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.
CHAPTER 11
I WAKE UP IN MY HOTEL ROOM TO A TWEET FROM SIMON.
If you aren’t sure how to interpret my words of wisdom. Please ask. The last thing I need is patients doing stuff in my name.
I think Simon is granting himself absolution from whatever his flock of patients might get up to.
Messiah complex anyone? Paging Dr. Jesus.
That phrase is a little redundant. I mean, who believes in Jesus anymore? And if you want to see teenagers crap themselves laughing, try explaining what a pager used to be. You tell ’em about cassette tapes and they think you’re one lying, old Depends-wearing motherfucker.
The following is a transcript of a conversation I had with Jason’s nephew:
Me: The songs were pressed onto a long tape. Six songs per side, then you turned it over.
Nephew: Turned what over?
Me: The tape in the machine, but you had to be careful or the machine would eat the tape and you’d have to straighten it out with a pencil.
Nephew: Fuck off, Gandalf. You’re making this shit up.
Five minutes later I get another message, this time from Mike.
Get over to the club now, laddie. We need to wrap this up. Be here by noon, or else?
Balls.
I was hoping Mike might be traumatized by last night. Also there was no need fo
r a question mark at the end of Mike’s text. It’s not as if we don’t know what happens if I don’t do as I’m told.
I’m gonna have to whip out Tommy’s video. How much of it he watches is up to Mike.
So I’m on my merry way to get shot in the head. If I had to compile a list of possible traumatic moments in the life of an Irish male, the classic head shot would be right up there with driving test and turning Pops on his side so the puke doesn’t choke him, especially when the temptation is there to let the vomit do its work. It’s nature, right? Who’s gonna blame a ten-year-old kid?
Maybe I told you before that I’m not big on the whole flashback thing? I probably told you right before launching into a flashback thing.
But I don’t have flashbacks per sé, what I do have is a good memory for the bad times. I think of my mom and I see her weeping in a corner, dishcloth clutched to her breast masking the ripped blouse. I think on little Patrick and I see his moon face and those wonky teeth that would surely have needed braces, inkblot bruises covering his cheek, and him thinking he’s a bad kid, that everything’s his fault.
I got a head-shot memory too. From guess where? The Lebanon, big surprise, right.
Zeb says to me: What’s all this THE Lebanon shit? It’s Lebanon, okay? You don’t say THE Ireland or THE Israel.
So I come back with: You say THE United States.
It went on like that for a coupla hours until Zeb got one of his periodic boners and had to excuse himself for twenty minutes. That guy is like Old Faithful, when is he gonna slacken off? He’s in his forties now for feck sake.
Anyway, my head-shot memory. The UN trucked us over to Damour to throw stern looks at the locals, who were hell-bent on revenge on PFLP and DFLP militiamen who had just defiled a cemetery, dragging coffins out of their neat rows, executed a stack of Christians and painted a mural of Fatah guerrillas holding AK-47 rifles on the church wall.
A quick aside: revolutionary groups all got their go-to mural guys. A good inspiring mural can swing 10 percent of the don’t-knows, not to mention make the revolutionaries feel validated. These guys are not just slopping paint onto walls, it’s at least as legitimate an art form as graffiti. Banksy was never darkly satirical with automatic fire knocking chunks out of his canvas. It’s the worst-kept secret in Irish republican circles that the artist who did a lot of the good stuff on the Falls Road was actually an Ulster Unionist who strapped on his orange sash on march day. I guess you get a pass if you provide a valuable service.