Page 63 of The List

He and Hank had been sitting tight for a couple of hours, mulling over their next steps, deciding on who to involve from law enforcement, and where.

The move with Greene had turned disastrous.

They could not make another miscalculation.

Whatever they did, it had to be the smart play.

The house loomed dark and sullen, a lone lamp the only illumination.

Hank sat on the edge of a chair. They both stared at the house phone.

Which kept ringing.

Brent stood, walked to the kitchen counter, and answered.

“Good evening, Mr. Walker.”

Adrenaline shot through his body. “Who is this?”

No response.

A chill curled down his spine. Now he knew. “De Florio?”

Outside, rain was still falling, even harder than earlier. “How did you find us?”

De Florio chuckled. “You made a mistake.”

His mind raced. Then it hit him. “They own the phone company?”

“A fact few know.”

True. That information had not been part of the materials Bozin supplied. Which was why earlier he’d risked the calls he made. But Hank’s call from the landline had been nothing but a bright beacon. Thank God he hadn’t used the cell to call his uncle’s house.

Hank drew closer.

Brent tensed. “What now?”

“We have unfinished business.”

“Don’t be foolish. Remember what I have.”

“We’ll take our chances.”

“That could be really stupid.”

“You know, I remember another time when I was out on Eagle Lake. About two years ago, I believe. August. A little better weather than tonight, but hot as hell. It was right after dawn. Perhaps you recall the result of that visit?”

Red-hot anger flashed through him. “You no-good piece of crap. Come take me on, De Florio. Man-to-man. You and me. Face-to-face. You got the guts for that?”

“Let’s find out,” De Florio said.

The call ended.

T HE PHONE IN F RANK B ARNARD’S POCKET VIbrATED.

He fished it out and answered.

“Proceed precisely as planned,” De Florio said in his ear.

“Understood.”

He beeped the phone off and turned to Victor Jacks. “Mr. De Florio says go.”

Jacks yanked the telephone wire from the junction box.

He then switched on the jammer to prevent any possible cell calls from the house and they both advanced out into the rain.

B RENT STARED AT H ANK TRYING TO CALM DOWN.

Finally, Hank said, “What do we do now?”

“What we should have done hours ago.” He lifted the handset and punched in 911. Nothing happened. He tried again but it only confirmed the line was dead. It had just worked.

Dammit.

What once seemed like a safe haven now felt like a cage.

A loud crack shattered the silence.

The front window splintered as something flew into the room and struck the far wall.

They dove to the floor, using the sofa for protection.

On the way down Brent raked the lamp off the table, bursting the bulb, plunging everything into darkness.

Two more somethings came through the windows and more glass shattered. A blast of rain and wind roared inside.

“What was that,” Hank asked.

“I didn’t hear any shots. All I know is De Florio’s out there somewhere.” He was trying to stay calm. He felt his pocket for the key to the Mustang. “Stay here. I’m going to the car. Maybe I can get them to go after me.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“Listen, Hank, we don’t have a chance together. We’re like fish in a barrel here. Separately, one of us might make it. Once I’m away you head out back. Use the boat down on the dock or swim if you have to. Now stay here till I’m gone.”

Before Hank could object he belly-crawled forward, slithering out of the great room and down a short hall toward the bedrooms. At the front door he stopped momentarily and checked the knob.

Locked. At least they couldn’t burst right in.

He noticed a brass stand next to the door.

Two umbrellas protruded along with what looked like a baseball bat.

He crawled closer. It was a bat. Metal. It might come in handy, so he gripped the stem and resumed his crawl.

He found one of the bedrooms, stood, and approached a solitary window.

Shoving the night table away, he unlocked the sash, popped out the screen, and, without giving himself time to be scared, leaped out onto the soaked ground.

The rain drenched him like a warm shower.

He hoped his exit had gone unnoticed. Luckily, the window faced dense woods on the side of the house.

He crouched low and used the thorny brush to cover his path back toward the front of the house and the Mustang.

No more glass had broken. But with all the thunder and rain it was hard to know for sure.

He searched the darkness ahead.

What had Joan Bates said? “ It’s not always smart to be headstrong. Sometimes the smarter course is to avoid a bad situation altogether. ”

Unfortunately, that was not an option tonight.

He caught movement in the dark. Had somebody moved toward the front door? A bolt of lightning flashed. An instance of brilliance confirmed the observation.

Definitely.

He headed toward the figure.

H ANK WAS MAD WITH HIMSELF FOR LETTING B RENT GO.

H E’D HEARD the window open and assumed Brent climbed out.

It wasn’t right for him to be taking all the risks.

He didn’t want his granddaughter never to know her natural father.

And his daughter could lose a chance at happiness with the man she truly loved.

He decided not to just sit huddled behind a sofa and started to crawl toward the front door.

Maybe he could make it to the truck. Brent might be right.

Separately they did have a better chance.

He unlocked and creaked open the front door, met immediately by a blast of warm wind and rain.

He stayed low and emerged onto the porch.

He used the two-by-four railing and thick wooden spindles for protection and peered into the blackness, sporadic flashes of lightning the only source of illumination.

No one was in sight, the truck just a few feet away.

He found his keys and started to stand.

A figure emerged from the woods and darted toward him.

Lightning flashed.

He saw the gun. Pointed at him.

And froze.

B RENT SPOTTED THE GUN.

Not thinking there may be others concealed in the thickets, he grasped the bat and shot around the far side of the truck.

His eyes were adjusted to the dark and he clearly saw the target.

The man, though, was in front of the truck and couldn’t see him, noise from the storm masking his approach across the graveled drive.

He cocked the bat and lunged forward.

One thrust and metal found its mark against the side of the head. The body crumpled to the mud. He stared down, bat re-cocked and ready.

“Damn, Brent. Thanks,” Hank said.

“You don’t follow orders, do you?”

“Is he dead?”

He bent down. Blood poured from the head wound, quickly dissolved by the rain. “Hard to tell.”

“Is it De Florio?”

He rolled the body over and shook his head.

A bullet ricocheted off the hood of the truck.

No retort accompanied the shot. He’d already noticed that the dead man’s gun was equipped with some sort of sound suppressor.

He ducked and grabbed the weapon. They bolted around the side of the house toward the lake.

Just as they rounded the corner, another bullet careered off the wood siding behind him.

He aimed the gun in his hand and sent a round back with a soft pop.

“Where are we going?” Hank asked.

“The boat.”

They sloshed through the mud, dodged trees, and ran for the dock.

He held on to the gun with one hand and ripped the canvas off the skiff with the other.

At the same time Hank untied the boat. He jumped in and hoped to God the outboard cranked.

If necessary, he’d paddle the thing. Anything just to get out of here.

He pulled the starter twice and, miraculously, the motor shot to life.

“Get in.”

Hank jumped down.

He twisted the outboard into gear and the skiff shot away from the dock toward the open lake.

T HE PHONE PULSED IN J ON’S HAND.

“Redbird is down. Possibly dead. But they are away, in the boat, headed for the intended location.”

He did not react to the news concerning Frank Barnard, though he was disturbed by the possible loss of another well-trained associate.

Obviously something had gone wrong. The idea had been to rattle Reed and Walker, isolate them without phones, then push them onto the lake.

The house was to appear to have been vandalized, which was why rocks were used on the windows.

A surreptitious check of the boat earlier revealed the outboard gassed and operational.

A perfect, and apparent, means of escape.

Also an easily explained theft. There was no time to criticize right now. He’d deal with any mistakes later.

“Go to your boat and follow. Stay close,” he made absolutely clear in a tone Victor Jacks should fear.

“Understood. They have a gun.”

Good to know.

Five hundred yards from shore, standing at the helm of a V-hull, camouflaged by darkness and the storm, Jon switched off the cellular phone.

Then he calmly waited in the rain for his prey to draw close.

B RENT brOUGHT THE SKIFF OUT OF THE COVE AND AROUND TO THE south and quickly grabbed his bearings.

He knew the county boat ramp lay about two miles west, an infinite number of landing points in between.

He decided to head for the ramp. That area was heavily populated and the more people, the fewer chances De Florio and his goons would have to make a move.

The eight-foot skiff was nearly inadequate against the stormy chop, its flat bottom taking a beating from the waves.

Hank sat near the bow while he operated the outboard from the stern.

He still held the gun. It was hard to see far in any direction so he navigated by his wits and the occasional help lightning provided.

“This is not the place to be in the middle of an electrical storm,” Hank yelled.