The firing range door opens, and the two guards walk quickly to the staircase at the opposite end of the room. After they’ve gone, Brody looks at Caitlin and says, “I’m listening.”
Caitlin looks so shamefully resigned that a terrifying notion comes to me. Has she known the real name all along? Has she forced us to endure this in an effort to protect Henry’s witness? The “friend” who held his silence for forty-one years? With a rush of clarity I understand how she could justify such a thing. If she believed we were going to die no matter what, better to die saving the one man who might someday send Royal to death row for his crimes. Only now that we truly stand at the threshold of the abyss, she can’t resist the hope that giving Royal what he wants might spare us terrible pain, if not our lives.
Brody leans toward her like a Hollywood vampire, his cold eyes burning into hers, searching for deception. “Don’t lie to me, child. You’ll burn if you lie.”
Her chin is quivering, and when she speaks, two wheezing syllables emerge, but I can’t make them out. Neither can Royal, because he leans still closer and says, “Once more, dear.”
As the last syllable leaves Brody’s lips, Caitlin catches his shoulder and spins him against her with feline quickness. The bright steel of Pithy’s razor flashes beneath his chin as she lays the blade against his throat.
Regan knocks me aside and tries to get close enough for a shot, but Brody throws up a hand to stop him. As would I. Gone from her eyes is the dull glaze of a moment ago. Now they glow with green fire, and she holds the straight razor against his pulsing throat with the sure hand of an executioner.
“Get back,” she warns, her voice like a second blade. Her eyes drill into Regan’s. “Give Penn your cell phone. If you don’t, I’m going to lay open his windpipe and sever his carotid.”
Regan looks to Brody for guidance.
“I’ll paint this fucking floor with his blood,” Caitlin promises.
When Royal starts to speak, Caitlin slices his neck above the jugular. A dark rivulet of blood rolls down to his shirt collar. “The phone, moron,” she says, tucking her head behind Royal’s for protection. “Do you recognize this blade, Brody? The handle says ‘A Lady’s Best Friend.’ Sound familiar?”
The old man looks almost hypnotized by her words.
“Nobody’s giving you a phone,” Brody rasps, his eyes regaining focus and confidence. “Randall, put your gun to the mayor’s head.”
Regan presses the barrel of his Glock against my right temple.
“Count to ten, then blow his brains out.”
Caitlin’s jaw is set tight with purpose, but I see doubt in her eyes. Even if Regan can’t see the same, I sense that she’s already lost the initiative. At least she tried—
“I’m counting to five,” Caitlin snaps, before Regan even starts counting. “Then it’s hog-killing time. ONE—”
“What do I do?” Regan cries, his Glock scraping against my temple.
For the first time I see fear in Brody’s eyes. He knows there’s nothing more dangerous than a cornered animal.
“Give him your phone!” Caitlin screams. “And your gun. TWO!”
Blood rolls steadily down Royal’s neck.
Turning my head slightly to the right, I say, “Give me the gun, man.”
Regan’s eyes are filled with indecision. He jumps at the sound of a closing door.
Caitlin whips her head around Brody’s, her eyes wild with suspicion. To my right, the van crew has slipped back into the basement. Probably drawn from upstairs by the screaming. Caitlin curses and drags Brody backward, into the corner shooting station. Crew Cut heads for the firing range door, while the older man takes a pistol from his belt and moves cautiously closer to Caitlin, angling for a shot.
“Watch that guy!” I tell her, pointing at the man making for the door.
“THREE!” Caitlin cries, her eyes jittery. “FOUR—”
“Stop!” Brody screams. “Put down your guns! Give Cage the phone. Stay out of there, Dwayne!”
The Glock’s barrel falls away from my temple.
Caitlin’s eyes flick back and forth, trying to read every intention. As Regan digs in his pocket for his cell phone, Brody sags with relief, then cracks his elbow into Caitlin’s ribs and tries to wrench himself away. With a cry she rips the razor upward, spraying blood—and then they are two, not one.
Brody’s shirt is a fountain of scarlet, and blood pours through his hands, which are at his throat. I leap forward to shield Caitlin, afraid Regan will shoot her outright, but he appears stunned by the sight of Royal frantically probing the wound in his neck. Caitlin still has the razor in her hand, but it’s useless now, except as a tool for suicide. Crew Cut and his partner have now trained their guns on us. They walk forward, bodies turned at an angle, lining up their shots. When I turn and find Caitlin’s eyes, I see something I’d rather have died than witness: despair.
“Take them into the range!” Brody bellows, still probing his lacerated neck.
“Are you all right?” Randall asks, incredulous.
“I will be. Get me some goddamn superglue!”
Energized, Regan yells, “Put the mayor on the chain! The bitch gets the pole!”
This is the end. As Crew Cut reaches me, I grab his gun and twist hard enough to tear ligaments from bone. He shrieks, and my left hand closes firmly around cold steel. I sense more than see Caitlin flailing the razor to my left, but then something crashes into my neck, stunning me nearly senseless. I try once more to twist the gun free, but a second blow batters my skull, blotting out the light.
CHAPTER 92