Pop Goes the Weasel (Alex Cross 5)

“I don’t think any of them knows for sure. They probably have game plans, but anything can happen now. It all depends on Shafer, if he follows the rules. I think he’s beyond that, and the other players know it.”

We hurried along, running close to the hotel buildings. We were getting nervous and concerned looks from the hotel guests we passed on the narrow, winding sidewalk.

“They’re all killers. Even Jones finally admits that. They killed as agents, and then they didn’t want to stop. They liked it. Now maybe they plan to kill one another. Winner takes all.”

“And Geoffrey Shafer hates to lose,” said Sampson.

“Shafer doesn’t ever lose. We’ve seen that already. That’s his pattern, John. It’s what we missed from the start.”

“He doesn’t get away this time, sugar. No matter what, Shafer doesn’t walk.”

I didn’t answer Sampson.

Chapter 113

SHAFER WASN’T EVEN BREATHING HARD as he made it to the white-sand shoreline. George Bayer stepped out of the black Ford Mustang, and Shafer watched for a weapon to appear. He continued to walk forward, playing the game of games for the highest stakes of all: his life.

“You bloody swam?” Bayer asked, his voice jovial yet taunting.

“Well, actually, it’s a fantastic night for it,” Shafer said, and casually shook water off his body. He waited for Bayer to move on him. He observed the way he tensed and untensed his right hand. Watched the slight forward slant of his shoulders.

Shafer took off a waterproof backpack and pulled out fresh, dry clothes and shoes. Now he had access to his weapons. “Let me guess. Oliver suggested that you all gang up on me,” he said. “Three against one.”

Bayer smiled slyly. “Of course. That had to be considered as an option. But we rejected it because it wasn’t consistent with our characters in the game.”

Shafer shook his hair, let the water drip off. As he dressed, he turned halfway away from Bayer. He smiled to himself. God, he loved this—the game of life and death against another Horseman, a master player. He admired Bayer’s calmness and his ability to be so smooth.

“His playing is so bloody predictable. He was the same way as an agent and analyst. George, they sent you because they thought I’d never suspect you’d try to take me out by yourself. You’re the first play It’s so obvious, though. A terrible waste of a player.”

Bayer frowned slightly but still didn’t lose his cool, didn’t let on what he felt. He thought that was the safest attitude, but it told Shafer his suspicion was true: Famine was here to kill him. He was sure of it. George Bayer’s cool demeanor had given him away.

“No, nothing like that,” Bayer said. “We’re going to play according to the rules tonight. The rules are important to us. It’s to be a board game, a contest of strategy and wits. I’m just here to pick you up, according to plan. We’ll meet face to face at the hotel.”

“And we’ll abide by the throw of the dice?” Shafer asked.

“Yes, of course, Geoff.” Bayer held out his hand and showed him three twenty-sided dice.

Shafer couldn’t hold back a sharp laugh. This was so good, so rich. “So what did the dice say, George? How do I lose? How do I die? A knife? A pistol? A drug overdose makes a great deal of sense to me.”

Bayer couldn’t help himself. He laughed. Shafer was such a cocky bastard, such a good killer, a wonderful psychopathic personality. “Well, yes, it might have occurred to us, but we played it completely straight. As I said, they’re waiting at the hotel for us. Let’s go.”

Shafer turned his back to Bayer for an instant. Then he pushed hard off his right foot. He sprang at Bayer.

But Bayer was more than ready for him. He threw a short, hard punch that struck Shafer’s cheek, rattled and maybe even loosened a few teeth. The right side of Shafer’s head went completely numb.

“Good one, George. Good stuff!”

Then Shafer head-butted Bayer with all of his strength. He heard the crunch of bone against bone, saw an explosion of dizzying white before his eyes. That got his adrenaline flowing.

The dice went flying from Bayer’s hand as he reached for a gun, or some other weapon. It was tucked in the back of his waistband.

Shafer clutched Bayer’s right arm, twisted with all of his strength, and broke it at the elbow. Bayer shrieked in pain.

“You can’t beat me! Nobody has, nobody can!” Shafer screamed at the top of his voice.

He grabbed George Bayer’s throat and squeezed with super-human strength. Bayer gagged and turned the brightest red, as if all the blood in his body had rushed to his head. George was stronger than he appeared, but Shafer was speeding on adrenaline and years of pure hatred. He outweighed Bayer by twenty pounds, all of it muscle.

“Noooo. Listen to me.” George Bayer wheezed and gasped. “Not like this. Not here.”