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Chapter 68
CLAIRE SPUN just as the first bullet splintered through the glass.
A second shot shattered the study window, and Claire felt burning pain sear her neck. She was down on the floor as a third and fourth shot exploded into the room.
A startled cry came from her throat. There was blood on the floor, blood from her own neck, seeping onto her dress, her hands. Her heart beat madly. How bad was it? Had it severed the carotid artery?
Then she looked to the doorway, and her blood froze. Willie…
“Mom!” he exclaimed. His eyes were bulging with fear. He was only wearing a T-shirt and briefs. He was a target.
“Willie, get down,” she screamed at him. “Someone’s shooting at the house.”
The boy dove to the floor, and Claire scrambled over to him. “It’s okay. Just stay down. Let me think,” she whispered. “Don’t you raise your head an inch.”
The pain in her neck was excruciating, like the skin had been sheared off. She could breathe, though. If the bullet had pierced her carotid, she’d be choking. The gash was surface, had to be.
“Mom, what’s going on?” Willie whispered. His body was trembling like a leaf. She’d never seen him this way.
“I don’t know…. Just stay down, Willie.”
Suddenly, four more shots blazed from outside. She held her son tight. Whoever it was was shooting blindly, trying to hit anything. Did the killer know she was still alive? A jolt of panic set in. What if he came in the house? Did the killer know about her son? He knew her name!
“Willie,” she gasped, cupping his head between her hands. “Get down in the basement. Lock the door. Call nine one one. Crawl! Now! On your stomach!”
“I’m not going to leave you,” he cried.
“Go,” her voice replied sharply. “Go now. Do as I say. Stay down! I love you, Willie.”
Claire pushed Willie forward. “Call nine one one. Tell them who you are and what’s happening. Then call Dad in the car. He should be on his way home.”
Willie shot her a last, pleading look, but he understood. He crawled, face and body pressed to the floor. Good boy. Your mother didn’t raise any dumb ones.
Another blast of gunfire came from outside. Sucking in a breath, Claire pleaded, “Please, God, don’t let that bastard come into our house. Don’t let that happen, I beg you.”
Chapter 69
CHIMERA SQUEEZED OFF four more rounds through the shattered window, smoothly swiveling the PSG-1 rifle in his hands.
He knew he’d hit her. Not with the first shot; she had spun around at the last second. But with the next one, as she was trying to hit the deck. He just didn’t know if he had done the job. He wanted to send a message to Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer, and just wounding her friend wasn’t good enough. Claire Washburn had to die.
He sat in the cover of the dark street, the barrel of the rifle protruding from the car window. He needed to make sure she was dead, but, damn it, he didn’t want to go into the house. She had a son, and he might be in there. One of them might have called 911.
Suddenly, outside lights flashed from a house down the street. At another, someone stepped out onto the lawn.
“Goddamnit,” he seethed. “Son of a bitch.” Part of him wanted to charge the shattered window and spray the room with a barrage. Washburn had to die. He didn’t want to leave without finishing her.
From behind him came noise. A car turned wildly onto the street, its horn blaring, bright lights flickering on and off. The car sped toward him like some meteor barreling right into his sight.
“What the hell is this now?”
Maybe she had called the cops. Maybe as soon as they heard the shots, the neighbors had. He couldn’t risk it. She wasn’t the one he would put himself on the line for. He wasn’t going to get caught.
The honking, flashing car spun sharply into the driveway of the house. It screeched to a halt. The neighbors began to emerge from their homes.
He slammed the wheel with his hand and pulled in his gun. He put his car in gear and floored it.
It was the first time he had messed up. Ever. Jesus, he never made mistakes.
