Rules of Honour (30 page)

‘Crap!’ He had only replaced the light bulb a month earlier.
This old house took up more of his goddamn time than it was worth.

He thought about going directly up the stairs to hit the light switch at the next landing, but decided against it and headed for the kitchen where he was sure there were spare bulbs in a drawer. He only made it a couple paces before his boot crunched on shards of glass. Now that was
wrong
! He wasn’t the most house-proud of people, and it was probably many weeks – if not months – since he’d run a vacuum cleaner along the hall carpet but he’d be damned if he’d allowed broken glass to litter the floor. He crouched, feeling around, and felt a prick of his fingertip. Ignoring the brief flare of pain, he snatched up the offending shard and held it close to his face. He could already feel the curve of the thin glass, but he pulled out his cell and pressed a button, scrutinising his discovery under the pale blue light from the screen. He looked up and back at where the ceiling rose hung empty. The freaking bulb couldn’t have been screwed in tightly enough, and had worked its way free over time. He scowled at his theory, figuring the chances. It didn’t surprise him, not when the rest of the place had been deteriorating round his ears for years.

He continued on to the kitchen and reached for the light switch. Once more he was rewarded with enduring darkness.

‘What the hell is going on?’ he demanded into the pitch shadows.

What were the odds of two goddamn bulbs blowing in short succession? Fucking
nil
. Paranoia shrieked through him.

He turned back for the hall, adamant now that he’d be better off heading directly for his room, where he’d stashed the extra ammunition he’d come to fetch, then get the hell out of there. Something caught in his peripheral vision and he swung back. He stared across the breadth of the kitchen; the familiar shapes of the table and cluttered worktops were not what had caught his eye. He looked beyond them to where the back door was, wondering at the sliver of city light down its edge. He took a step that way, angling his body for a better view, and was sure that the door stood open an inch or two.

He rested his hand on his gun once more, teasing it part-way from his pocket. The door had been opened, probably for the first time in years, and he was sure as hell he hadn’t done it. He took another step that way, before turning abruptly and peering back towards the hall. He remembered again the flicker of shadow from his room and understood that it wasn’t something as mundane as an insect moving about up there. He felt a cold blade wedge through his gut at the realisation that whoever was up there had seen the results of his work. He didn’t fear discovery, because in time he’d like the truth to be uncovered, he only feared it coming too soon. His wasn’t the best neighbourhood, he knew, and it had its inherent problems like any other. Burglars were known to prey on the old houses here, seeing them as insecure and an easy target. Markus wondered if a thief had noted the house’s apparent abandonment and had entered seeking anything worth stealing. He couldn’t discard the idea, because even burglars could be swayed to drop the police a tip concerning a greater crime than theirs. He had to stop whoever was up there, no doubt about it. He brought the gun fully out, and began stalking along the hall.

At the stairs he paused.

Burglars didn’t normally break light bulbs on their way through a house. He looked up into the solid wedge of darkness above him, feeling a flare of excitement.

What if it wasn’t a burglar who’d found access to his home? What if it was someone else entirely?

He half expected to see the stranger appear from the gloom, as he had in his recent nightmare, the flashes of gunfire lighting up his features as he came at Markus. He almost welcomed the scene, because this time he was ready for him.

Knuckles pounded on the front door.

He was caught in a moment of flux: what should he do? Answer the door or check for the intruder? What if both were connected and the person banging at the door was a distraction to allow the one inside the house to steal up on him in the dark? He understood now why the bulbs had been broken – it was a deliberate act in order to confuse him.

He took a tighter grip on his gun, and placing his back to the wall next to the door, he kept an eye up the flight of stairs. Then he snatched his gaze away for the briefest of seconds to peer through the dingy glass in the door. A shape moved beyond the murky glass: a shadow only, cast by the headlights of a vehicle parked on the street.

The banging came again. ‘Charles Peterson?’

‘Who is it?’ Markus yelled.

‘Police. Open up.’

How the hell had the police made the connection to him? Whoever it was upstairs must have called them, he realised. They had seen the photographs, been horrified by their discovery and immediately telephoned the police.

There was more banging on the door. ‘Open up, Peterson.’

There was no possible way that he could allow himself to be arrested. Not yet. Markus had a single recourse, and it forced his hand.

He lifted his gun and fired, directly through the wood. He was wise enough not to shoot through the door, as the cop out there would not stand directly in the line of fire. He angled his shots so that they passed through the worm-eaten walls to either side of the door. He heard a yelp of pain, and the thud of someone going down hard on the porch. There was a corresponding shout from another person more distant. He knew the likelihood of other cops surrounding the house was very high, but he also doubted that they would have come in force based only on a tip-off. They would wish to investigate first, and then arrest Markus after establishing just cause.

Markus quickly pulled the door open a few inches, peering down at the cop rolling on the porch in agony. He saw a man in a navy-blue suit, with dark hair that had flopped over his pale face. Markus ignored him, seeking instead the source of the second voice. He spotted a large fair-haired man rushing towards the house, his gun held out in the two-handed grip as he sought to cover his fallen comrade, and to find a viable target at the same time. When the big cop caught sight of Markus it was too late. Markus fired directly at the cop and hit him high in the chest, knocking him down. The cop let out a yowl that was more anger than it was pain, and Markus realised he was probably wearing a bulletproof vest. He fired again, seeking to hit the man in a more telling place. The cop came up to his knees, and then scrambled for cover. He was yelling at Markus to drop his weapon, but didn’t yet return fire.

Markus stepped out of the door.

He quickly scanned around, seeking the hiding places of other cops, but saw that other than the one car drawn up at the rear of his own vehicle, no other cruisers were on the scene yet.

He smiled, the momentary concern of before replaced by savage satisfaction at having defeated the cops sent to interrogate him. They would definitely call in reinforcements, but not if he snatched that opportunity away from them. He looked again for the big cop and saw that he’d managed to place a shrub between them. The bush offered no protection from Markus’s gun, but did make targeting more difficult. Markus fired two rapid shots into the greenery, and saw the big cop throw himself flat. He wasn’t sure if he’d killed him or not, but immediately turned his attention to the nearer detective.

There was a gun lying out of reach of the man. In any case, he didn’t look capable of lifting it. Markus could now see that his shots through the wall had been deadly – or would prove to be so judging from the copious amount of blood pouring from the man’s neck. The cop had both hands on the wound, and his mouth was opening and closing in silent shock. His dark eyes were pools of despair as he stared up at his slayer.

Markus pointed the gun directly at the cop’s face.

He pulled the trigger.

The gun cracked noisily.

Aimed directly at the cop’s skull, the nine mm round would kill him, but Markus’s aim was knocked askew at the last second.

He did not see where the bullet struck, but it was not in human flesh from the resounding
crack
! Markus let out a shout of anger, as much at missing his shot as at the man who grappled with his gun hand. He felt his wrist twisted violently, somebody trying to tear the gun from his grip with such sudden violence that it tore skin from his fingers.

Rage struck Markus in a flash flood. He should never have taken his attention off whoever was lurking in his house. Now he’d allowed himself to be captured. Goddamnit, no! He would not give up. He struck out, throwing all his weight against his attacker. He rammed his elbow backwards, but though he struck, the body was too prepared to be hurt badly. Instead he pivoted, hard and fast, and head-butted the face of the man struggling with him. It wasn’t the stranger – it was Jared Rington. The man was momentarily dazed, and Markus plucked his hand free. He swung to gut shoot him.

Another gun blazed, someone coming down the stairs fast. Markus skipped back and on to the porch, almost tripping over the fallen cop, missing his opportunity to finish Rington. Thankfully the man’s large body blocked the doorway and thwarted his friend’s aim. But now Rington was going for his gun. He could still kill him and quite possibly the stranger as well. But then the fair-haired cop joined the shooting party. His shots were ill aimed, and punched into the walls of the house. Rington ducked back inside, swearing loudly, and Markus understood the notion of discretion being the better part of valour. Caught in the sights of three guns he didn’t stand a chance. He turned quickly and leaped from the porch, charging across the unkempt garden for the low wall. The cop had no clear target through the foliage and Markus capitalised on his blind shooting, knowing that it would also pin down the other two men.

‘Goddamnit, Jones!’ someone yelled. ‘Hold your fire. He’s getting away!’

The cop either didn’t hear or didn’t care. He fired again at the house, just as Markus went over the wall and landed on the hood of his car. He was inside it in seconds, the car squealing away from the kerb, leaving behind twin ribbons of rubber on the asphalt. As he forced the car round the first bend, Markus was grinning savagely. He was adrenalised, the blood raging though him. Now
that
was just the kind of warm up he required for the night ahead.

Chapter 35

The last thing either of us expected was Detectives Jones and Tyler arriving at the front door. Their appearance warned of untold problems to come, but there was nothing to do but follow through with our course of action and kill Markus. By grabbing Markus when he did, Rink assuredly saved Tyler’s life, but I wasn’t sure that would win us any brownie points in the eyes of the law. Tyler was too shocked to understand he’d survived such a near miss – let alone recognise us as his saviours – but Gar Jones was still alive and fully aware. Perhaps aware was a poor choice of words, because he was indiscriminately firing his weapon at the front of the house, causing us to retreat while Markus made his escape. It was a response born of shock and panic, and I wasn’t sure if he even realised he was allowing the murderer to get away.

The roar of his car peeling away from the sidewalk meant that we’d missed an opportunity to finish Markus. But not entirely. If we could follow him now, we could still catch the bastard. The only problem being, saving a life was always more important than taking one in my estimation.

‘Hold your fire, Jones. For God’s sake, your partner’s dying here!’

The bullets stopped punching through the open doorway.

Jones was considering my words, and I had to keep him thinking.

‘You know we’re not your enemy. The bastard who just shot Tyler is. He’s getting away, goddamnit, and Tyler’s bleeding to death.’

‘Show yourselves,’ Jones shouted back.

Rink was dabbing at a raw patch on his cheek where Markus head-butted him. By the look of him he was wishing he’d twisted Markus’s head back to front instead of going for his gun hand. ‘What do you think?’ I asked him.

‘Think I should’ve killed the fucker when I had the chance,’ he said. But then his gaze fell on the shuddering form of Detective Tyler on the porch, and his expression changed. He’d made the correct decision, after all. The man was severely wounded, but without Rink’s intervention he would have been dead by now. Tyler still stood a chance. ‘Jones. We’re coming out,’ he shouted. ‘Get over here and lend a hand with your buddy.’

We put our guns away, and moved outside, our hands empty so that Jones was under no illusion as to our intent. Jones approached us; he had a palm slapped to a wound on his outer left thigh, but in his other hand he held his service pistol aimed at us. He was a man torn by indecision. I hoped he’d be a friend to Tyler before he was a cop. His features showed a range of emotions as he checked us out: anger, rage, but something else too. It was the look of gratitude I was glad of, but it was not something we could rely on. The detective would have called this in and other uniformed officers would be descending on the house, and they would arrest us in a heartbeat. It made our need to get away more urgent.

‘Here, quickly,’ I commanded. ‘You must put pressure on the wound, or he’ll be gone in minutes.’

Jones had only one decision to make. Arrest us or not. If he did so then he’d miss the opportunity to save his friend. Thankfully he didn’t consider making one of us administer assistance to his fallen comrade. That was his duty, he understood. He placed down his gun on the porch while he pushed both palms down over Tyler’s hands. Blood still pulsed between all twenty interlaced fingers. ‘Hold on there, buddy,’ he said. ‘Help is on its way, OK. You’ll get through this.’