The Jury Master (37 page)
“Don’t think they came for the gumbo,” Molia said. He pulled the Sig and tossed the Colt in Sloane’s lap.
They rolled out the doors as the barrage of bullets peppered the metal body like hail banging on a tin roof.
J
ENKINS LEAPED OVER
the top of the bar, frantically searching the shelves for anything he could use as a weapon—the fire poker wasn’t much good unless he got in close, and that wasn’t going to happen unless he survived three more shots. Not even a knife. He heard the door to the room open slowly, the man no longer worried that Jenkins might be armed, but still cautious in the dark. He was no doubt searching the room, eliminating potential areas of ambush, identifying the only two hiding places: on the deck or behind the bar.
Time. Jenkins needed time. He considered the liquor bottles beneath the bar—mostly good Scotch, the kind Robert Hart liked to drink when he smoked his pipe. The thought rushed to him. He grabbed a cocktail glass, threw it over the counter, and heard it shatter, drawing the sixth shot.
Precious seconds.
He grabbed a bottle of thirty-two-year-old Springbank from a shelf, unscrewed the top, and saturated a bar towel.
Pump action. The cartridge hit the ground.
Click-click.
The gun reloaded.
He stuffed an end of the towel into the top of the bottle.
The shotgun blast ripped a huge hole in the bar just to his right, splinters of the cheap wood laminate, shards of cocktail glasses, and alcohol spraying him and embedding in his skin like thistle needles.
Seven.
Jenkins curled into a fetal position. He wouldn’t make it to eight. He rolled behind a small refrigerator, pulled the pack of matches from his pocket, and struck a match on the strike plate. It didn’t light. He struck it again. Nothing.
Pump action. Final round.
He pulled another match.
Click-click
—gun reloaded.
Jenkins struck the match. A small hiss, then a flame. The doused towel burst into a blaze. He threw another glass—a cheap trick that had little hope of working—stood, and hurled the most expensive Molotov cocktail ever made.
S
LOANE LAY FACEDOWN
in a puddle of muddy water, the rain pounding with such force that it looked to be rising from the ground. A tire on the Chevy exploded, a hollow, echoing ring that burst in Sloane’s ears and, with the rush of wind and hail of bullets, deafened all sounds. At a lull in the attack Sloane rose to one knee, cupped his left hand under his right, and squeezed three well-placed rounds at the truck’s windshield, blowing holes from left to right. He heard gunfire from the other side of the car, then Molia rolled over the hood, landing beside him in the muddy water. He pulled Sloane to a retreat behind the front bumper. They pressed low behind one of the tree trunks serving as a parking curb.
“You hit?” Molia yelled above the storm.
“If I am, I can’t feel it.” Sloane looked around the side of the car. The gun barrel reappeared out the window. He fired two more rounds. Three left. The other two clips were in the glove compartment of the rental car. “We are seriously outgunned.”
Molia pointed. “We need to get into the woods. We can pick our shots in there. There’s a creek runs north-south about three hundred yards back. Go. I’ll find you.”
Sloane shook his head. If he left, he knew that the detective had no cover to get into the woods. “Not leaving without you.”
The barrel of the automatic extended out the window of the truck.
“No time to get heroic. I know these woods; you don’t. I’ll find you.” He shoved Sloane in the direction of the scrub-and-tree line, turned, and squeezed two shots at the car windshield. It was all the cover he could afford.
S
LOANE HEARD THE
detective fire two shots as he hurdled a fallen tree at the edge of the forest. He dropped and took aim at the truck, which was at a ridiculous distance for a handgun. He fired twice anyway, leaving him just one bullet, and crawled into the thick brush. He moved as quickly as he could through the tightly knit trees, deflecting the low-hanging branches that scratched at his face and arms and tugged at his clothes.
Where the hell was the creek?
Lightning flashed, illuminating the forest in a quick burst, like something from a horror film. The thunder clapped damn near on top of him. The images blurred. He thought it was the rain. Then the pain shot daggers across his forehead, stabbing at him. He fell to one knee, holding his head between his hands as if it might split.
No.
He stood, staggering forward. Images pulsed in and out of focus. Black and white spots. The aura.
Migraine.
No.
His vision and balance deserted him. He stumbled forward, blind, felt his bad ankle roll on uneven ground, his foot sliding, unable to stop his momentum. The wet blanket of leaves gave way like a rug on a freshly varnished floor. Sloane pitched to the side, head over heels down the hill, like a boulder. Stumps, trees, and rocks battered him until he came to a jarring stop against something solid and fixed in place. The wind howled. Lightning flashed another burst.
Men shouted. Smoke choked the air. Flames flickered colorful shadows and brilliant flashes of light that captured the woman on the floor in strobes of horror.
Sloane shook the thought. He kicked furiously, trying to keep from being pulled under, fighting to stay at the surface.
Outside he heard women and children wailing in pain, grief, and shrieks of confusion and horror.
“No!”
He pushed himself up, toward the light and the surface. He lay with his back against a tree, water continuing to pour from the branches overhead. Momentarily disoriented, he caught his breath, then struggled to his feet. He needed to find the creek. He needed to help Tom Molia. He put a hand against the tree trunk for balance. His vision remained blurred, but he could see where his sliding body had cut a swath down the hillside to the bottom of a ravine. He clawed and dug at the ground, gripping anything that did not pull from the earth—one step forward, sliding in the mud and leaves two steps back. The storm battered him with pellets of water. His head pounded a steady beat. His ankle ached.
When he reached the top he was out of breath and uncertain how many minutes had passed, but he didn’t have time to stop and figure it out. Pinballing between the trees, he ducked beneath branches that pulled at his clothes.
Where the hell was the creek?
T
HE TRUCK RAMMED
the back of the Chevy, pushing the front wheels up and over the log. The driver, the dark-haired man who had killed Bert Cooperman, swung the driver’s door open, using it for cover, and fired a short burst from a fully automatic Uzi pistol as his partner, the bearded redhead, slid forward, gripping the handle of a 12-gauge Benelli tactical shotgun. They had watched Sloane flee into the woods but did not see the detective follow. Their orders were clear. Kill the detective, but bring Sloane back alive.
Red advanced, aiming inside the blown-out windows of the Chevy, his trained eyes scanning the interior. Empty. He slid forward, pointed the gun around the front fender. The detective wasn’t there.
“They’re in the woods!” he shouted back to his partner.
The dark-haired man moved forward, ripped the keys from the Chevy’s ignition, and threw them into the brush. Then he stepped back and opened fire on the radio and car phone. He knew that the full assault had prevented the detective from radioing for backup—they had been monitoring the Charles Town police frequency—but this was a precaution in the event the detective had thoughts of doubling back to radio for help. They split up, his partner proceeding in a clockwise arc. He would move counterclockwise, and they would meet at twelve o’clock. It was a military tactic to reduce the chances of shooting one’s partner.
Once inside the forest, the dark-haired man moved from tree to tree, searching the shadows. The water cascaded from the leaves and branches. It was like looking through a waterfall. The wind howled at him. Tree limbs creaked and clattered. He worked his way through tall grass and scrub, crouching as he went, stopping to search for shadows that did not belong, his loins tingling with the thrill of the hunt and the anticipated kill. Overhead, lightning streaked. The woods pulsed a brilliant white, followed by the clatter and clang of thunder. A sudden pain stabbed his chest. He put the palm of his hand to his sternum. Lightning crackled, briefly illuminating the blood being washed from his palm and between his fingers. He raised his head in acknowledgment. The thunder boomed. And the second well-timed, well-placed shot hit him directly between the eyes.
T
HE MAN SWUNG
the barrel to deflect the ball of fire, shattering the bottle against the paneled wall, the ignited alcohol spraying him about the face and clothes. His final shot blew apart the Tiffany lamp hanging over Jenkins’s head, showering him in green glass.
Empty barrel. Empty tube.
Jenkins vaulted the bar, fire poker in hand.
Well trained, the man dropped and rolled to extinguish the flames and rose to one knee, pistol in hand, but Jenkins was on him. He swung the fire poker like a baseball bat, sending the gun across the wood floor, and drew the poker back to strike again. The man reached up quickly, stopping the bar in midair—an amazing display of strength and tolerance for pain. Holding the bar overhead between them, at a stalemate, the man rose to his feet, a giant emerging from the ground, with shoulders like the bumper of a car. Jenkins kept his grip on the fire poker and drove a knee into the man’s stomach. It was like hitting a wall. The man whipped his head forward, striking Jenkins in the forehead, knocking him backward. He held on to the poker and fell, using the momentum and his weight to pull the man with him. When he hit the ground, he drove a boot into the man’s stomach, flipping him heels over head. Unfortunately, the poker went with him, ripped from Jenkins’s grasp.
Jenkins scrambled to his feet and raised an arm to deflect the anticipated blow. Too slow. The poker smashed into his ribs, sending an electric shock pulsing through his body and driving him to one knee. He heard the whoosh of air as the man swung the iron overhead and brought it down like a lumberjack swinging an ax into a log. With no chance to stop it, Jenkins sprang forward, underneath the arc, absorbing the blow across his back as he drove his shoulders into the man’s midsection, bull-rushing him backward into the flame-engulfed paneled wall. He brought his arms up inside the man’s forearms and jarred the poker loose. The man shoved him back and pulled a six-inch blade from a sheath tied to his thigh, advancing, stabbing at the air. Jenkins circled and retreated, dodging the blade. He couldn’t raise his right arm, and the warm and bitter taste of blood filled his mouth and nostrils, stifling his breathing. He felt his strength waning.
The man wiped at blood that flowed from a gash on his forehead, painting his face in a hideous red streak. “Your dogs,” he said, the knife slashing and darting, “will make good fertilizer.”
The pain and rage bled into one, rising from Jenkins’s chest cavity and exploding in a guttural, primitive howl of blind anger. As the man stabbed, Jenkins leaped forward, grabbed his wrist, and struck the back of the man’s elbow, hearing it snap like a chicken bone. The man cried out in agony. Still holding the wrist, Jenkins leaped and spun, his right cowboy boot whipping across the man’s jaw. Then he spun again, whirling, the left leg following the right, each finding its target, driving the man backward until he stood listing on unsteady legs, a silhouette in the storm-darkened room. Jenkins gathered himself and rose again. He drove the heel of the boot into the man’s chest, his leg unfurling like a loaded spring. The force of the kick propelled the man backward; the plate-glass door exploded with a percussive blast, and the man hurtled over the railing and was gone.
Jenkins dropped to his knees. “So will you,” he whispered.
T
OM MOLIA WATCHED
the dark-haired man drop to his knees and pitch face-forward into the brush.
“That’s for Coop,” he said.
He stood from beneath the pile of leaves and scrambled forward, taking the gun from the man’s hand and shoving it into the waistband of his pants. He swore he’d never again complain about the humidity. The storm had been a blessing. The lightning gave him the illumination he needed to see, and the thunder covered the sound of his shots to keep from giving away his location. Molia could shoot a flea off the ass of a white-tailed deer with a rifle, but a handgun was not nearly as accurate. He had aimed for the center of the chest but thought he’d missed his mark when the man barely flinched. On the next streak of lightning he had counted a beat and fired his second shot with the clap of thunder. This time there was no mistake—he hit the man directly between the eyes.
It was time to find Sloane.
He started for the creek, moving quickly. When he reached it he dropped to one knee and slid down the muddied embankment into the water, searching the woods but not seeing Sloane or the redhead. Streams of water cascaded down the bank, swelling the creek. Molia waded downstream several hundred yards, then climbed back up the side, searching as he backtracked, hoping to find Sloane, hoping to get behind his red-haired pursuer. He continued from tree to tree until he had reached his point of origin, and his gut told him everything he needed to know.
If the man was not in front of him, he, too, had doubled back.
Molia turned.
Red stood ten feet behind him, the barrel of the shotgun lowered and ready to fire.
W
HAT STRENGTH JENKINS’S
anger summoned had dissipated, leaving him without resources, beaten and battered. Facedown, he slipped in and out of consciousness, struggling to stay alert, hallucinating. Around him the fires burned pockets of intense heat, sucking the oxygen from the room, the flames creeping closer, licking at his face, tasting his flesh, waiting for him to die, ready to devour him.
