Читать книгу The Rebel’s Revenge - Scott Mariani, Scott Mariani - Страница 21

There were four of them, clad in blue uniforms with gold piping and dimpled campaign hats with gold badges and silver cords and acorns. The insignia on their arms said LOUISIANA STATE POLICE. A sergeant and three troopers, two with pump shotguns and two with Glocks. The sight that greeted them as they swarmed inside the hallway was what they took to be a dead fellow officer lying prone beside the body of a female murder victim, along with one man still on his feet who had a gun in his belt, blood all over his clothes, and could more or less be assumed to be the perpetrator of both assaults.

If Ben had been inclined to think about it, he couldn’t have blamed them for jumping to conclusions. They had much better reason than Mason had for supposing that he was the threat here.

The hallway filled with the sound of hoarse urgent yelling as the troopers fixed him in their sights and all began screaming and bellowing at him at once. DROP THE WEAPON DROP THE WEAPON DROP THE WEAPON!

As he stood there reeling from the stab wound his options flew through his mind at lightning speed. If he didn’t respond one way or another in the next two seconds, the chances were they would all open fire at once and take him down. He could try to calmly explain the situation to them, which he wasn’t too sure he could do with blood pouring out of him. Or he could whip the revolver from his belt and start shooting before they did. Five rounds, four targets. Maybe just shoot them in the legs, to avoid causing unnecessary harm.

Alternatively, he could throw down his gun and surrender. But he didn’t fancy his chances of receiving fair treatment. Not after he’d already taken down one of their own. By the time the ambulance arrived the five state troopers would have beaten Ben to a pulp.

So Ben took the only realistic option open to him. He ran. Ignoring the agony in his belly and the tremors of shock jangling every nerve in his body.

Shots rang out and bullets cracked into the wall and splintered the banister rail as he charged up the stairs three at a time. He made it halfway up the staircase to the switchback, then flew up the second half heading towards the first floor landing. Three troopers thundered after him while the fourth stayed below, yelling into a radio that they had an officer down and needed assistance.

Ben raced past the open door of Lottie’s bedroom and reached the drop-down staircase just as the police sergeant appeared on the landing behind him. The sergeant racked his shotgun and repeated his command to stop and throw down the weapon.

Ben pounded up the drop-down staircase, up through the hatch to the attic floor, turned and crouched at the edge of the hatch and grabbed the rope loop that worked the pulley mechanism and tugged it hard. The staircase folded in half, and the whole assembly slid upwards on smooth runners to retract through the hatch. Ben hauled up the length of rope that dangled down to enable it to be opened from below, then closed off the hatch with the stair panel that acted like a trapdoor. Definitely a fine piece of carpentry, and just the job when you were being pursued through the house by multiple armed opponents.

He’d bought himself a little time, but it wouldn’t be long before they figured out a way to reach him. Nor would it be long before the whole street and surrounding area was swarming with every state trooper they could muster, along with SWAT teams and K9 units. He could hear the sound of frantic voices and crackling radios from beneath his feet as he ran into his bedroom. His legs were feeling like jelly. He had to grit his teeth and close his mind resolutely to the knowledge that he was badly hurt. He had to keep going.

He snatched up his bag from where it lay at the foot of the bed, crammed in the few items that he’d unpacked earlier, then pulled on his leather jacket and looped the bag over his shoulder. He went over to the dormer window and yanked it open. With an effort that felt like a halberd tearing out his guts he gripped the window frame and hauled himself up and through, scrambling out onto the slope of the roof.

The night sky was ink-black and starry. The air was warm, but felt like ice on his skin as the sweat poured from his brow. He felt woozy for an instant and almost lost his footing and went tumbling into space, then managed to regain his balance.

Got to keep going.

Careful not to slip and fall, he made his way over the sloping tiles. He peered over the gable end of the guesthouse and could see Mason’s Sheriff’s Department Crown Victoria and the two white state police cruisers in the street below, their engines still running and the big light bars on their roofs bathing the whole area in swirling blue. More windows of neighbouring homes were lit up now, as residents awoke to the drama and peeped out to see what was happening. Old Mr Clapp across the street had ventured into his front yard to spectate.

Ben kept low and stayed in the shadows as he padded along the slope of the roof to the point where the gap between Lottie’s house and that of her neighbour was at its narrowest. He could see no lights in the next-door windows. Either the neighbours were sleeping through all the excitement, or the house was empty. He eased himself down as close as possible to the edge and readied himself to jump, visualising it in his mind’s eye before he committed himself, and knowing it was going to hurt like hell. It was a long way to fall if he fluffed it. He took a couple of deep breaths, counted to three and then launched himself into space.

He cleared the gap easily, but his landing on the neighbour’s roof almost made him cry out in pain. He knew he must be leaving a fine trail of blood spots as he moved on, keeping low so that the roof’s ridge hid him from the street side. He ran with light fast steps along its length towards where he could see a big old hickory tree standing in the garden close to the far end wall.

This was going to hurt even more. And it did. Ben reached the edge and leaped into space. He dropped ten feet and then the foliage was ripping and clawing and scraping at his face and body as he went crashing downward through the branches. His fingers locked on to a thicker limb and he managed to arrest his fall. He scrambled down the tree as far as the lower branches, until his legs dangled free. It was maybe an eight-foot drop to the patchy grass of the back garden. He steeled himself and let go. The agony as he hit the ground went through him like a spear, but he didn’t make a sound.

The neighbour’s garden was all in shadow. Ben remained in a still crouch at the foot of the tree for a few moments, catching his breath and listening hard until he was sure his escape from the guesthouse hadn’t been observed. Then he picked himself up and ran for the back fence and scrambled over it into the next garden, hoping he wouldn’t drop down the other side into the waiting jaws of someone’s pit bull. He landed in the bushes and kept running.

A tumult of sirens was growing steadily louder. It sounded as if every cop in Louisiana was racing to the scene. Probably a couple of ambulances, too, one for Lottie and one for Sheriff’s Deputy Mason F. Redbone, who would soon be enjoying a little holiday in hospital. It was less than he deserved.

Ben crossed that garden, and the next, and then pushed through a hedge over a low wall and found himself in an adjacent street, maybe a couple of hundred yards from the guesthouse as the crow flew. The homes at this end of the neighbourhood were all in darkness, as if the residents here didn’t care what kinds of major emergency situations took place up the road. That suited Ben just fine.

He kept going. A blind man could follow the trail of glistening spots and spatters that marked his route, but there was nothing he could do about that. The best he could achieve was to get away from here before he passed out from pain and shock and blood loss and collapsed in the street for the cops to find.

Quarter of a mile away, in a quiet little avenue on the edge of Chitimacha far away from the hubbub and excitement, he came across an old Ford pickup truck parked under the shadow of a spreading oak tree.

The SAS had taught him how to steal cars to make him an efficient operator behind enemy lines, when you sometimes had to improvise modes of transportation. He’d had a lot of practice at it since those days. Old vehicles were the best to steal. The older the better, as long as they were driveable. No alarms, no immobilisers, no on-board GPS trackers. Thirty-nine seconds later he was inside the Ford’s cab, bleeding all over the cheap vinyl seats as he got to work hotwiring the ignition. Another half minute after that, he was gone and disappearing into the night.