The Betrayer (35 page)

Jeremy was slightly built, but he was fast — a fighter plane to Gregorian’s bomber. The average person can run twenty-one feet in a second and half, but Jeremy, even in his current condition, could cover that distance in half that time. He veered to the left to avoid the lumbering Russian — a rabbitlike sudden change of direction that gave Johnny the gap he needed to charge between the two.

He did so just in time to duck low and drive his shoulder into Gregorian’s knees — a sacrifice move that would likely knock Johnny over as well, he knew, considering Gregorian’s size and momentum, but it was the surest way to prevent the man from reaching his objective.

As Johnny connected with his target, the man tripped. Johnny landed on his side, hitting the sidewalk hard, and a second later, Gregorian came crashing down, too.

The Russian stretched out his hands in an effort to catch himself and prevent his fall, but his weight worked against him and his arms collapsed and folded. He hit the concrete face-first, the dull thud his solid body made upon contact as loud as a car door slamming shut.

Johnny scrambled to his feet. He wasn’t about to wrestle with the man — mount his back and go for a choke hold or an arm bar. This was combat: maim or be maimed, kill or be killed. Standing over Gregorian, he quickly stomp-kicked the back of the Russian’s head with the heel of his boot. Once, then again, then a third time. Each blow bounced the Russian’s head off the concrete and cut a fresh divot out of his scalp.

By the third blow, the man was stunned, and that was good enough for Johnny.

He turned to find his brother in the chaos and saw instead the woman’s handgun on the sidewalk just feet from him. She had either dropped it or Jeremy had managed to disarm her. The two were struggling for control of the knife, which Jeremy had lunged toward her heart — a foolish gesture, indicative of his rage as much as his lack of training. Knives were for slicing, at least initially. Jeremy’s lunge had allowed the woman to grab his wrist with both hands — the very reason why one didn’t lunge — and that had caused him to grab, in turn, one of her wrists with his free hand and attempt to pry it free.

All this did was to create a brief stalemate.

But brief was all the woman needed.

Jeremy was fixated on breaking free of her hold so he could stick the knife into her heart — that was all he wanted now — but the woman was better trained and knew that she needed to break the stalemate. She quickly launched a head butt, striking Jeremy in the nose with the top of her forehead. The blow dazed him and blood suddenly began streaming from his nostrils, but he still hung on to her wrist, still wanted nothing more than to yank free, pierce her sternum, and plunge every inch of the blade into her heart.

The woman threw another head butt, this one landing just below Jeremy’s left eye. Though technically a miss, it stunned Jeremy just enough to allow her to free one of her hands and expertly knock the knife from his grip. She followed this up by sweeping one of Jeremy’s feet out from under him, compromising his balance and causing him to fall backward to the pavement. She dropped down to a crouch as he fell and reclaimed her semiautomatic with her gloved hand just as he landed.

But before she could take aim, Johnny was all over her.

He caught her by surprise, hip-checked her so her own balance was compromised, then grabbed the long barrel of the gun and turned it, applying a wristlock. He didn’t hold back at all, but spun himself around nearly 180 degrees to add as much torque as possible as he hyperextended her joint.

He heard the snap of bone and the woman cry out.

Johnny stepped away, the semiautomatic he had pried from her hand now in his. He was about to turn his attention from the face-down Russian and the woman beside him to the third threat — Smith, bringing up the rear — when he heard the first shot.

Not the muffled puff of a handgun fitted with a suppressor, but a sharp, startling crack.
Though the sound was initially loud, the falling rain absorbed it before it could echo down the canyon of five-story buildings.

Johnny turned in the direction of the sound — not just his head but his entire body. He was behind the gun, crouched slightly, knees bent, elbows tucked. Smith was still moving toward them, was himself in the stance of an experienced shooter.

Smith fired a second shot. Johnny was unable to determine the man’s actual target — his aim seemed to be not at Johnny, but rather a few feet above the fallen woman. That made no sense, though. Johnny’s vision had to be worse than he feared, or the sheets of rain were causing some kind of distortion. Smith was about to fire a third when he saw Johnny facing him. His mouth dropped open, and he suddenly held up his left hand as if telling Johnny to wait.

Johnny had seen that before, had seen grown men, when face-to-face with death, instantly lose their nerve and call for a time-out like a child on the playground. But Johnny ignored that, just as he had been trained to do. He placed the tip of his index finger on the trigger and gently tapped it three times.

Two for the chest and one for the head, but Johnny couldn’t tell which of the shots found its target.

All he knew was that Smith immediately dropped into a heap onto the rain-swept sidewalk.

Johnny spun on his heels and looked again at Gregorian and the woman.

Gregorian was still down — moving, though barely, like a drunk slowly waking. Blood was mixing with the puddles around his face, and several irregular shapes of something white stood out on the dark concrete.

Pieces of Gregorian’s teeth, no doubt.

Johnny realized then that Jeremy had gotten up and was moving toward the woman. She had fallen down on her side, was cradling her broken wrist and looking up at Jeremy — at the knife he had reclaimed — with terror in her eyes.

The semiautomatic in his right hand, Johnny grabbed Jeremy by the belt with his left just as Jeremy was about to deliver a fatal blow. Johnny began pulling him away, and Jeremy, bent at the waist, screamed out, “No!” He was in a crazed state, desperate to break free, tugging against Johnny with all his weight.

Johnny had seen this before — bloodlust, fed by adrenaline and fear, that bordered on a psychotic break. He’d seen men — decent men — do terrible things in this state, things the men had difficulty living with once the adrenaline passed.

He himself had killed three men with his bare hands in this very state. Haley had seen him do it — had seen him shift from the tender man she was falling in love with to a cornered wild animal.

An animal that had saved both their lives.

But Johnny had done what he did so that he and Haley could flee to safety.

And though Jeremy’s blood was anything but cold now, killing when one didn’t have to — when one could easily run — would have nonetheless been a cold-blooded act.

Jeremy knew sides of himself that others would never have to face, including Johnny. He knew darkness in a way Johnny hoped never to know it. But Johnny knew that Jeremy didn’t need to add vengeful killer to his internal catalog of sins.

Johnny was able to take several steps before Jeremy dug deep and found a wave of strength. He nearly broke free of Johnny’s grip; Johnny responded by slipping the handgun into his belt, then grabbing Jeremy by the forearm and spinning him till they were facing each other. He let go of the belt and grabbed Jeremy by the wrists.

Though they were face-to-face, Jeremy was still looking at the fallen woman.

“She killed her,” he pleaded. “She killed Beth.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Johnny said.

“Let me go.”

Johnny didn’t. He took the knife from Jeremy’s hand as gently as he could, then placed it into his back pocket and began guiding his brother away. Jeremy struggled and came close to breaking free again, which required Johnny to grab him once more by the belt, this time with his right hand.

He dragged Jeremy to the corner, but either he was getting weaker or his brother was getting stronger, because Johnny’s forward motion suddenly began to slow.

He felt as if he were moving against the current of a fast-moving river.

His vision began blurring around the edges, and despite the cold rain that had soaked his clothes and hair, his face was burning.

Finally Johnny gave up trying to pull Jeremy. He moved around his brother, putting himself between him and their attackers.

It was the only way to get his brother’s attention.

“We have to get out of here,” Johnny said.

“She’s the one. She killed Beth.”

“We have to go, Jeremy.”

“Go. Leave me.”

Johnny shook his brother. “Jeremy, there’s a dead cop back there.”

The words slowed Jeremy, but only slightly. “I don’t care.”

“We have to go. I killed a cop. We have to go. Now.”

Jeremy was trying to look around Johnny, desperate to see the woman. He didn’t dare lose sight of her now that he was so close.

“She’s the one,” he said.

Johnny kept himself within Jeremy’s line of sight.

“Look at me,” Johnny said. “Look at me.”

Jeremy reluctantly met his brother’s eyes.

“I shot a cop, Jeremy,” he said calmly. “Do you understand what that means? We can’t stay here. We have to go.”

Though Jeremy seemed to comprehend what Johnny was telling him, he could not let go of his obsession.

“She beat her, Johnny. She
beat
her.”

Johnny gave up trying to reason with Jeremy and began to shove him toward the corner. Jeremy looked at his older brother — there was surprise in his eyes, but there was also hurt, frustration, panic. This was unfair, this wasn’t right — Johnny could read Jeremy’s mind now but he also didn’t care. Couldn’t care. He shoved Jeremy again, saw Jeremy’s eyes go toward the woman less than a quarter of a block away.

He also saw Jeremy’s expression suddenly shift.

His face went blank and his jaw dropped.

Johnny turned, but it was too late.

The woman was kneeling beside the still semiconscious Gregorian. She had rolled him onto his side, and a handgun — Gregorian’s, no doubt — was in her left hand.

Though too dazed to hold the gun steady and take careful aim, she nonetheless began firing.

Several wild shots, one right after another.

Jeremy felt as if he had been hit in the thigh with a baseball bat.

He dropped instantly and felt a searing pain, as if someone had driven a red-hot spike into his flesh.

And then he was hit again, this time in the chest.

Like the blunt end of a sledgehammer head catching him straight on.

Suddenly he could hear nothing. He was flat on his back and could see Johnny above him, watched as he returned the dark-haired woman’s fire — three shots, then three shots again.

But something was wrong. Johnny kept opening and closing his eyes as if he were trying to clear his vision. He wasn’t aiming so much as laying down cover fire — as if, for whatever reason, he knew he couldn’t hit the woman, but he could drive her back with a barrage of bullets sent in her general direction.

Then Johnny abruptly stopped firing. He ducked low, grabbed Jeremy by his shirt collar, and dragged him the rest of the way around the corner.

Johnny was kneeling beside Jeremy, leaning over him, grabbing at Jeremy’s hands and saying something. It took a few seconds for Jeremy to comprehend what it was his brother was telling him.

“Press down! Press down!”

Johnny wanted Jeremy to apply pressure to his own chest wound.

Grabbing Jeremy’s collar again, Johnny dragged him farther down the sidewalk, putting even more distance between them and the corner. He pulled Jeremy till he simply couldn’t anymore.

Stopping, Johnny knelt and scrambled to remove his belt, then secured it tightly around Jeremy’s thigh.

Jeremy cried out and made the mistake of looking at his wound. The leg of his jeans was stained red from his crotch to below his knee.

And the stain was quickly spreading.

Jeremy suddenly felt very cold.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Jesus.”

Johnny was speaking as he examined Jeremy’s chest wound. Again, Jeremy couldn’t hear a word. Johnny looked Jeremy in the eye and leaned close.

He repeated himself, and somehow his words punched through the ringing silence.

“Collarbone, not chest.”

Despite his condition, Jeremy knew what his brother was telling him.

Not lungs, not heart, just muscle and bone.

The pain was nonetheless unbearable.

Then Johnny spoke again, and Jeremy looked close and read his brother’s lips.

“Get up! Get up!”

Johnny grabbed Jeremy’s left arm and wrapped it around his own neck, then stood, lifting Jeremy to his feet and, once they were up, carried him along.

Just like their father had.

But they barely took a half dozen steps, Jeremy hopping on one foot, before the kid stumbled and pulled Johnny down with him.

They fell together, landed hard, but Johnny immediately recovered and helped Jeremy up again. They struggled to cover maybe two or three more yards, then took another tumble to the sidewalk.

“Go,” Jeremy muttered.

“No way,” was all Johnny said.

Johnny glanced back toward the corner. Still hanging on to Jeremy’s wrist with his right hand, he hooked his left forearm beneath the knee of Jeremy’s wounded leg. He struggled to lift Jeremy, but as slight as Jeremy was, he was still too heavy, and Johnny was just too spent — a runner who could run no more. Whatever had gotten his older brother this far was gone.

Still, Johnny wasn’t done.

He let go of Jeremy and got to his feet, could do that much, could place himself between his brother and the corner twenty paces away.

Wavering a bit and out of breath, but standing, waiting.

Jeremy’s eyes went to the semiautomatic in Johnny’s hand. The slide had kicked back into the open position, which meant that Johnny had emptied the gun while shooting at the dark-haired woman. Johnny saw this, too, and placed the gun into the waistband of his jeans, then reached for the knife in his back pocket.

Johnny began to move toward the corner, had to get closer in case the dark-haired woman appeared.

Close enough to use the knife.

And just as Johnny moved, Jeremy saw the woman.

Staggering, a grimace of determination on her face, she rounded the corner.

Closing the brief distance between them, she raised her left arm, this time taking careful aim at Johnny’s head.

Johnny broke into a sprint — or as close to it as he could now get.

He got low, requiring her to adjust her aim.

All she needed was one shot.

They were ten paces apart. She had Johnny dead in her sights.

And as suddenly as it had gone, Jeremy’s hearing returned.

The crashing of the falling rain was all he heard at first, as steady as static.

It was quickly disrupted by the sound of a single gunshot.