Omega Dog (15 page)

And then the realization hit Venn, at almost the exact moment the woman cop spoke up.

Venn’s blood froze, and he squeezed his eyes tight shut at his utter stupidity.

Oh, shit...

The female cop said, ‘Dr McNeill, why are there
four
coffee cups on the table?’

––––––––

W
hen in doubt, don’t think. Just act.

It was a maxim that had served Venn well, and had saved his life. In Kosovo, in Chicago. Let your training take over and trust your unconscious to make the right choice.

Venn could have waited under the stairs for the McNeills to brazen it out, to come up with some half-assed explanation for the extra coffee cups. Visitors at five in the morning, who’d dropped by and left just as suddenly.

Or, he could have listened to their floundering attempts at making up a story, and waited for the disbelieving cops to ignore them and come looking for him and Beth.

Instead, he stepped out from under the stairs and came striding down the corridor, Beretta extended before him.

He’d assumed the cops didn’t have their guns drawn – why would they, if they were paying a friendly visit to a woman whose life was under threat? – and he was right.

The McNeills were seated at the dining table but the cops were standing, hands on hips. The man was Chicano, weatherbeaten. The woman was small and elfin with a pixie haircut.

Their hands moved in unison toward their jackets even as their heads jerked round as Venn entered.

‘Keep your hands high,’ he said, his voice loud and commanding, just below a shout. His battlefield commander’s voice, he thought of it as.

For a moment the male cop looked as if he was going to chance it. Venn met his eye and gave a fractional shake of his head.

Don’t do it. I’ll drop you.

Both cops held their hands away from their bodies.

‘Who are you?’ said the woman cop.

‘Shut up,’ said Venn. Raising his voice, he called, ‘Beth. Get down here. We’re leaving.’

The woman cop said, her voice surprisingly loud for her small frame: ‘Beth. Dr Colby. Stay where you are. It’s me, Shelly Anderson. And Mike Gomez. Remember? We’re here to protect you.’

Venn leveled the Beretta at the woman’s face. ‘I said shut up. One more word and I blow your head off.’

Her eyes watched him down the gun. They were cornflower blue and utterly unafraid.

For three long seconds there was silence, punctuated only by Margaret McNeill’s breathing, which was starting to speed up as though panic was setting in.

Then a crash from upstairs broke the moment.

Margaret shrieked in alarm. Venn flinched.

And the female cop, Anderson, moved.

Moved more quickly than Venn would have believed possible.

She rolled to one side, on her shoulder on the carpet and then up onto her feet. Venn brought the Beretta across to bear on her but she was already crouched in the classic Weaver stance, left foot forward, side-on to him, right arm extended across her body.

In her right hand she had a Smith & Wesson semiautomatic.

‘Drop it,’ she said.

Venn had tracked her with the Beretta. Now he saw the male cop, Gomez, draw his own gun.

He couldn’t cover both of them. He was beat.

Was Beth trying to get out the upstairs window?

‘Beth,’ he yelled. ‘Get out. Don’t come back downstairs.’

But he saw Anderson’s eyes flick to a point over his shoulder, and felt Beth’s presence as she stepped into the room to his side.

From the corner of his eye he saw she was carrying the Glock.

It still looked ungainly in her inexpert hand, but she had it raised and pointing vaguely at a spot in between the two cops.

‘Beth,’ said Anderson. ‘Put the gun down. It’s okay. We’ve got him covered. You’re safe now.’

Beth swung the gun so it was pointing, if not quite straight at the woman cop, then at least more in her general direction.

‘Let him go,’ Beth murmured. ‘Let
us
go.’

‘What?’ A frown line appeared between Anderson’s eyes. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I mean it,’ Beth said, her voice sounding more confident. ‘He’s helping me. You can’t. Let us go. The other two also, if they want.’

Over in the far corner of the room, the McNeills were huddled together, looking petrified and utterly confused.

Gomez said, through gritted teeth as he sighted down his gun at Venn: ‘Dr Colby. Listen. This is the man who tried to kill you. Who abducted you from us. He is
not
your friend. Step aside, put down the gun, and let us do our job.’

‘No,’ said Beth. ‘If you want him, you’ll have to take me down, too.’

It sounded laughable. But Venn couldn’t help feeling just a little bit impressed at her bravado.

‘Don’t push us,’ said Gomez. ‘We can arrest you for obstructing police officers in the line of duty.’

‘Beth,’ said Venn in a low voice, though he knew the cops would be able to hear. ‘Back toward the front door, and get the hell out. Get far away. Leave the city.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m staying.’

God damn you, girl
, Venn thought.

There was a sudden movement over to Venn’s left, in the corner. At first he thought McNeill had collapsed, but then he saw the man rise up again from behind the sofa and shove his wife away.

In his hands he held the Remington. He’d evidently hidden it behind the sofa.

He ratcheted a shell into the breech.
Ch-chak
.

The shotgun was aimed at Venn’s midsection.

‘Sir,’ Anderson called across, not taking her eyes off Venn. ‘You don’t want to do that. Put the gun down. We’ve got the situation under control.’

‘The hell you have,’ snarled McNeill.

‘
Tom
,’ begged his wife.

‘He’s an intruder in our home,’ McNeill said, still glaring at Venn. ‘I don’t understand any of this, or how your friend Beth here is involved. But these are law enforcement officers. And he’s pulled a gun on them. That makes him a criminal in my eyes.’

The tableau stayed like that for no more than a second or two. A Mexican standoff. The cops’ and McNeill’s guns aimed at Venn. Venn’s gun aimed at Anderson. And Beth’s Glock wavering between Anderson and Gomez.

Then all hell broke loose.

––––––––

A
cell phone rang.

Venn wasn’t sure whose it was. It wasn’t his, and it wasn’t Beth’s because she was standing right next to him and the sound wasn’t coming from there. It might have been one of the cops’ phones, or either of the McNeills’.

Whatever its source, the ringing startled them all.

And McNeill’s nerves, already stretched to breaking point, snapped.

He pulled the trigger of the Remington.

The blast was amazingly loud in the confines of the living room. Even as it bounced off the walls, Venn was diving sideways, knocking Beth to the floor.

Like most people who weren’t accustomed to firing guns, McNeill didn’t hold the barrel steady. It bucked upward, the shot spraying high, though if Venn had still been standing it might well have caught him in the head. The shot ripped into the opposite wall, tearing out chunks of plaster.

Kicking his feet so that he slid along the floor to put himself between Beth and the cop, Anderson, Venn caught hold of a small wooden magazine table next to one of the armchairs. Holding it one-handed by one of its legs, he swung it up and in front of him just as Anderson brought her gun to bear on him and fired. The bullet from the Smith & Wesson slammed into the table, cracking the wood, and Venn felt the impact shiver down his arm.

Somewhere off to the side, Margaret McNeill was screaming.

Still lying on his side, Venn flung the ruined table at Anderson, and as she dodged he brought his gun arm round, took aim and fired.

The bullet caught her in the right shoulder in a spray of blood, spinning her half-round, and she gasped. Her hand opened involuntarily and her gun went flying. Venn sat up and pivoted and fired another shot into Gomez’s leg, low down and as far away from the center as he could. The cop’s own gun went off an instant later and Venn felt the bullet sing past his ear to embed itself in the floorboards. With a yell, Gomez went down, his hands grasping his leg.

Venn was at a disadvantage. He had to shoot to wound. These were cops, after all. They didn’t deserve to die.

He rose to a crouch. Over in the corner, McNeill had dropped the shotgun and stood staring dully at the two wounded cops. His wife cringed against the wall, hands clasped on either side of her face, eyes and mouth wide in shock.

Venn yelled, ‘Get over here, get
over
here,’ as he bent and hauled Beth to her feet and shoved her down the corridor toward the back of the house. There had to be a rear exit. Going out the front wasn’t a good idea, because backup for the cops would be arriving at any moment, alerted by the gunfire.

The McNeills didn’t budge. Well, that was their choice. The police would protect them now, with any luck. Keeping his gun trained on the two cops – Gomez on the floor clutching his bloody leg, Anderson slumped against the wall, her face a mask of agony as she held her injured arm next to her side – Venn backed down the corridor after Beth.

He followed her into a kitchen with a backdoor. Unlocking it and wrenching it open, he pushed her through. Hearing footsteps behind him, he looked back, saw Margaret McNeill coming after him.

So she’d thrown in her lot with them after all.

The next instant, she stumbled forward, half-spinning. The sound of the shot reached Venn’s ears a split-second later.

Disbelieving, Venn raised his gun and fired back through the kitchen door, the wooden doorframe splintering. At the same time Margaret McNeill’s body hit the floor.

Venn didn’t pause to check if she was all right, even though every instinct told him to. If he tried to help her, they’d both be killed.

He charged out into the backyard, the grass slick with dew, and saw Beth already heaving herself up onto the wooden fence at the back. Venn vaulted over the top without breaking stride, landed in a narrow lane and helped pull Beth down after him.

They ran, the adrenalin fueling their limbs, while Venn tried to understand what had just happened.

––––––––

T
he pain in Shelly’s right shoulder was like a living beast, its flaming mouth chewing its way down her arm.

She reeled against the waves of agony, trying to stay upright but struggling to do so. Through the nausea she saw the big man backing down the hallway, Beth Colby on the other side of him. Both making their escape through the back.

Gomez was trying to sit up but if anything he was in a worse way than Shelly was.

At that moment the older woman, Mrs McNeill, broke away and sprinted past Shelly and down the hallway, after Colby and the big man.

Summoning all her strength, Shelly pushed herself away form the wall. Keeping her arm as immobile as she could, she staggered toward the hallway.

On the floor was the handgun the Colby woman had dropped when the big guy had knocked her to the ground. A Glock. Shelly stooped painfully and picked it up with her left hand.

She heard them scrabbling at what must be a rear door. Shelly lurched down the hallway. Through the kitchen door, she saw the big man about to exit.

The McNeill woman was running after him.

Shelly raised the Glock and fired. Once, twice. The first shot went wild. The second hit the woman in the back, flinging her forward and down.

Get out of the goddamn way.

Shelly recoiled then, back into the hallway, as the big man fired an answering shot. Damn, he was fast. Chips of wood and plaster stung her face.

She realized suddenly the woman’s husband, McNeill, was right there beside her. He must have followed her without her noticing. He wasn’t carrying the shotgun.

He was staring at her in horror.

‘You shot my wife...’

Shelly risked a glimpse into the kitchen again. The big guy was gone.

She stumbled over to the backdoor, looked out. An early-morning yard. No sign of Colby and the man.

They’d have gone over the fence. There was no way she’d be able to follow them.

At her feet, McNeill was crouching by his wife. He turned her over, cradled her head.

He looked up at Shelly, shock and grief in his features.

‘You shot her,’ he said dully. ‘I saw it.’

‘The other guy did it,’ she gasped.

‘No.’ He shook his head. His voice began to rise. ‘No, no, no. You did it. You killed her. She was between you and that other man and you didn’t care.
You just shot her down
–’

Shelly raised the Glock and fired into McNeill’s upturned face.

The pain in her shoulder was worse now. But the urge to survive was stronger than any pain.

Shelly walked as steadily as she could back into the living room. Gomez had crawled into a sitting position and sat propped against a sofa. He was groping awkwardly for his gun, which lay on the floor a few feet away.

His eyes were wide with pain and confusion.

‘Shelly?’ he whispered. ‘What – it sounded like you...’

‘Sorry about this, Mike,’ she said, and shot him too.

As quickly as she was able, she moved about the living room and kitchen, hauling the bodies one-handedly until they were in the positions she required. Then she wiped the Glock free of her prints, tossed it out in the backyard, came back into the living room and sagged onto an armchair, weak with pain and nausea.

The sirens were approaching rapidly from several directions.

And all because my goddamn phone rang
, she thought. She fished the cell phone out of her pocket with awkward fingers. Looked at the
missed call
display.

Yep. It was Rosetti, or rather one of her minions. No doubt calling to check whether she’d done the job yet.

Shelly let her head loll back. She needed to move fast if she wasn’t going to lose the Colby woman forever.

But right now, she had a role to play.