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20
BISHOP TO G4
Brooklyn
Andy yelled, “You killed Ian, dude, you killed him, your best bud, your mentor! I liked Ian; he thought I was funny.” Something in Matthew’s eyes stopped him in his tracks. He whispered, “Can you believe he wanted to protect her? I mean, what was that all about?”
Matthew stood stock-still in the middle of the carnage, the Beretta hanging loose in his fingers. He looked away from Andy, down at Ian, then at Vanessa, saying nothing.
“And dude, you shot her dead, too. I thought you didn’t want to kill people.” Andy’s eyes suddenly glowed with a mad light. “Hey, way to go!”
Matthew barely registered Andy’s freak show. He’d always known Andy was crazy, but now he could feel the sick excitement rolling off him in waves. It turned Matthew’s blood to ice. He couldn’t stand it. He yelled, “Shut up, you idiot, or I’ll shoot you, too.” And he knew in that moment he meant it, anything to shut that crazy mouth, close those mad eyes forever.
Andy stared at him. The mad mania was gone; he looked ready to burst into tears. “Matthew, what are we supposed to do now? I mean, Ian did everything, he planned stuff and told us how to do things, and when to act; he always told me when I did a good job. And what about bombs, Matthew? Don’t we need more bombs? Vanessa built all our bombs. Are you going to use your own bombs now . . . ?” His voice trailed off.
Yelling at Andy didn’t help. Matthew had killed his friends, but the initial horror of what he’d done was gone now. It didn’t matter anyway, there was no going back. He was the leader again, and the leader said, “Andy, stop yo
ur worrying, I’ll see to everything. Haven’t I always taken care of us all? You need to pack up everything, right now. We’re leaving in three minutes, okay? Move it.”
Andy was wringing his hands. “But we can’t leave them here, Matthew.”
“I said get everything we need, I’ll take care of the rest. Two minutes, Andy. Move!”
Andy rushed to disconnect the computers and monitors while Matthew gathered the bomb bags, the suitcases, a bag of groceries from the kitchen. He was careful not to look down at Ian and Vanessa, lying drenched in their own blood.
Both men were careful to give the bodies a wide berth. It took longer than Matthew wanted to disassemble all of Andy’s equipment, and three trips to the van.
“Start the van. I’ll be right back.” Matthew grabbed a can of Andy’s special gas, his own formula, designed to make things go up in flames in a heartbeat, and started back up the stairs.
He heard Andy’s excited voice behind him: “Hey, Matthew, let me do it. Please, let me light it up.”
“I told you to start the car,” Matthew called back, not looking at him. “I’ll be right down.” No way was he going to let Andy burn down the neighborhood.
Inside, he forced himself to look down at Ian, sprawled on his back, his plaid shirt black with blood, his eyes open, staring up at Matthew. He felt a punch of pain. Andy was right, Ian had been his friend and mentor, taught him everything, but in the end he’d chosen her, not Matthew. And he couldn’t forgive that, ever, and he dumped some gasoline directly on Ian, then turned to take one last look at the woman he’d wanted, but not quite trusted, not quite, but it was close. Had he loved her? Perhaps, in moments when he was desperate to have sex with her. Tonight, though, in the aftermath of their brilliant success, his blood roaring through his body, he knew he would have told her everything and she would have skipped out, dancing because she’d won.
She was dead; it was all over. She lay on her side, her white shirt covered with blood, her hair floating in it. He felt bile rise in his throat. No, no, he’d done the right thing, the only reasonable thing. She’d betrayed him. Who was she? Some sort of spy, an agent? He didn’t know, and now it didn’t matter. She would burn with Ian.
Matthew turned away from her and methodically poured gasoline all over the apartment, but he didn’t pour any on her. He said her name aloud, one last time, “Vanessa,” and tossed the gasoline can in the corner. He threw a lighted match in the hall beside the stairs, listened to it whoosh as it caught the carpet on fire. He ran down the stairs. He never looked back.
21
BISHOP TO G5
Brooklyn
Vanessa floated.
Had she heard Matthew’s voice? She wasn’t sure, but her brain knew enough to keep her still and silent. There was always danger when you spent half your life undercover, and tonight she’d stepped right in it.
Being awake opened the floodgates and she was suddenly swamped in pain. She smelled her own blood, knew the pain would get worse and worse and she could die.
Matthew had shot her, after he’d shot Ian. Ian had tried to save her, despite the fact that he had to know it was her phone and she wasn’t really one of them. No, she couldn’t think about that now.
There was something else—she smelled smoke. Matthew had set the apartment on fire.
She didn’t want to, but she touched her chest, felt all the hot sticky blood, her blood. It was bad, really bad. She managed to raise her head. She didn’t see any flames, but she heard them in the hallway, whooshing along the threadbare carpet toward the living room. Smoke was creeping in; soon the room would be gray and she wouldn’t be able to breathe.
If you don’t get out of here now you will die. Tie up your chest and go.
