Hunted
Autore
Jo Leigh
Letto da
16,9K
Capitoli
18
Prologue
The wrong man was dying.
Mike McCullough watched his partner from behind the washing machine crates. Gordon was lying on the concrete floor, not more than ten feet away, a dark pool of blood growing beneath his left ear.
It should have been me, Mike thought. I should have taken that bullet. It would have been better for everyone.
The warehouse was as dark and quiet as a crypt. The only sound Mike heard was his own labored breathing. Mojo had been silent ever since he’d delivered the last barrage, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t moving. The shots had come from across the cavernous room, the report echoing like thunder in a canyon. Mike had yelled when Gordon hit the floor. Yelled until he was sure Gordon couldn’t answer him. Mojo could have run then. He could be right behind this pallet.
Mike reached inside his pants pocket and pulled out his wallet. He tossed it underhanded so it landed with a skid about fifteen feet from Gordon. Instantly, a shower of gunfire lifted the wallet and sent it skittering across the floor. By the time it came to a halt just inches from his hiding place, it was in shreds. It had served its purpose though. Mojo was behind the refrigerators across the way, deep in shadow. Mike knew there was no way to move from his position. He would be cut down in seconds.
He leaned back, rested his head on the stacked crates and tried to slow his rapid pulse. His .45 was in his right hand, the safety off, a full clip engaged, another in his shirt pocket. He flexed his thigh muscles, trying to ease the tension from standing so still. He glanced again at Gordon—no need to watch him dying any more. That part was over. All Mike had to do now was get his revenge.
The sound of a shoe squeaking on the concrete caught Mike’s attention. He should wait. Backup was on the way. Gordon had called in their position before they’d entered the warehouse. Mojo was alone, with a limited supply of ammunition.
Seconds ticked by in absolute silence. Mike breathed through his mouth while he studied the black shadows that hid the enemy. It was cold, maybe fifteen degrees. Where was that son of a bitch?
He switched his gun to his left hand and swiped his right on his pant leg. When it was dry, he took the weapon back, curling his finger around the trigger. Damn it. Why didn’t Mojo move?
Morris Jones, alias Mojo. Bank robber. Kidnapper. Killer. He’d torn up Boulder like a tornado, leaving pain and destruction in his wake. Two weeks ago he’d broken into the home of Colorado Federal Bank president Jim Greer. He’d held Greer’s wife and child hostage while Greer took three-hundred-thousand dollars worth of cash and bearer bonds from the safe. The FBI had taken charge. By the time it was all over, Greer, his wife and their son were all dead, tossed on the side of a farm-to-market road like garbage. Mojo had his money, and the FBI had excuses.
Then Mike had picked up his trail. Gordon had tried to tell him to wait for the rest of the team, but Mike hadn’t listened. Now Gordon was dead.
Mike leaned to the left, until he could peek around the edge of the crates. Nothing. His eyes hurt from the strain of staring into the shadows.
At first, he thought he’d imagined the sirens. But no, they were coming closer. Then the red spit of gunfire lit up the night, and he felt the impact of bullets smash into the heavy crates behind his shoulder. Ducking down, he waited as the volley of automatic weapon fire slammed all around him. He had just enough time to send his wife and son a silent goodbye. Then he hit the floor, rolling away from his cover, squeezing the trigger as he spun. He heard a scream, but he kept firing, aiming straight at the mouth of the gunfire. His arm jerked with the recoil as he used his left hand to push himself to his feet. He ran straight, the gun an extension of his body.
“Come on, you bastard!” Mike yelled, not able to hear his own words as the roar of gunfire filled the warehouse. “Come and get me!”
He nearly fell over Mojo. In the seconds it took to get his bearings, his mind registered the sirens just outside. He saw the Uzi machine gun near Mojo’s outstretched hand and he kicked it hard. It slid across the floor, but Mike didn’t bother noticing where it landed. He planted his feet wide apart and pointed the muzzle of his gun at Mojo’s head.
“FBI! Mike, where are you?” The voice carried from across the huge room.
“Over here, Tommy,” Mike yelled. “I've got him. Get an ambulance. Gordon is down.”
Mike ignored the activity at the door. He focused on one thing only. That Morris Jones didn’t move a muscle. The overhead lights came on, blinding him momentarily. When he could see, he wished for the darkness.
Mojo wasn’t dead. He was smiling. Staring right into his eyes and grinning. Mike shivered involuntarily and straightened his aim.
“You better pull that trigger, McCullough.” His voice was sharp and high, like a scrape on a chalkboard.
“Shut up.”
“Pull it now. Do it.”
Mike didn’t respond.
Mojo’s eyes narrowed, and the smile left his lips. “I'll find you. No matter where you run. You're a dead man.”
* * *
It was dawn when he pulled into his driveway. All he wanted was a hot shower. He was bone cold. The heater in his Dodge had only managed to make him sleepy. His fingers were so stiff, he had a hard time gripping the door handle. When he stepped out of the car, he noticed the newspaper boy had already been there. Ice formed a diaphanous blanket over the lawn, made visible by the strip of orange sunlight at the edge of the horizon. It looked like it might snow.
The house was dark, but Mike didn’t flip on the hall light. Walking softly, he shrugged out of his coat as he crossed the living room. When he reached the dining room, he listened for a minute. It was as quiet in his home as it had been at the warehouse. But there was a safety in this silence. His wife and child were in their beds, blissfully unaware of how close they’d come to losing him. Becky would figure it out when he told her about Gordon. She would look at him with wounded, frightened eyes. She would ask him again to quit the bureau. He would want to say yes, want to please her. But he wouldn’t.
He reached for the light switch. The first thing he saw was the birthday cake on the table. God, he’d forgotten. He hadn’t even picked up a card for her. One piece had been sliced out—the B of her name and half a flower gone. The candles were still imbedded in frosting. Becky had baked her own cake.
On the walls, he saw pictures of cakes and party hats. All drawn with the fierce crayon of his seven-year-old. Bold black lines filled in with improbable colors. Happy misspelled. Then there were the photographs. All of happier times. There was Sam at his first birthday. Amy on a tricycle, before she’d gotten sick. Becky with a backpack in Estes Park. Him smiling.
He put his coat over a chair and cut off a slab of cake. Then he saw the envelope. His name, in Becky’s handwriting, was written across the front. He sat. For a moment, he just looked at his plate and felt his stomach tighten.
He picked up the envelope and ripped away the edge. There was a single sheet of paper inside.
Mike, I can’t take it anymore. Sam and I have gone to stay with my father. It’s not that you missed my birthday. That didn’t even surprise me. But I can’t stay here and wait for you to get yourself killed. I can’t go another night waiting for that phone call. I'm sorry. I tried.
She’d signed it Becky. As if he wouldn’t know who’d just ripped his heart out.
