Chapter 115
T HE MOB HITTERS, if that’s who they were, fired on us too. Sampson and I shot back at them. And so did the Butcher.
I hit a guy in a leather trench coat ? the one with the Uzi, my first target.
The gunman spun around and dropped to the dirt, but then he raised the Uzi to fire again. He got hit square in the chest with a round, and the force knocked him flat. I wasn’t the one who shot him though. Maybe Sampson?
Or was it Sullivan who’d shot him?
The darkness was a serious hazard to everybody. Bullets were flying everywhere, slugs of lead slamming into trees, ricocheting off rocks. It was total chaos and bedlam, hair-raising, death-defying madness being played out in the dark.
The Mafia thugs were fanning out, trying to create space between themselves, which would be even more trouble for us.
Sullivan had run to his left and was using the trees and shadows for some cover.
Sampson and I tried to hide ourselves as best we could behind skinny evergreens.
I was afraid we would die here; it felt like it could happen. Too many shots were being fired in too tight an area. This was a kill zone. It was like being heavily armed but up against a firing squad.
A Mafia hitter emptied his Bull Pup at the Butcher. I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t think he got his target.
He didn’t, because Sullivan popped right up and shot the mob guy as he scurried back toward the safety of the woods. The shooter let out a scream, and then he was quiet. I thought that three of the mob soldiers had been shot so far. Sampson and I weren’t hit, but we hadn’t been primary targets.
Now what? Who would make the next move? Sullivan? John or me?
Then something strange ? I heard a boy’s voice. A tiny voice called out, “Dad! Dad! Where are you, Dad?”