed Shaw roughly by the shoulders, spun him around, slammed him forward against the tree, and jammed his .357 Magnum into Shaw's back. "I've lost everything now. My family. My friends. My daughter. My life. I want the Bitch who did this to me."

The jagged bark tore into Shaw's cheek. Tiny rivulets of blood dripped off his chin. "Go ahead, Mack. Pull the trigger. Go over the edge. You're no better than she is."

Macklin kept Shaw pinned against the tree, removed the detective's gun, and tossed it away. He searched him with his free hand, turning out the pockets and letting Shaw's badge, wallet, and assorted papers fall to the ground.

"C'mon, Mack, admit it. You don't think anymore. You just kill. You've lost yourself to the violence," Shaw said. "You're dead now. Walk away before your bloodlust kills more innocent people."

Macklin found the computer printout in Shaw's inside coat pocket. He shook it to unfold it.

"You ran my description of Vanowen and Cory's description of Van Rijn through Interpol," Macklin said, reading. "You got a match."

Macklin's eyes narrowed and he stepped back from Shaw, though he kept his gun trained on him.

"Demetria Davila," Macklin read slowly. "International assassin. Wanted for murders all over the world. Expert at disguise."

Shaw pushed himself away from the tree, picked up a Kleenex off the lawn, and wiped his bloodied cheek. Macklin eyed Shaw warily.

"She's a sadist. Big surprise," Macklin scanned the printout. "Delights in torture. Loves to kill. Murders are orgasms. Eighty-three gruesome killings have been tied to her. She's paid well. Governments are about the only ones who can afford her."

Macklin rolled up the printout and tossed it at Shaw. "She's a real Girl Scout."

"She's out of your league, Mack. You'll die and take innocent people with you," Shaw said. "I can't let you do that."

"Too bad," Macklin pistol-whipped Shaw across the face, knocking him to the ground, where he lay groaning in semiconsciousness. "You and Cory are all I have left. I'm doing this for you."

Macklin put the .357 under his waistband and walked away.

# # # # # #

Macklin flew the chopper down the California coast to La Jolla and the heavily fortified cliffside compound belonging to the man who'd hired the Bitch.

There was only one man who had the money and the motive to curse him with Demetria Davila. After leaving Shaw, Macklin's subconscious had whispered the name to him with sickening clarity . . . Justin Threllkiss.

It was Threllkiss who'd covertly financed White Wash, a racist, white supremacist organization. It was White Wash that had convinced Threllkiss' coked-out, sadistic grandson to masquerade as Macklin and massacre blacks as a way to spark a race war. Macklin had destroyed White Wash—and the grandson with it.

But he'd left Threllkiss alive.

Threllkiss had to be the one.

But if Macklin was wrong, it was no loss. Threllkiss was racist scum who deserved to die, a loose end Macklin should have tied up long ago.

The security system at the Threllkiss compound had been built on the concept that if any threat ever came, it would be on foot or on wheels. Nobody expected an air assault.

Who would?

So the high walls, the razor wire, the security cameras, and everything else were rendered laughably pointless if the threat arrived in a helicopter.

And Macklin had arrived.

He buzzed the property, shooting two guards on the rooftop and three more that were walking the grounds, before he landed the chopper on the lawn. Macklin jumped out brandishing two Uzis, one in his right hand, the other slung by a strap over his left shoulder.

Three slavering guard dogs immediately charged towards him. He calmly took a remote control out of his pocket with his left hand and pressed its single button.

The dogs jerked spasmodically in midstride as their collars zapped them into submission.

Macklin knew about Craven's kinky love of electricity as a way to tame man and beast.

It wasn't hard for Macklin, before embarking on his assault, to discover the frequency of the dog collars and adjust his own garage door opener to match it. He didn't want to have to kill a dog . . . but he had no qualms about shooting the men on his list.

He released the button and the dogs whimpered away, perhaps assuming that Macklin was one of their masters by virtue of having the God-like power to zap the shit out of them.

A bullet tore into the grass at Macklin's feet. Another grazed his cheek. Macklin kept walking. He felt no fear. He felt no pain. Only hate. He pocketed the remote and gripped an Uzi in each hand.

He fired to his left at a guard crouched behind a bush. The guard's head burst like a piñata. He fired to his right. A guard screamed and tumbled out a second-floor window, splattering like a raindrop on the pavement below and splashing Macklin with warm blood.

He walked on. He was a man with nothing left to lose.

Craven ran out of the house with a shotgun. Macklin shot him in the leg, took the shotgun from him, and batted him across the face with it before tossing it into the bushes. Craven lay whimpering on the ground.

Macklin kicked open the back door and cleared his trail with blazing bullets. The scorching slugs propelled four guards along the shag carpet in a bloody living room ballet. Macklin squinted into the settling debris for any movement. Bullet holes had turned classic oil paintings into confetti. Priceless sculptures were reduced to piles of marble shards.

Macklin sloshed through the gore-soaked carpet and tracked blood, sweat, and brains across the marble entry hall and up the steps of the spiral staircase.

Bullets suddenly tore into the walls, handrails, and steps around him. Macklin quickly dropped down to a squat. His Uzis spat death. Three bodies tumbled down the stairs towards him. He flattened himself against the wall. The bodies rolled past, splattering a red carpet of welcome to the second floor.

He stalked down the hallway to a pair of tall oak doors. A guard whirled out of an adjoining doorway, brandishing a shotgun. Macklin fired his Uzis before the guard squeezed his trigger down. The lead spray spun the guard around. The guard's shotgun blasted wildly into the oak doors. The doors splintered open.

Justin Threllkiss stood in the dissipating cloud of wood shavings and smoke. Several hundred-dollar bills wafted in the air, propelled by the residual force of the shotgun blast. The rosewood desk beside Threllkiss was piled high with stacks of money.

Macklin moved slowly into the room, his Uzis trained on the freckle-skinned magnate. Threllkiss leaned shakily on his pearl-handled cane, his eyes wide behind his tortoiseshell glasses.

"All this"—Threllkiss motioned to pile of cash with his wavering cane—"and more is yours if you let me live."

Macklin shook his head. A hundred-dollar bill floated into the crystal chandelier above him. He walked up to the desk and stabbed at the stacks of money with the muzzle of his Uzi. Hundreds of hundred-dollar bills spilled onto the floor.

"You killed my family," Macklin said.

Threllkiss raised his cane and pointed it at Macklin. "And you killed mine."

A spear shot out of Threllkiss' cane. Macklin jerked out of the way as the spear sliced across his cheek and stabbed into the wall behind his head.

Macklin regained his balance and felt the blood dribbling down his cheek. The spear shaft quivered.

He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand and glanced down at it. Blood dripped between his fingers.

He looked up at Threllkiss.

"Almost," Macklin said. He bashed Threllkiss across the face with the back of his blood-smeared hand.

Threllkiss flew backwards into the pile of money. Thousands of dollars fluttered in the air. Macklin grabbed a handful of money and smothered Threllkiss with it.

The old man jerked and convulsed, trying to free himself from Macklin's suffocating grasp. Gritting his teeth, Macklin pressed down harder, crushing Threllkiss' face under the cold cash. Threllkiss thrashed, kicked, and grabbed, and Macklin felt none of it. His death hold wouldn't budge. The old man flopped like a fish.

Threllkiss' struggles gave way to the convulsing rattle of death. Macklin felt Threllkiss' life shuddering under him. The body jerked once, arched up, and then fell hard into the money.

Macklin released his hold, tossed aside the money in his hand, and stepped back. Threllkiss lay upon the cash, his eyes bulging and his mouth agape, crumbled hundred-dollar bills clogging his throat.

Justin Threllkiss was dead.

But in the blinding hate of revenge, Macklin had forgotten what mattered most—the Bitch was still alive.

Again, Macklin had failed. He had let Threllkiss die before getting something on the cunt who had killed Mort and Brooke, who had plowed over more than sixty innocent people.

Macklin backed out of the room and then dashed down the stairway, leaping over the corpses in his path. He emerged from the house and squinted into black smoke. On the lawn, several yards away, Macklin saw the way to find the Bitch.

Craven lay on the ground, his bloody leg twisted at a grotesque angle underneath him. The snarling dog snapped ferociously at Craven's face. In panic, Craven pressed his remote control. The electric charge coursed through the dog, jolting him, keeping him at bay. Barely.

Macklin came up beside the jerking, howling dog and pointed his Uzi at Craven. "Turn it off."

"He'll kill me!" Craven whined. Macklin squeezed the trigger. The slugs tore pots in the grass around Craven's head.

"Off," Macklin said.

Craven dropped the remote. Macklin crushed it under his boot. The dog lunged for Craven's throat. Craven bashed his fists against the dog's snout. The dog bellowed. Claws dug into Craven's chest. Craven screamed in terror and despair.

Macklin grabbed Sam's collar. The dog's moist fangs hung over Craven's ripe neck. Craven could feel the dog's hot breath on his skin. Sam strained against Macklin's hold, snarling viciously.

"Where's Davila?" Macklin demanded.

"I don't know," Craven whined, trying to slide away from the growling beast, from the wide, inhuman eyes, from the sharp, white fangs.

"You're Alpo." Macklin released the dog and it went for Craven, who screamed again, his arms flailing in a pathetic attempt to grab the dog's snout and keep the snapping jaws away from his neck.

Suddenly the dog reared back and hung suspended over Craven's face. Macklin again held Sam by the collar. Saliva dribbled from the dog's wet mouth onto Craven's wide forehead. Scratches oozed blood on Craven's face and between the tatters that remained of his clothes.