Pop Goes the Weasel

heart was thundering. Reality came in odd stop-and-go movements. He wondered if Whitehead had a nightscope on his gun. And how good a shot he was.
    Whether he’d ever been in combat.
    Was he frightened? Or was he excited by the action?
    He figured that the doors to the house were locked and that War was crouched low, hiding inside, waiting to take a shot without too much exposure. He had never done his own dirty work, though; none of them had — not Whitehead, not Bayer, not Highsmith. They had used Death, and now he’d come for them. If they hadn’t agreed to meet in Jamaica, he would have come after them one at a time.
    Shafer broke into a full sprint toward the house. Gunshots exploded from inside. Bullets whizzed past him. He hadn’t been hit. Because he was so good? Or because War wasn’t?
    Shafer threw both arms up in front of his face. This was it. He dived through the large picture window in the loggia.
    Glass exploded everywhere as the window blew into a thousand small pieces. He was inside!
    War was here, close by. Where was his enemy? How good was James Whitehead? His mind was filled with important questions. A dog was barking somewhere in the house.
    Shafer tumbled across the tile floor and hit the leg of a heavy table, but came up firing anyway. Nothing . No one was in the room.
    He heard voices outside, in front. The police were here! Always trying to spoil his fun.
    Then he saw War trying to run. Tall, gangly, with longish black hair. War had blinked first. He was heading toward the front door, looking for help from the police, of all people.
    “You can’t make it, Whitehead. Stop! I won’t let you get out! Stay in the game.”
    Whitehead apparently realized he couldn’t get out the front door. He turned toward a stairway, and Shafer followed, only a few steps behind. War turned sharply and fired again.
    Shafer flicked his hand at a wall switch, and the hall lights flashed on.
    “Death has come for you! It’s your time. Look at me! Look at Death!” he screamed.
    Whitehead kept moving, and Shafer calmly shot him in the buttocks. The wound was large, gaping, and Whitehead screamed like a stuck pig. He whirled and fell halfway down the stairs. His face slammed against the metal railing as he fell.
    He finally lay writhing at the foot of the stairs, where Shafer shot him again, this time between the legs. War screamed again. Then he began to moan and to sob.
    Shafer stood over him, triumphant, his heart bursting. “You think sanctions are a game? Is this still a game to you?” he asked in the softest voice. “I believe it’s great fun, but do you?”
    Whitehead was sobbing as he tried to speak. “No, Geoffrey. It’s not a game. Please stop. That’s enough.”
    Shafer began to smile. He showed his enormous teeth. “Oh, you’re so wrong. It’s lovely! It is the most amazing mind game you could imagine. You should feel what I feel right now, the power over life and death.”
    He had a thought, and it changed everything, changed the game for him and Whitehead. This switch was so much better than what he’d originally planned.
    “I’ve decided to let you live — not very well, but you will live.”
    He fired the semiautomatic again, this time into the base of Whitehead’s spine.
    “You will never forget me, and the game will continue for the rest of your life. Play well. I know I shall.”

Chapter 118
    THE MOMENT WE HEARD the gunshots, we ran toward the main house. I raced ahead of the others. I had to get to Shafer before they did. I had to take him myself. I had to talk to him, to know the truth once and for all.
    I saw Shafer slip out a side door of the house. Whitehead must be dead. Shafer had won the game.
    He was running toward the sea, moving fast and purposefully. He disappeared behind a small sand dune shaped like a turtle. Where was he going? What was next for him?
    Then I saw him again. He was kicking off his shoes and getting out of his trousers. What was he doing?
    I heard Sampson come running up behind me. “Don’t kill him, John! Not unless we have to,” I yelled.
    “I know! I know!” he called.
    I plunged ahead.
    Shafer turned and fired off a shot at me. The distance was too great for any real accuracy with a handgun, but still, he was a good shot, and he came pretty close. He knew how to use a gun, and not just from a few feet away.
    I glanced over and saw that Sampson was kicking off his sneakers, pulling away his pants. I did the same with my sweats and