Had they given up that—
The faintest of crackles behind them. He glanced to Ryan, who was frowning. Their eyes met and they turned.
The light was almost completely gone but there was no missing Jon Merritt holding a shotgun aimed steadily at the two of them. The man’s head was tilted slightly and his expression might have been one of surprise. Of course: He hadn’t expected other shooters, much less Dom Ryan himself.
So the car had been a diversion.
Maybe Motorcycle Man had come up the other side and was aiming at the farthest sneery kid.
Goddamn...
A standoff.
Now would come the demand to toss down their weapons. Negotiations would begin to figure out some way to let those in the cabin get away safe.
Jon Merritt, though, had a different solution. In a calm voice, not a whisper, he said to Ryan, “I was just thinking about you, Dom. That there’s no worse sin than betrayal.”
Then fired a shotgun load into his throat.
Racking another shell, he swung the muzzle toward Moll’s blood-flecked face.
88
His plan would have been good if, like he’d told his daughter, the only hostiles were the two triggermen.
Jon Merritt supposed he should have figured they’d bring in more people. Though he’d never guess one of them would be the snake Dominic Ryan.
After shooting the mob boss, there was immediate return fire from along the ridge, and Merritt had had to crouch fast, missing the chance to take out the big man in the black suit. He had flung himself into the bushes beside Ryan’s body and, though Merritt had fired, the load of pellets had missed.
He had slid and tumbled and run then slid some more down the hill, and when he hit level ground, he scrabbled back to the car.
There, crouching beside the driver’s door, he assessed. He had eighteen shotgun shells. The tweaker’s revolver had six in the cylinder. The other pistol—the one he’d bought from Ryan’s man—had five in the wheel and he had fifteen .38s the man had “generously” thrown in for free.
Of course, fighting an enemy in a forest in the dark? Well, obviously a scattergun was the best tool for the job.
He gave a chuckle, thinking, Don’t I sound like a combatveteran? Yet in his whole career as a police officer, even in the tough precincts of Ferrington, he’d fired his weapon but two times.
Not counting Beacon Hill.
They would regroup on the hilltop, trying to figure out the best way to come at him—well,them, since it seemed none of them had been tipped to the exodus by Allison, Hannah and Shaw.
They could easily flank him here. So he opened the door, which put on the dome light, and, staying down, pumped the accelerator by hand, the car now in neutral.
With their attention on the sedan, Merritt hustled back to the cabin, shotgun in one hand, backpack in the other, the pistols tucked into his belt like a righteous pirate. He eased through the front door. The maneuver sent another jolt of pain radiating through his body from the rubber-bullet-bruised regions. Another as well: from the scar of the bullet hole where he’d shot himself. The toughened circle of flesh throbbed on occasion. He sometimes felt it was God’s way of reminding him of his sin.
He closed the door and wedged the chair under the knob.
Inside, the cabin was almost completely dark now but he recalled the location of every window and the back door.
He peered out. He thought he saw some forms moving cautiously through the forest toward the car.
Not worth the twelve-gauge pellets yet.
Merritt reached into the backpack and extracted the bourbon. He stared at it. Then, with a laugh, he ripped off the plastic seal, uncorked the bottle and took a sip, actually coughing, just like he did the first time he stole some of his father’s bourbon, hoping the sting in his mouth would relieve the sting of the welts on his buttocks.
Another drink.
The second mouthful went down smoother.