Cross (Alex Cross 12)
Chapter 64
THE MEMORIES OF HIS FATHER were always the strongest when Michael Sullivan was with his sons. The bright-white butcher shop, the freezer in the back, the Bone Man who came once a week to pack up meat carcasses, the smells of Irish Carrigaline cheese, and of black-and-white pudding.
“Hey, batta, batta, batta,” Sullivan heard, and it brought him hurtling back to the present—to the ballfield near where he lived in Maryland.
Then he heard, “This guy can’t hit worth spit! This guy’s nothin’! You own this mutt!”
Seamus and Jimmy were the trash-talkers for the family baseball games. Michael Jr. was as focused as ever. Sullivan saw it in his oldest son’s bright-blue eyes—a need to strike out the old man once and for all.
His son wound up and let fly. A sharp-breaking curveball, or maybe a hard slider. Sullivan exhaled as he swung—then heard the smack of the ball as it hit Jimmy’s catcher’s mitt behind him. Son of a bitch had brought some heat!
Something like pandemonium broke out on the otherwise deserted American Legion field where they practiced. Jimmy, the catcher, ran a circle around his father, holding the ball in the air.
Only Michael Jr. stayed calm and cool. He allowed himself a slight grin but didn’t leave the pitching mound, didn’t celebrate with his brothers.
He just bad-eyed his old man, whom he had never struck out before.
He ducked his chin, ready to go into the windup—but then stopped.
“What’s that?” he asked, looking at his father.
Sullivan looked down and saw something move onto his chest. The red pinpoint of a laser sight.
He dropped to the dirt beside home plate.
Chapter 65
THE VINTAGE LOUISVILLE SLUGGER, still in his hand, splintered apart before it hit the ground. A loud metal ping sounded as a bullet ricocheted off the backstop. Someone was shooting at him! Maggione’s people? Who else?
“Boys! Dugout—now! Run! Run!” he yelled.
The boys didn’t have to be told twice. Michael Jr. grabbed his youngest brother’s arm. All three of them sprinted for cover, fast little bastards, running like they just stole somebody’s wallet.
The Butcher ran for all he was worth in the opposite direction; he wanted to draw fire off of his boys.
And he needed the gun in his car!
The Humvee was parked at least sixty yards away, and he ran as straight a line as he dared to get there. Another shot came so close that he heard it whiz by his chin.
The gunshots were coming from the woods to the left of the ballfield, away from the road. That much he knew. He didn’t bother looking around though. Not yet.
When he got to the Humvee, he threw open the passenger-side door and dove inside. An explosion of glass followed.
The Butcher stayed low, face pressed against the floor mat, and reached under the driver’s seat.
The Beretta clipped there represented a broken promise to Caitlin. He pulled the loaded weapon loose and finally took a look up top.
There were two of them, coming out of the woods now—two of Maggione’s wiseguys for sure. They were here to put him down, weren’t they? And maybe his kids too.
He unlatched the driver’s door, then rolled outside onto gravel and dirt. Chancing a look under the car, he saw a pair of legs headed his way in a shuffling run.
No time for deep thought or any kind of planning. He fired twice under the chassis. Maggione’s man yelped as a blossom of red opened above his ankle.
He went down hard, and the Butcher fired again, right into the hood’s twice-shocked face. The bastard never got off another shot, word, or thought. But that was the least of his worries now.
“Dad! Dad! Dad, help!”
It was Mike’s voice—coming from all the way across the park, and it was hoarse with panic.