“Stay where you are,” Brody says, watching the ceiling like an astronomer trying to decipher unexpected celestial movements. “It’s too late to run anyway.”
“But—”
“Shut up, damn you! Listen.”
CHAPTER 94
HENRY SEXTON FELT like he was trapped in a childhood nightmare, so slowly did his body obey his brain. The gunfight had started in the hall, as soon as Sleepy Johnston tried and failed to respond to a question called by one of the guards to “Lee”—who now lay dead out by the road. Sleepy had already fired half a clip, crossing the hall to another bedroom as he did, trying to get a clean shot at the men at the end of the dark corridor. A man had screamed down there, and Henry hoped he’d been hit, but he couldn’t be sure.
“Henry!” Johnston screamed from across the hall. “Need some help here!”
When Henry finally reached the bedroom door, three shots blasted from the end of the hall, and splinters of Sheetrock stung his eyes. Sleepy let off two quick shots in return, and something fell heavily down the hall.
“Don’t fire!” Sleepy shouted, and then he rushed into the hall, firing as he ran. As Henry peeked out, four shots exploded from the direction of the TV room. Something punched his left shoulder, and wetness ran down the left side of his rib cage. He looked down. Dark blood covered the white plaster of his cast.
Not again, he thought dully.
Henry backed into the bedroom, wobbling as he went, then fell on his ass. From the noise in the hall, Sleepy seemed to be holding his own, but then everything went quiet. That silence filled Henry with dread. If Sleepy was dead, he’d never make it out, either.
He heard footsteps creeping up the hallway.
“I’m empty!” Sleepy shouted, his voice desperate. “Now or never, Henry!”
Swearing to himself, Henry scrabbled to his knees, then knee-walked to the open door, twisted to his right, and fired blindly at a figure only ten feet away.
The shotgun roared, then roared again, lighting the hall with fire. The dark figure hurtled backward and fell heavily to the floor. A forearm rose like a flag of surrender, but then Henry saw a pistol in its hand. He shut his eyes and fired twice more, then began crawling forward.
“Sleepy?” he called. “Where are you?”
Johnston stepped out of a door to Henry’s left, his dark face covered with white dust. “Jesus, man, you sure took your time.” He carefully pulled Henry to his feet. “They got your shoulder, looks like. Hurt bad?”
Henry shook his head. “I can’t really feel it yet. I’ve got a lot of drugs in me.”
Sleepy looked down at the gunman lying nearest them. Henry followed his gaze. At least one of Henry’s shots had taken the man dead center. Dead, he thought, thankful that his emotions were dulled by chemicals.
“We’d better move,” Sleepy said. “Shouldn’t be anybody left but Mr. Royal and his son-in-law, if that guy outside told the truth. But if we don’t find that basement quick, they’ll be gone and your friends dead.”
A searing pain arced through Henry’s abdomen, and the OxyContin didn’t blunt it at all. Either his knife wound had reopened, or something else was going on. As he tried to gather himself, the hand that held his mother’s shotgun began to shake.
“Let’s go,” he gasped, after he got his breath. “You’re right. I don’t think we have much time.”
CHAPTER 95
WHILE THE GUNS thundered upstairs, Royal told his son-in-law that if the FBI had come, there was no point trying to break out. Better to wait for an arrest and try to find a way to flee the country. But as he listened to the pounding of feet, the quick pops of pistols, and the muffled roar of a shotgun, he said, “I don’t think that’s the FBI. They’d have hit both floors at once. And we wouldn’t be hearing their rounds.”
“Sheriff Dennis?” Regan suggests, his body taut with the effort of holding his ground while his instincts tell him to run.
Royal shakes his head, one hand held high like a sensitive antenna. No guns have fired for several seconds. “Get over by a shooting station and cover them. Then sit tight and see what comes through that door.”
In the subsequent silence, Caitlin and I look steadily at each other, more feeling passing between us than ever has through the medium of language. A few moments ago, death seemed certain; now our hearts thunder with hope that someone has come for us.
Regan backs into one of the shooting-station partitions, his flamethrower trained on Caitlin and me, but we ignore him. Brody moves quietly across the floor to the firing range door. Flattening himself to one side, he waits with his pistol drawn and ready.
In the adjoining gun room, a door crashes open with a muted impact. Twenty seconds of silence follow.
“Mayor Cage!” shouts an unfamiliar voice. “Are you in there?”
My heart leaps. Whoever has come for us seems to have won the gun battle upstairs. But who are they? SWAT officers led by either John Kaiser or Walker Dennis? The leader’s voice sounds older, though. Walt Garrity, maybe? Or Chief Logan, from Natchez? Sometimes the local departments practice mobilizing a multi-force SWAT team.
I want to shout a warning, but Regan’s face tells me he’ll fire the flamethrower if I do. Yet waiting will guarantee casualties among our rescuers. No amount of body armor will protect a man from burning gasoline.
Brody tenses at the sound of further movement in the gun room, but there’s no fear in his face or posture. Still glaring at me, Regan aims the flamethrower at Caitlin to ensure my silence.
“Royal!” yells the voice from the gun room, now sounding strangely familiar. “We know you have Mayor Cage and Caitlin Masters down here! Send them out!”
I know that voice, but the speech seems impaired … yet even that sounds familiar. “Oh, no,” I say under my breath. Henry? Impossible—
“The FBI’s on their way!” yells the voice.