The Manhattan Hunt Club (32 page)

CHAPTER 38

J
eff could hear footsteps pounding somewhere behind him, but didn’t dare to pause long enough for a backward glance. If it was one of the hunters, he’d be a dead man as soon as he stopped. If he and Jinx were to have any chance of escaping, they had to keep going, zigzagging back and forth across the tunnel in a pattern that wouldn’t give whoever was behind them an easy shot. Ahead, he saw a narrow passage leading to the left. Sprinting to attract Jinx’s attention, he came to the branching passage, turned quickly into it, and grabbed Jinx as she followed him in. He clamped his hand over her mouth so she couldn’t cry out, wrapped his free arm around her and pressed his lips close to her ear. “We’ll stay here,” he whispered. “If they don’t hear us, we can get them before they get us.”

When Jinx nodded that she understood, he released his grip on her. His heart pounding, Jeff quickly looked around. The passage he’d turned into was far narrower than the tunnel they’d just left, and one of its walls was covered with rank upon rank of electrical conduits. The only illumination came from the faint glow leaking into the passage’s entrance from a utility light a few yards farther down the main tunnel. Pulling Monsignor McGuire’s night scope out of the backpack, Jeff switched it on and peered into the passage’s depth.

The narrow shaft appeared to come to a dead end no more than fifty yards ahead. As he was scanning the walls and ceiling for a means of escape, Jinx’s hand closed on his arm.

“Listen!” she whispered. “They stopped.”

Lowering the night scope, Jeff turned back around, his head moving as he strained to hear something—anything—in the sudden silence that had fallen over the tunnel. The sound of racing feet that they’d heard only a moment or two ago had indeed stopped.

The hush was broken by the faint rattle of an approaching subway train. But even as the sound grew louder and the concrete beneath his feet began to vibrate, the familiar noise remained oddly muted, and then Jeff realized why—the train was above them by at least one level, maybe even two.

Which meant that if they were going to escape, they would have to get closer to the surface. But how?

If there was no escape from the passage he’d ducked into, then they had no choice but to return to the tunnel from which they’d fled only a moment ago.

Dust from the trembling ceiling of the passage settled down on them as the train passed overhead, and then its sound died away.

Jeff listened to the ensuing silence, which seemed even more frightening than the pursuing footsteps had only a few moments before.

Now they were no longer being chased.

Now they were being stalked.

H
eather Randall shuddered as she stared at the corpse that projected grotesquely from a shelf just below the tunnel’s ceiling. From where she and Keith stood, they could see only the body’s head, shoulders, and arms. The head, covered with a shock of gray hair matted with blood, was hanging downward at an angle impossible in life. She watched as a fresh drop of blood fell into the puddle on the floor beneath the corpse.

The arms hung straight down, the hands outstretched, almost as if reaching for the body’s lost blood—or perhaps the rifle whose stock lay half submerged in the puddle.

Struggling to control the nausea rising in her belly, she instinctively reached out to grip Keith’s hand. They edged around the pool of blood until they could see the other side of the corpse’s head, and the wound that had caused the man’s death.

It looked as if the man had tried to turn away from the fusillade that had been fired at him, but given what they’d heard, Heather knew he hadn’t stood a chance; the bullet that killed him had ripped away the right half of his forehead, leaving the pulpy mass of his brain exposed. In the dim light of the tunnel, the whole scene seemed impossible—it was obvious the man had been setting up a well-equipped ambush. What had gone wrong?

“Hold this while I take a look,” Keith said quietly, handing her the rifle they’d taken from Carey Atkinson’s corpse.

As Keith pulled himself up to the shelf on which the body lay, Heather continued to stare at the corpse.

How had he ended up getting shot himself?

Then her eyes fell on the rifle. It was exactly like the one she now held in her own hands.

When they’d found Monsignor McGuire, he hadn’t had a rifle.

“Here’s his bag,” Keith said, pulling a backpack exactly like Atkinson’s off the shelf, then dropping back down to the floor. As he was about to open it, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. “I think someone’s following us,” he whispered so softly that his words died away in an instant. “Start walking, and don’t look back.”

Heather did as Keith instructed. Pausing only long enough to pick up the dead man’s rifle, Keith quickly followed.

P
erry Randall watched the two figures through his night vision goggles. The images were clear—a man and a woman—but not clear enough for him to identify. Yet despite the haziness in the greenish light, there was something familiar about both of them.

That sense of familiarity kept Randall from killing them. Eve would never let it drop if he shot two of her precious herders. It would have been easy—the silencer on his M-14A1 was already in place, and all he needed to do was track the glowing red dot of the laser sight along the floor of the tunnel, then up the back of one of them.

The man first—the woman undoubtedly had slower reflexes and wouldn’t even understand what had happened until it was too late.

All he had to do was place the laser’s brilliant light on the back of the man’s head, where it would glow like a ruby lit from within, then squeeze the trigger and replace the laser’s dot with a gush of blood.

He could pick off the woman even before the man had fallen to the ground.

Still, it would be better to follow them a little longer.

As they moved deeper into the tunnel, Randall stole silently after them, moving like a wraith through the darkness, his tread giving off no sound. He paused when he came to the corpse hanging out of the alcove. He’d been almost certain who it was when he’d first seen it through the night vision goggles, but now he raised the head and gazed into the face. Even with the damage the bullet had done, he recognized Otto Vandenberg immediately.

The man and woman had taken his gun, along with his backpack, which would contain his logbook.

Putting on his goggles again, he peered into the darkness ahead. The two figures were still moving, walking quickly away from him. If they found a cross passage and got away . . .

If they got to the surface with Vandenberg’s logbook . . .

Removing his night vision goggles, Perry Randall unslung his rifle, released the safety, and pressed the stock against his shoulder. Turning on the laser sight, he readied himself for the first shot. . . .

H
eather tried to tell herself that the mass on the floor ahead of her couldn’t be yet another corpse, but she knew it had to be. It wasn’t just his utter stillness that told her the man was dead, or the unnatural sprawl of his limbs, or even the dark stain of blood on his chest.

It was the rat that was already nibbling at his face.

A choked sound of horror and revulsion escaped her throat, and she thought she would finally lose control of the nausea that still churned in her belly. A wave of dizziness made her lean against the wall to keep from falling.

As Keith Converse squatted down to examine the body on the floor, Heather—overwhelmed by the images of death she’d already seen that day—wanted to sink onto the floor herself, close her eyes, and try to put all of it out of her mind. But as her knees began to buckle under her, she saw it.

A red dot, creeping along the floor toward her.

An illusion.

It had to be an illusion.

She focused on the dot, willing it away.

But it crept closer, and it stirred a memory.

A memory of her father, teaching her how to use the guns he kept in the cabinet in the library.

“The laser sight is the best. At night, you can’t miss. Just put the red dot on the ground in front of you, then start moving the gun until the dot is on the target.

“Then squeeze the trigger.”

The dot moved closer, and Heather’s hands tightened on the gun she was holding.

The gun that was just like one of her father’s. . . .

Then her nausea—and terror—gave way to cold, pure rage.

Her fingers working quickly, she found the safety and released it.

She switched the rifle into automatic mode.

Raising the gun so the barrel was two feet above Keith Converse’s head, she peered down the sight. In the distance, silhouetted against the dim light of one of the utility lamps in the ceiling, she could barely make out a figure.

Heather squeezed the trigger, then quickly moved the rifle barrel back and forth.

Just as her father had taught her. . . .

The red dot on the floor disappeared as the silence in the tunnel was shattered by the angry chatter of the automatic rifle. Keeping her finger tightly squeezed on the trigger, Heather emptied the contents of the magazine into the darkness, spraying the entire width of the tunnel with bullets. Even after the last cartridge was spent, she could still hear bullets screaming as they ricocheted away into the distance.

As silence once again fell, Keith stood up.

“Jesus,” he whispered.

“He was going to kill us,” Heather said, her voice dull. Her hands suddenly went limp, and the gun clattered to the floor. “He was going to kill us just the way he taught me.”

Keith gazed at her steadily. “Who?” he asked, wanting the answer to come from her.

Heather’s control finally gave way. “My father!” she cried out, the words resounding in the tunnel. “Don’t you see? It was my father!” As the echo of her anguished words died away, she walked slowly into the darkness toward where he lay. Her father was sprawled on his back, a bloodstain spreading across his shirt. His eyes were open, and as she shined a flashlight into his face, he seemed to look up at her with an expression of surprise. Kneeling, she gazed into his empty eyes, then laid a hand on his cheek. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.” But even as she said it, she knew she’d had no choice.

It was her father who had set the rules, not her, and a moment later she would have been the one who died by his hand.

“What have you done?” she said softly. “Oh, Daddy.”

Leaving her father there in the dark, she started back toward Keith.

T
he rattle of the semiautomatic rifle finally died away, but neither Jeff nor Jinx moved, remaining pressed against the side of the passage they’d turned into.

Another sound came to them—the clatter of something heavy falling onto the concrete floor.

Jeff’s mind raced, trying to decide what to do. Whoever was out there hadn’t been firing at them—they would have heard bullets ricocheting off the walls and pipes if the gunman had been shooting in their direction.

So whoever it was had shot the other way.

But why?

At what?

But what did it matter? Within a second or two the hunter would realize his mistake, reload, and then—

Unless I shoot first.

So there it was.

The rifle they’d taken from Monsignor McGuire was slung over his shoulder, and now Jeff took it in his hands. Reloaded with a full magazine, it felt strange—heavy, cold, and dangerous.

There was nothing about the gun that hinted at any kind of genuine sport. Jeff had seen hunting rifles before—dozens of them, in fact. He’d even admired some of them, for their remarkable craftsmanship. Some of the best had seemed almost warm to the touch, so perfectly was the wood of their stocks polished. Many had been inlaid with gold or silver or mother-of-pearl, giving the guns the look of a work of art.

Those were the guns used for target shooting or hunting game.

The gun in his hand, though, was purely utilitarian, constructed of cold metal and hard rubber, every part designed to function perfectly.

It was almost as if the rifle’s designer had known it could have only one possible use, and had refused to try to disguise that use with any kind of beauty at all.

Jeff tightened his grip on the rifle, then released the safety.

Was that all he had to do? Was there nothing more left than to step out into the tunnel, point the thing in the direction from which the gunfire had come, and pull the trigger?

He looked around, searching in the darkness one last time for another way out, but knew there was none.

It was time to face whoever awaited him in the tunnel.

“Stay here,” he whispered. “It’s me they want. They don’t care about you.”

“But—”

Jinx’s words were abruptly cut off by an anguished cry:

“My father! Don’t you see? It was my father!”

Jeff stiffened, the echo of the words resounding off the walls, thundering down the tunnels, only to be back a split second later.

“My father . . . my father . . . father . . .”

“Heather,” he whispered. He pictured himself standing in the middle of the tunnel, emptying the gun into the darkness with the intent of killing whoever might be there.

And he
would
have killed someone.

He would have killed Heather.

Dropping the rifle, Jeff Converse stepped out into the tunnel.

K
eith heard the sound of someone moving in the darkness just beyond the range of his vision. He reached for the rifle he’d retrieved from the pool of blood beneath Viper’s corpse and raised it to his shoulder after releasing the safety and putting the firing mechanism on automatic.

He peered into the scope and saw the silhouette of a man against the utility light that glowed in the distance. His finger began to tighten on the trigger, but as the figure took another step, he hesitated.

“Jeff?” he whispered, the name barely audible.

But it was enough for Heather. She was already racing down the tunnel toward Jeff, calling his name. Keith’s impulse was to drop the rifle and run after her, to be with her when she threw her arms around his son. But he changed his mind.