Chapter Ninety-One
The twisted faces of the killers glared through the curved windshield of the truck. I raised my gun, held it steady as I could. Jamilla and Kyle did the same. The black Ford truck kept coming fast, almost as if they were daring us to shoot. So we fired. The windshield splintered. Bullets pinged off the roof and hood. The roar of the guns was deafening in my ears. The acrid smell of cordite filled my nostrils. Suddenly, the truck stopped, then shot into reverse. I kept shooting, trying to hit the driver as the target distanced itself, the vehicle backing away, veering left then right then left. I took off, running up the hill, my legs leery, as if my shoes held lead weights. I couldn't let them get away. We'd come too far, gotten too close. These two would kill again, and again. They were madmen, monsters, and so was whoever had sent them on their mission. Jamilla and Kyle were climbing up the steep, grassy terrain a few steps behind me. The three of us seemed to be moving in slow motion. The pickup truck was weaving wildly, its rear end fishtailing. I was hoping, praying that it would flip as it climbed in reverse up the steep side of the hill. I heard the grinding of gears and suddenly the truck flew forward. It was coming at us again, picking up speed. I went down on one knee, aimed carefully, and put three shots into the windshield. The glass was blown away. 'Alex, get out of the way!' Jamilla shouted. 'Alex, move it! Now! Alex!' The pickup kept coming. I didn't move away. I put a shot right
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where I figured the driver had to be. Then another. Then the final shot in my clip. The big black truck was almost on top of me. I thought that I could feel heat from the engine. My face and neck were in a sweat. I had the irrational thought that a vampire can only be killed by a stake, fire, or by destroying its domain. I didn't believe in vampires. I believed in evil, though. I had seen it enough times to believe. The two brothers were twisted murderers. That's all they were. I jumped sideways just before the pickup would have run me down. I rushed down the hillside behind the truck. I was hoping it would flip - and then it did! I felt like shouting. The truck bounced heavily on its side, then on its roof - then continued to roll over several times. Finally it stopped, resting on its passenger side, teetering slightly. Black smoke coiled up from the engine. No one got out at first. Then the younger brother climbed out of one door. His face was streaked with blood and soot. He didn't speak, just glared at us, and then he roared like an animal. It seemed as if he had gone insane. 'Don't make us shoot you!'I shouted at him. He didn't seem to hear. He was in a blind rage. Michael Alexander wore long, sharp canine fangs, and they were bloody. His own blood? His eyes were red.'You shot William! You killed my brother!' he shrieked at us.'You murdered him. He was better than all of you!' Then he charged - and I couldn't bring myself to shoot. Michael Alexander was insane; he wasn't responsible anymore. He kept growling, frothing at the mouth. His eyes were wild, rolling in their sockets. Every muscle on his body was tightly flexed. I couldn't kill this tortured man-child. I braced myself to tackle him. I hoped I could bring him down. Then Kyle fired - once. The shot struck him where his nose had been just an instant before. A dark, bloody hole appeared at the center of his face. There was no surprise or shock, just sudden obliteration. Then he crumpled to the ground. There was no doubt he was dead. I had been wrong about Kyle - he could shoot. He was an expert,
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full of surprises. I needed to think about that, but not right now. Suddenly, I heard another voice. It was coming from inside the pickup. Someone was trapped. William? Was the brother alive? I approached the overturned vehicle slowly, gun in hand. The engine was still smoking. I was afraid the truck might blow. I climbed onto the teetering wreck and managed to pull open a bent, badly damaged door. I saw William - shot to death, his face a sorry, bloody mask. Then I found myself staring into the angriest, most arrogant eyes. I recognized them immediately. It was almost impossible to shock me anymore, but this was another jolt.'So you're the one,'I said. 'You killed them, and you will be killed,'a voice threatened.'You'll die. You will die. Cross!' I was looking at Peter Westin, the vampire expert I'd met weeks before in Santa Barbara. He was cut-up, injured and bleeding. But he was in total control, even with my gun aimed at his face. He was cool and superior, so confident. I remembered sitting across from him at the Davidson Library up in Santa Barbara. He had told me he was a real vampire. I guess I believed him now. I finally found the right words.'You're the Sire.'
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