Page 132 of Hellbent

“Holy shit,” David said. “Did you see that? The guy’s friggin’ Spider-Man.”

Instead of fleeing, Thornhill took a seat at the lip of the roof above the school’s entrance, legs crossed. He curled over his lap like weeping Buddha, the muscles of his shoulders undulating.

Across the park the cops hauled Delmonico and Shea onto their feet and steered them at a diagonal away from the high school. They angled across the grass to where a police van waited on the neighboring street, clear of the traffic jam of responding cruisers. The freelancers shuffled along compliantly, hands cuffed behind them. Though a good number of students had scattered, others remained, rubbernecking from what they considered a safe distance. Many of the parents were out of their cars, rushing to their kids, pulling them away.

Up on the roof of the high school, Thornhill straightened up, and Evan saw what he’d been doing.

Screwing a suppressor onto the threaded barrel of his FNX-45.

“How far away are we?” Joey said.

Evan squinted, assessing. “Just under five hundred yards.”

“It’s impossible for him to hit us.”

“He’s not aiming at us.”

It took a beat for Joey to catch his meaning. “Jesus,” she said. “Really?”

Thornhill popped onto his feet at the roof’s edge, a single deft movement.

Evan said, “Van Sciver can’t afford for them to be in custody.”

David started to step up onto the fountain’s basin so he could see, but Evan set a hand on his shoulder, firming him to the ground.

This the boy could skip.

The cops steered Shea and Delmonico farther into the park and away from the school, but Thornhill appeared unhurried. He took a supported position against an A/C unit, his off hand braced against the housing.

“He can’t make that shot,” Joey said. “Not through the trees. Not at that distance.”

A black bulge rode the top of the gun—holographic red-dot sights. The suppressor stretched the barrel into something lean and menacing. Most common loadings for a .45 ACP kept the gun subsonic, so Thornhill could squeeze off both shots without making a sound signature loud enough for the cops to source.

Delmonico and Shea disappeared from view, temporarily lost in a cocoon of officers. They were at least two hundred yards from Thornhill. Maybe two-fifty. A few cops moved ahead, clearing the rest of the way to the police van.

Evan swept his view back across the park, the street, and up the stairs to the roof of the school. Shouldered into the A/C unit, Thornhill was so still he might have been part of the building.

Two hundred seventy-five yards, at least.

The clump of blue uniforms reached the intersecting street. Two transport officers emerged from the paddy wagon, laying open the rear doors.

The arresting cops jerked Delmonico and Shea to a rough halt and stepped forward to confer with the transfer officers. The other cops milled around, spreading out into the street.

Creating gaps.

On the roof, the .45 twitched in Thornhill’s grip.

Delmonico fell, a crimson firework painting the side of the van.

Confused, the cops crouched and ran for cover.

Having his hands cuffed at the small of his back put Shea on a half-step delay. His head was cocked with confusion, the cloud-muffled sun gleaming off his bald dome. For an instant he stood wide open there in the street, twisted around, looking in the wrong direction. The cuffs yanked his shoulders back, nicely exposing the expanse of his chest.

A dark flower bloomed on his shirt. He staggered backward, his spine striking the side of the police van. His knees were bent, tilting him into the vehicle, physics momentarily holding him on his feet.

Then his heels slipped and he fell, landing with his legs splayed before him.

Evan turned to look again at Thornhill way across on the roof and was not surprised to see Thornhill looking back.