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Bree felt the pressure from his gun barrel increase against her head, and she saw Alex and the kids and Nana Mama in her mind. It broke her.
“No,” she whimpered. “Don’t. Please.”
“To go out in a blaze of glory, you got to start somewhere,” Gordon said.
“Drop the gun, Gordon,” Muller shouted.
Bree caught the old detective in her peripheral vision, crouched in a horse stance between two cars fifteen yards away and aiming a .357 Magnum Colt Python revolver at Gordon.
“Now, I’m nowhere near the shot you are, Mr. Gordon, but I can’t miss from this distance,” Muller said calmly. “And I won’t hesitate to shoot a cop killer. So put the gun down, Mr. Gordon. Put it down real slow, and surrender.”
Muller would later say that he saw Gordon’s shoulders relax and his eyes turn peaceful then, as if he’d gone inside himself, preparing for whatever was to come.
Bree felt the pressure of the pistol muzzle increase, as if Gordon were squeezing the trigger. But then it eased, and Gordon dropped the gun slowly from her temple and then snapped it toward Muller.
The shots were so close, they were deafening and disorienting.
Bree staggered forward, her ears ringing. Several seconds passed before she realized that Muller was still on his feet and at her side and that Lance Gordon was dead on the ground, a bullet hole between his eyes.
Chapter
96
Night had fallen. A rainstorm was predicted. Sampson and I were sitting in a black unmarked Dodge pickup parked in a barnyard roughly a thousand yards down the road from Colonel Jeb Whitaker’s place. We’d followed the signal from the bug we’d planted on his motorcycle back to his property.
We called Mahoney and learned that George Potter had died of an embolism. Colonel Whitaker had been there and called for nurses, but by the time they reached him it was too late.
It took an hour and forty minutes for Mahoney to arrive with the first of twenty heavily armed FBI agents. During that time, ten different vehicles had come up the road and then disappeared down Whitaker’s driveway.
Mahoney’s men were now working their way into position around the colonel’s six wooded acres. Mahoney had asked two U.S. Navy CID investigators to participate, since they would have jurisdiction over the Marine colonel, and he’d even called for a U.S. Coast Guard cutter to block the way out of the Chesapeake backwater that adjoined Whitaker’s land.
“Gotta stretch my legs,” Sampson said as my phone rang.
“We got them,” Bree said. “Tommy’s killers.”
“Good for you,” I said, smiling. “Tell me everything.”
After Bree walked me through the events at the shooting range, I said, “Don’t you think you should have gone in with more force?”
“Muller was with me, and ten Maryland state troopers had the place cordoned off. I had the situation under control until Vivian keeled over.”
I didn’t push the point. “The important thing is you’re safe and you caught Tommy’s killers, and you’ll see Vivian behind bars. That’s a job well done no matter how you look at it, Chief Stone.”
“Thank you,” Bree said, the tension in her voice gone. “I love you.”
“Always and forever, sugar.”
“When are you going in?”
“Soon.”
“Be careful.”
“I’m not walking in there alone, if that’s what you mean. I’m going in with a big show of force all around me.”
She sighed and
said, “Call me when it’s over.”
