He turns on the device and attaches it to the underside of her rear bumper. Then he lights the second bottle of napalm, yells “Recon!” and chucks it at a patrol car.
Munchel runs back the way he came, slipping between houses, making it to his car a block away. It had taken him almost forty minutes of circling to find that parking space, and even though he was clearly the required twenty feet away from the fire hydrant, he still got a ticket. Assholes.
Rather than dwell on it, Munchel throws the suitcase and the rifle into the backseat, hops behind the wheel, and beelines for the rendezvous point, imagining Pessolano and Swanson watching his heroics on CNN and cheering him on.
6:54 P.M.
KORK
JACK’S BOYFRIEND LATHAM is kind of cute. Red hair, a strong chin, broad chest. He doesn’t cry out when I crack him in the nose with the butt of my revolver, and doesn’t beg for his life when I stick the business end under his chin.
“On the sofa, next to the old lady.”
He complies, but takes his time, fixing me with what he probably thinks is a cold stare. He’s about as menacing as a teddy bear. If he wanted to learn cold stares, he should have grown up in my family.
“When’s your girlfriend getting home?” I ask.
He reaches out, holds the woman’s hand. Doesn’t answer. Which pisses me off.
I’ve lost track of how many people I’ve killed, but I know I’ve killed men for annoying me less than Latham is doing right now. But I don’t want to do anything permanent until Jack gets home and is able to watch. So I settle for smacking him with the gun again.
I hit him pretty good, opening up a cut on his cheek, and he refuses to meet my eyes. So much for the tough guy act.
“I don’t like repeating myself,” I say.
“She told me nine.” His voice is soft, dull. “She’s on a case.”
I check my new watch. Heathrow didn’t allow watches. Or jewelry. Or makeup. Or bras. Or shoes. We had our unisex cotton pants and top, and slippers with flimsy rubber soles. I could understand them keeping security tight. A few of the women in there were crazy. But my minders confused insane with feeble-minded. Big mistake.
My watch tells me I have about two hours left before Jack arrives. I’m hungry. Maybe I can get Mom to serve me some of that stew she’s making. I also haven’t gotten fucked in forever. The last time was with my so-called husband, and he was as in effective in bed as he was at everything else. I eye Latham’s broad shoulders, trim waist, then move my eyes lower, to his crotch. I wonder if he is up for the job. I know from experience that a man sometimes has problems getting it up when a gun is jammed in his mouth.
But when they can manage, the sex is mind-blowing.
Later, I decide. One more thing that Jack can watch.
“Who else is hungry?” I ask.
I smile, not the easiest thing to do when you’ve lost most of the nerves and muscles in half of your face. Mom grimaces. Latham stares at the floor.
“Both of you, stand up. Slow and easy. If you move too fast, or if I get the feeling you aren’t going to behave, I’ll shoot your knees.”
They stand, and hero boyfriend puts his arm around Mom’s shoulders. It’s touching, the warmth. Really. When the time comes, I don’t know which one I’ll kill first.
No need to think about that now. We have all night. And what a night it will be. These aren’t the only guests I’m inviting to this party. With some duct tape to keep everyone manageable, and some delivery pizza, we could keep this going for a few days.
First things first, Mom can serve some dinner. And I can warm loverboy up for our floor show later on. He looks to be the loyal type. Tough to break.
But I’ll break him. When I was growing up, Father used the stove for more than just cooking. He used it for punishment. Showed me up close and personal all the ways a stove can make a person scream.
And I’m more than happy to share the knowledge.
6:56 P.M.
JACK
WHILE I FIRE at the sniper the cops in the house clear out, carrying their injured team member. Herb comes up behind me, and we watch through the window as they make their way down the street. They join the others who were lucky enough to have gotten away, to the end of the block where the ambulances are.
We also watch our perp run around in jerky patterns, dragging a suitcase behind him and holding a huge sniper rifle, occasionally yelling something incoherent. He stops twice to throw homemade bombs at cars. Each one bounces off and causes a small fire on the sidewalk.
“This might very well be the world’s stupidest criminal,” Herb says.
I’m out of rifle ammo. Herb and I pull our ser vice pistols, keeping the perp in our sights. Though he keeps zigzagging and ducking down, he would have been a cinch to shoot if he came within our range. We could even have nailed him without looking, because he kept whooping like a drunken sports fan, giving away his location. Unfortunately, he stays at least fifty yards away the entire time, and eventually disappears between two houses, running off into the night.
Herb and I meet the Special Response Team in front, and I send them in the direction the sniper had gone. By that time the small fires have almost extinguished themselves, and the cops who’ve been in hiding come out and attend to the dead.
The sniper might have been an idiot, or a lunatic, or both. But he still managed to kill ten of my men. I maintain a brave face for the TV cameras, but each time I see a body bag being loaded into an ambulance my throat closes up.
My boss, Captain Bains, arrives in a patrol car. He has his dress blues on, ready to make a statement for the press. Deputy Chief Crouch, the superintendent’s right hand, is also present, setting up interviews with everyone involved. I’m first in line.
I’m bone tired, but I know I’ll be debriefed over and over again for the next few hours, and there’s no way to postpone it. I go back into the house and use the bathroom, doing a mediocre job washing off the blood. Then I call home, get the answering machine. Leave Mom a message that I won’t make dinner to night. I also call my long-suffering fiancé to let him know he’s welcome to stay the night, and I’ll make it up to him by cooking breakfast in the morning. I get his voice mail. Perhaps he and Mom are in a heated match of rummy.
Internal Affairs shows up – a bystander had been nicked by police crossfire. It wasn’t by me, but they take my gun anyway; standard operating procedure so ballistics can rule out my bullets as the lethal ones. I’m too numb to argue. My phone rings, and I excuse myself for a minute.
“Jack, it’s an emergency.” Mom sounds frazzled. “You need to come home.”
“Mom? Are you okay? What’s going on?”
I’m talking to a dead line. I call back. Get the machine. Call again, get the same results. Try Latham once more, go directly to voice mail.
What the hell?
“I need to check on my partner,” I tell the IA guys. Then I catch up with Herb as two paramedics assist him into the ambulance. The assistance involves a lot of lifting and grunting.
“I need a favor, Herb.”
“No problem. I’ll make a copy for you.” He taps his jacket pocket, which held the Kingston Trio CD. “And yes, it’s got ‘Tom Dooley’ on it.”
I lean closer. “I need you to cover for me, for a few hours. The deputy chief wants answers. The Feds are coming, probably to compare this to every other sniper incident in the past seven hundred years. Plus I’m going to have to tell the same story again for IA.”
“Are you going to tell them I stole folk rock?”
“No. I’m going to tell them to talk to you first. I just got a weird call from my mother, and something’s not right. I have to run home. And as you’re well aware…”