Theaella

41

The shot sailed past the bodyguard’s ear, shattering the polished windshield.

The bodyguard turned to stare at the Town Car in disbelief. By the time he tensed to run, Matthew had partially regained his focus. He squinted to bring the two images of the bodyguard into one and found the forehead once again. The next round splattered the hood.

Gritting his teeth, Matthew rotated to the courtyard again. An ache started up at the back of his head where he’d cracked it on the asphalt.

Pandemonium had erupted in the restaurant, the patrons pouring out. He’d counted on the crowd response, bystanders going one way, bodyguards the other.

Each party ran the pattern as predicted, but to Matthew’s view they looked like smudges of color. Sweat trickled down his forehead; he armed it away before it could reach his eyes.

Slowing his breaths and trying to fight off his nausea, Matthew locked the sights on a single point of entry for the courtyard. From here there were no tricky adjustments; if he could manage to hold position, he’d be able to get it done. As he’d anticipated, Petro’s cries drew his remaining men in neat succession, Matthew head-shotting them in order. The men piled across the courtyard, heaped on top of one another, the last falling across Petro and pinning him to the ground.

Petro’s face had turned to a blurry oval. Then it floated apart like a cell dividing. A ghost image of Petro hovered above the man himself, a spirit debating whether to depart. Sweat stung Matthew’s eyes. He laid the crosshairs on the nose of what he took to be the real Petro, blew out a breath, squeezed off his final round.

And missed.

A spray of chips flew up from the flagstones, shredding Petro’s ear. He twisted around and dug at the ground with his fingernails, trying to worm his way out from beneath the bodies.

Aggravated, Matthew reached back to the rope bag on his right thigh and freed a lengthy two-inch-thick hawser rope. It unfurled to the side of the platform, feeding out until the bottom whip-snapped up and then settled to sway a foot above the sidewalk.

Nice to see that even Trevon could make a twelve-inch miscalculation.

Matthew had already set the anchor in the platform, so he simply rolled off the side, leaving the rifle behind as he fell. Cinching the rope between his gloves and the insteps of his boots, he fast-roped down. The sandstone whirred by as he kissed thirty miles per hour, a firehouse-pole slide. The pavement flew up and caught him, a healthy jolt to the ankles and knees, and he flung the gloves from his hands with a single violent shake. They lay on the sidewalk, steaming with friction heat.

Roughly a half second had elapsed since he’d un-assed from the platform.

He took an instant for the pavement to stop spinning from the sudden exertion. The headache expanded, a pressure at the temples.

Finish it, he thought. Then you can rest all you want.

Despite the steel shanks, warmth rose through the soles of his Original S.W.A.T.s. His hands gleamed white from the latex gloves he’d worn beneath the aviators.

As part of his prep, he’d sliced and restitched his sand-tan combat shirt and cargo pants to make them tearaway, and he ripped them off now, a quick snap of his fists that left the fabric pooled on the ground. Beneath he wore a gray V-neck and jeans.

No passersby. No rubberneckers in the cars drifting past. The few people across the street remained distracted by the commotion over at the Three Monkeys Café.

Matthew dug a Baggie out of the front pocket of his jeans. A wad of moist baby wipes waited inside. He freed a few and swiped at his face, brisk scrubs that cleared the cammy paint.

As he stepped off the curb, crossing the street to the restaurant, he looked like an ordinary pedestrian. His gait was unsteady, so he took great care to even it out.

He entered the side door to the kitchen. After the gunfire it had been abandoned hastily. Plates of lavash basked on the counters beneath heating lamps. Pans remained on the burners, hissing garlic steam. A pot boiled over, sizzling on orange coils. He felt the glare of the overheads in his spinal cord.

As Matthew passed through, he turned the oven knobs off.

He emerged onto the main floor. Chairs knocked over, tables shoved clear, a high heel on its side.

Through the French doors, he could see the heap of bodies he’d left. The remains of Petro’s men.

Matthew unholstered his ARES and stepped into the courtyard. The air felt humid, trapped sweat and spilled blood heated by the midday sun. The nausea swelled. His stomach thought about lurching, but he did not allow it.

Petro faced away, still clawing at the flagstones, trying to pull himself out from beneath the last of his fallen bodyguards. Given the destruction of his right arm, he was making little headway. One of his buffed fingernails had snapped off and lay shimmering on the ground, an ivory curl.

He was moaning repetitively. A fine mist of blood speckled the side of that glorious silver hair.

In Vincent the Terror, Jack had thought he was facing one problem. It had led to a second problem in Petro.

Soon there would be no problems.

Matthew was close enough now to offset the effects of the concussion. He raised the 1911, thumbed off the safety.

At the click Petro froze.

Then he rolled onto his side, regarding Matthew over his shoulder. None of that well-cultivated confidence was on display, not anymore. Above Petro’s biceps tattered cashmere fluttered at the edges of the wound. A pair of reading glasses had spilled from his breast pocket and lay shattered on the ground beside him. The bent wire frames lent a small touch of humanity to the gruesome tableau.

At the end Petro was just a man, like so many Matthew had walked past on the street or ridden next to on the subway or put in the earth.