Cross

that.
    Mistake.
    Theirs!
    But who the hell were these two guys he had to kill now?

Chapter 113
    WELL, IT DIDN’T MUCH MATTER. They were two dead men—dead over nothing, dead because they were miserable screwups at their jobs. Dead men watching his house, come to kill him and his family.
    Sullivan had a three-year-old Winchester in the trunk of the car, which he kept cleaned, oiled, and ready to go. He popped the trunk, took out the long gun. Then he loaded it up with hollow-points.
    He didn’t quite have the skills to be an army sniper, but he was plenty good enough for this kind of bushwhacking.
    He set up in the woods between a couple of tall, fluffy evergreens that provided a canopy of extra cover. Then he took a quick look through the nightscope. It had a bull’s-eye rather than a sight post, which was the way he liked it. Actually, it was Jimmy Hats who had taught him to be a long-distance marksman. Jimmy had been trained at Fort Bragg in North Carolina, before his dishonorable discharge.
    He let the bull’s-eye rest right on the driver’s head, and he lightly touched the trigger with his finger. This was going to be easy, not a problem for him.
    Then he shifted his aim to the head of the guy in the passenger seat. Whoever these two were, they were definitely DOA.
    As soon as it was over, he’d have to gather up the family and boogie on out of here. No contact again with their past. That was the mistake, wasn’t it? Somebody from ancient history they had kept in contact with? Maybe Caitlin’s family in New Jersey. Somebody had probably tracked a phone call. He’d bet anything that’s what had happened.
    Mistake, mistake, mistake.
    And Caitlin would keep making them, wouldn’t she? Which meant Caitlin had to go. He didn’t want to think too much about it, but Caitlin was a goner too. Unless he just took off by himself.
    Lots of decisions to make. Not much time to make them.
    He set the bull’s-eye back on the driver’s head. He was ready for two shots, and both men in the car were dead. They just didn’t know it yet.
    He slowly let out a breath until his body was calm and still and ready to do this.
    He had a sense of his own heartbeat—slow, steady, confident; slow, steady, confident.
    Then he pulled the trigger—and heard a sharp, satisfying
crack
in the night air.
    An instant later, he pulled the rifle’s trigger a second time.
    Then a third and a fourth time.
    That should do it.
    The killing was done, and he had to get the hell out of here, pronto. With or without Caitlin and the boys.
    But first he needed to know who he’d just killed and maybe take some pictures of the deceased.

Chapter 114
    SAMPSON AND I WATCHED the Butcher approach the car. He was being stealthy all right, but maybe he wasn’t as good as he thought he was. He moved in quickly, bent low in a shooting crouch, ready for resistance if it came.
    He was about to find out that he’d shot up a pile of propped-up clothes and throw pillows from the local Wal-Mart. Sampson and I were crouched in the woods less than thirty yards behind the car he’d just ambushed. So who was better at this game? The Butcher or us?
    “Your call, Alex, how it goes from here,” Sampson whispered out of the side of his mouth.
    “Don’t kill him, John,” I said, and touched Sampson’s arm. “Unless we have to. Just take him down.”
    “Your call,” Sampson repeated.
    Then everything went a little crazy, to put it mildly.
    Suddenly the Butcher whirled around—but not in our direction! The opposite way!
    What the hell was this? What was happening now?
    Sullivan was facing the thick row of woods to the east—not where Sampson and I were coming from. He was paying no attention to us now.
    He fired off two quick shots—and I heard somebody grunt in the distance.
    A man dressed in black appeared for an instant; then he fell to the ground. Who was it? Then five more men came running out of the woods to the north. They had handguns, Bull Pups, one Uzi that I could make out.
    Who were these guys?
    As if to answer the question, one of them shouted, “FBI. Drop your weapon! FBI!”
    I didn’t buy it.
    “Mob!” I said to Sampson.
    “You sure?”
    “Yeah.”
    Then everybody started blasting at everybody else, as if we were in the streets of Baghdad rather than somewhere in rural Massachusetts.

Chapter 115
    THE 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