I hobbled for the largest clump of bushes, right up against the house. Whatever I did, I couldn't still be out here when Wilkes hauled his ass over that fence. I dove behind the bush.
Through the leaves, I saw him swing to the ground. He turned, took in the yard in one sweep and headed right for my cover.
Could he see me here?
You idiot, there's only one place in this yard big enough to hide you. Where else would you be?
A rock. I needed a--
As I felt around the ground, my fingernails clinked against something cold and smooth. A bottle. An empty glass bottle. I could have laughed. Thank God for student tenants.
Gaze still riveted to Wilkes, I gripped the neck of the bottle with my uninjured left hand and swung the base against the concrete foundation. As it smashed, Wilkes jumped, startled.
I wheeled from behind the bush and charged. Made it three strides before my ankle gave way, but as I sprawled forward, I smacked full-weight into Wilkes.
His gun fired. I felt pain. Didn't know where. Didn't care. We both went down. I saw his face below mine. Saw his neck, a pale strip in the moonlight, took aim, gripped the bottle neck, and slashed down with everything I could.
Blood spurted. He fell back. I twisted and grabbed his gun. He wrenched it, finger squeezing on the trigger, but I pulled it away easily as his grip slackened. I put the barrel to his temple. He looked at me. I pulled the trigger.
* * *
FIFTY-TWO
With Wilkes's exit strategy permanently aborted, it was time to worry about ours.
Dubois was dead. Jack had found his body when he and Quinn had gone into the house, searching for me. I felt bad about Dubois. Yes, I'd tried to warn him. Yes, he'd accepted the risk when he came into the house. But I still regretted the outcome.
We didn't hide Wilkes's body. Evelyn sent a letter to the Feds, just in case they mistook Wilkes for some poor senior citizen who got caught in the cross fire. I'm sure they would have figured it out eventually, but the nudge--and his real name--would help. As they unraveled Wilkes's story, they'd probably find out about his former occupation, so all the work we'd done to avoid that was for naught. But Wilkes was dead, and we weren't. Good enough.
Felix and Evelyn stayed behind to clean up any loose ends and watch for unexpected fallout. Quinn and I wanted to help, but Jack refused. We were the most vulnerable--the youngest, and least experienced, plus we both had "normal" lives and "normal" jobs, and he wanted us to go back to those right away.
Before I left, Evelyn took me aside. She wanted a method of contact. I wasn't comfortable giving it, but it was a case where refusing was more dangerous. She offered her training services, but seemed content to leave it at that, not pushing the point...yet.
Jack drove Quinn and me into Pennsylvania the next morning. Our first stop was the hospital. A half-day later, I walked--okay, hobbled--out with a reset ankle and wrist. I'd broken both.
I also had a nice collection of bruises plus a couple of bullet grazes. Jack had taken care of the grazes right away. He cleaned and bandaged them, and we came up with a cover story, in case someone at the hospital noticed the bandages and asked. They didn't.
Once out of the hospital, I hid my wrist cast under my coat sleeve as best I could. The bandaged foot was bad enough; I didn't need to call extra attention to myself.
When we got to the airport, Jack went to buy our tickets. Quinn helped me to a seat in a quiet corner, and bought me a coffee and muffin. He started to pass me the coffee cup, then stopped and opened the lid first. When he began peeling the wrapper off the muffin, I laughed and took it from him.
"Hey, don't--" he began.
"It's my wrist, not my hand."
"Still, I don't think--"
"I'm okay."
He hovered on the edge of his seat, as if expecting me to fumble and dump coffee into my lap at any moment.
"I'm okay."
"I know, I just feel--"
"Really bad. I've heard it. Heard it from you, heard it from Felix, heard it from Jack, even heard something like it from Evelyn. It was my choice to go in there. Unforeseeable circumstances, and no one's to blame...except Wilkes and Dubois, but neither is in much of a position to take his share."
"Well, I still feel--"