AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Swann pulled the Nissan forward, noted a space a few car lengths away. He parked and shut the engine off. His hand slipped inside his jacket and made sure once again he knew just where the pistol was. The receiver was more cumbersome than a Glock's, with safeties and slide catches, but the gun itself was heavy, which guaranteed the subsequent shots after the first would be particularly accurate; light weapons need more recentering on target than heavy ones do.
He studied Sachs through the streaked glass.
Such an attractive woman.
Long, red hair.
Tall.
Slim too. So slim. Did she not like to eat? She didn't seem the cooking type. This made Swann dislike her. And takeout from a place like this, salt and overused grease? Shame on you, Amelia. You'll be right at home for the next few months, eating Jell-O and pudding while you recuperate.
In ten minutes she was out the door, takeout food in one hand, and playing the cooperative target: walking straight into the cul-de-sac.
She paused at the entrance, looking into the bag, apparently making sure the restaurant had included the extra rice or fortune cookies or chopsticks. Still fiddling with the bag, she continued toward Rhyme's town house.
Swann eased his car back into the street but had to brake fast, as a bicyclist sped in front of him and stopped, debating for some reason whether to turn around or continue on to Central Park. Swann was angry but didn't want to draw attention by honking. He waited, face flushed.
The biker headed on--opting for the beautiful green of a spring park--and Swann punched the accelerator to get to the cul-de-sac fast. But the delay had cost him. Walking quickly, Sachs had reached the end of the L-shaped passage and disappeared to the left, toward the back of the town house.
Not a problem. Better actually. He'd park, follow her in and shoot her as she approached the door. The geometry of the cul-de-sac there would mute the gunshots and send the sounds in a hundred different directions. Whoever heard would have no idea where they came from.
He looked around. No cops. Little traffic. A few oblivious passersby, lost in their own worlds.
Swann pulled the car into the mouth of the cul-de-sac, put the transmission in park and stepped out. With the gun drawn, but hidden under his windbreaker, he started over the cobblestones.
He recited to himself: two shots, low in her back, one toward the knee. Although he vastly preferred his knife he was a good marksman. He'd have to--
A voice behind him, a woman's: "Excuse me. Could you help me?" British accent.
It belonged to a slim, attractive jogger in her early thirties. She stood about eight feet away, between him and the open driver's door of his car.
"I'm from out of town. I'm trying to find the reservoir. There's a running path..."
And then she saw it.
His windbreaker had eased away from his body. She saw the gun.
"Oh, God. Look, don't hurt me. I didn't see anything! I swear."
She started to turn but Swann moved fast; he was in front of her in an instant. She took a breath to scream but he struck her in the throat, his open-handed blow. She dropped hard to the concrete, out of sight of a couple across the street, arguing about something.
Swann glanced back up the dim canyon between the nearby buildings. Would Sachs be inside by now?
Maybe not. He didn't know how far the L of the cul-de-sac extended behind Rhyme's.
But he had only a matter of seconds to decide. He glanced down at the woman, gasping for breath, just the way Annette had in the Bahamas and Lydia Foster had here.
Uhn, uhn, uhn. Hands to her neck, eyes wide, mouth open.
Yes or no? He debated.
Choose now.
He decided: Yes.
CHAPTER 53
AMELIA SACHS STOOD IN THE CUL-DE-SAC behind the town house, Glock drawn, aimed toward where the dim canyon made a right turn and eventually joined the crosstown street.
