Shadowfires

won't shoot back-not that pussy-faced hypocrite-he'll run, and
we'll have another chance to track him down and take another whack at him, and he'll
keep giving us chances until, sooner or later, he either shakes loose
of us for good or we blow him away. Just for God's sake don't ever
back him into a corner; always leave him an out. When
he's running, we have a chance of shooting him in the back, which is the wisest thing we could do, because the guy was in Marine Recon, and he was good, better than most, the best-I have to give him that much-the best. And he seems to've
stayed in condition. So if he had to do it, he could take your head
off with his bare hands.”
    Peake was unable to decide which of these new revelations was most
appalling: that, to settle a grudge of Sharp's, they were going to kill not only an innocent man but a man with an unusually complex and faithfully observed moral code; or that they were going to shoot him in the back if they had the chance; or that their target would put his own life at extreme risk rather than casually waste them, though they were prepared to casually waste him; or that, if given no other choice, the guy had the ability to utterly destroy them without working up a sweat. Peake had last been to bed yesterday afternoon, almost twenty-two hours ago, and he badly needed sleep, but his grainy eyes were open wide and his mind was alert as he contemplated the wealth of bad news that he had just received.
    Sharp leaned forward suddenly, as if he'd spotted Shadway coming up from the south, but it must have been nothing, for he leaned back in his seat again and let out his pent-up breath.
    He's as scared as he is angry, Peake thought.
    Peake steeled himself to ask a question that would most likely
anger or at least irritate Sharp. “You know him, sir?”
    “Yeah,” Sharp said sourly, unwilling to elaborate.
    “From where?”
    “Another place.”
    “When?”
    “Way back,” Sharp said in a tone of voice that made it clear there
were to be no more questions.
    From the beginning of this investigation yesterday evening, Peake
had been surprised that someone as high as the deputy director would
plunge right into the fieldwork, shoulder to shoulder with junior
agents, instead of coordinating things from an office. This was an
important case. But Peake had been involved in other important cases,
and he had never seen any of the agency's titled officers actually getting their hands dirty. Now he understood: Sharp had chosen to wade into the muddy center of this one because he had discovered that his old enemy, Shadway, was involved, and because only in the field would he have an opportunity to kill Shadway and stage the shooting to look legitimate.
    “Way back,” Sharp said, more to himself this time than to Jerry
Peake. “Way back.”
The roomy interior of the Mercedes-Benz trunk
was warm because it was heated by the sun. But Eric Leben, curled on
his side in the darkness, felt another and greater warmth: the
peculiar and almost pleasant fire that burned in his blood, flesh,
and bones, a fire that seemed to be melting him down into… something
other than a man.
    The inner and outer heat, the darkness, the motion of the car, and
the hypnotic humming of the tires had lulled him into a trancelike
state. For a time he had forgotten who he was, where he was, and why
he had put himself in this place. Thoughts eddied lazily through his
mind, like opalescent films of oil drifting, rippling, intertwining,
and forming slow-motion whirlpools on the surface of a lake. At times
his thoughts were light and pleasant: the sweet body curves and skin
textures of Rachael, Sarah, and other women with whom he had made
love; the favorite teddy bear he had slept with as a child; fragments
of movies he had seen; lines of favorite songs. But sometimes the
mental images grew dark and frightening: Uncle Barry grinning and
beckoning; an unknown dead woman in a dumpster; another woman nailed
to a wall-naked, dead, staring; the hooded figure of Death looming
out of shadows; a deformed face in a mirror; strange and monstrous
hands somehow attached to his own wrists…
    Once, the car stopped, and the cessation of movement caused him to
float up from the trance. He quickly reoriented himself, and that icy
reptilian rage flooded back into him. He eagerly flexed and unflexed
his strong, elongated, sharp-nailed hands in anticipation of choking
the life out of Rachael-she who had denied him,