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Before anyone could ask “feel what?” Walt yanked the plastic up, shoved two fingers into the bullet hole, then plunged the clamp in. Franco’s body arched up, Juliette’s hands on his shoulders the only thing keeping him in place.
“Gross,” Langston breathed, leaning forward to get a better look at what Walt was doing. His phone was to his ear. He was still talking to 9-1-1. “My brother is a doctor. He’s working on the guy who was shot,” he told the operator. Then he looked at Walt. “The ambulance and cops are four minutes out.”
Somewhere out there, Lancelot was in pursuit of a madwoman. A murderer.
Sylvia’s words continued to play in Hugo’s mind.
We can’t lose him.
* * *
Lancelot rounded the house and paused. There were two ways he could do this. He could attempt to follow her, using the trees for cover, or he could make an educated guess as to where she was going and opt for speed rather than stealth.
He opted for speed.
Gun in hand, Lancelot raced down the paved driveway. If she’d doubled back, or paused to take up a defensive position, he was an easy target, moving fast but out in the open. Thinking about that, anticipating the thud and burn of getting shot, would only slow him down, so he took those feelings and that fear, put them inside a little box, and shoved it to the back of his mind.
While he was compartmentalizing, he took his feelings for Sylvia and Hugo, put them into another box and shoved them down deep.
His legs pumped, his breathing deepened. He added speed, pushing himself. It was only a hundred meters, and within seconds he could see the waist-high decorative iron fence that surrounded the property. He was getting closer. His goal was to beat her to her car, catch her when she got there, or, if she’d already gotten there, stop her from getting away.
There was a flash of something to his left. Alicia, her pale hair catching a ray of sunlight. Was it stupidity or arrogance that made her not bother with a cap or balaclava?
Arrogance, because she wasn’t stupid.
Lancelot veered off the driveway, into the trees, trying his best to keep her in his sights. He caught sight of her again and realized he had another advantage. He’d been right. She was carrying a rifle, not a handgun. It looked like a semi-automatic, but not an assault weapon. There wasn’t a high-capacity magazine that he could see, but there was a scope mounted on the barrel.
Her husband had been a sniper, and it looked like she’d picked up a few things. But a sniper rifle without a magazine had space for probably four bullets. She’d fired five times, which meant she must have reloaded.
Three bullets left, if he was right.
If she had the time to stop, brace herself and the gun, aim, and fire, he would be in serious trouble. However, he wasn’t going to give her that chance. He tucked his handgun into his pants, wanting his hands free.
She paused at the iron fence at the front property line and threw one leg over. He could hear her breathing hard. It was probably the sound of her own labored breaths that stopped her from hearing his approach.
Lancelot waited until her right leg was thrown over, then leapt. He slammed one hand onto her thigh and grabbed her gun with the other.
She screamed as he impaled her leg on the iron fence. The tips of the decorative arrow points weren’t exactly sharp, and being impaled by something blunt hurt far worse than something razor sharp.
That had to hurt.
Good. She deserved to hurt.
Her eyes were wide as she grabbed at her leg, looking back over her shoulder at him.
Lancelot hooked his arm around her neck, placing her in a choke hold. He could hear sirens. Langston had been talking to the police when he’d left. When they arrived, they’d search for the shooter. If they found her, she’d end up in the custody of the U.S. authorities, charged with the murder of Franco. Considering that he was the husband of the leader of the Trinity Masters, it was very unlikely Alicia would ever be a free woman.
That also meant the Masters’ Admiralty would never get to question her.
Lancelot grabbed her right knee, yanking her leg up and off the spikes. On the opposite side of the fence, parked half on the footpath, was an innocuous gray four-door car. No doubt her vehicle. He needed to get her away from the house, somewhere the police wouldn’t find her. Somewhere he could question her.
Somewhere he could be Charlie, not Lancelot.
That thought made him go cold. A bone-deep cold.
It was time to be Charlie. He wasn’t a knight. Wasn’t Lancelot.
It didn’t matter that being Lancelot had felt good, felt right. It wasn’t who he was. Wasn’t what the Masters’ Admiralty needed him to be.
