She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be - J.D. Barker Page 0,112

toward the house. Steering with his left hand, he took the opportunity to reload the shotgun with his right. The driveway was surprisingly long and far too quiet.

The first bullet struck the left headlight.

The second bullet smacked the windshield a little off-center. The bullet whizzed past Preacher’s right ear and buried itself in the fabric of his seat.

Three more bullets followed those in quick succession before Preacher spotted the shooter—he stepped out of the trees about thirty feet in front of the car, his white coat flapping, gun bouncing in his hand. This was the one Preacher named ‘Doc.’

Preacher hoped to get to the front of the house before the gunplay began, but since that was clearly not in the cards, he dropped the GTO into neutral, yanked up the emergency break, and pushed out the door into the rain. This really set Doc off. He began firing wildly at the sight of him—stupid at this distance, particularly in the rain. Preacher disappeared among the trees and came around Doc’s flank while the kid was reloading.

Clipped to his belt, Preacher carried a dozen Smith & Wesson SWTK10CP throwing blades. Made of carbon steel with a nice weight of about seven ounces, he preferred them over guns in many situations, this being one of them. The knife was off his belt, silently airborne, and buried in Doc’s neck in less time than it took for the kid to swap his empty clip for a fresh one. Doc dropped his Sig, dropped the clip, then fell to the ground. His last mistake was pulling the knife from his neck.

Preacher stuck to the trees.

Two more guards appeared in the driveway. One bent over Doc, the other scanned the trees. Neither saw him. They eyed the still-running GTO. Preacher followed the tree line until the house came into view, then waited at the edge, the shotgun slung over his shoulder and knives in each hand.

The two men ran right past him, back toward the house.

As the second one raced by, Preacher struck the man in the heel, slicing his achilles. The man dropped, then slid. The first man turned at the sound and caught Preacher’s second blade in the throat. He went down, too.

Grumpy and Happy, Preacher supposed. The guards were all out of position now. It was difficult to tell them apart.

The guard with the sliced heel attempted to pull himself toward the trees, sliding slowly across the driveway. Preacher stabbed him in the back of the neck, took his Sig Sauer, then turned his gaze back toward the front of the house. There were two more guards out here somewhere. That just wouldn’t do.

Floodlights kicked on, turning the rain white.

21

Detective Faustino Brier had followed the GTO down Willock, past the cemetery, and nearly lost it when he entered a fairly exclusive neighborhood known as Burlington Hills. Unwilling to get too close and risk being spotted, he allowed the GTO to pull ahead and disappear among the curvy roads. Faustino hadn’t found the car again, but he did find the small guardhouse with two bodies lying in front of it, the large wrought iron gate standing open, and a phone ringing inside.

Both men were clearly dead, their long, white coats muddled in pinks and reds and rain.

When a series of shots rang out from somewhere ahead, Faustino radioed for backup from his car, drew his gun, then started down the long driveway on foot, his eyes carefully scanning the trees.

He’d be dead in less than three minutes.

22

Preacher found Sleepy crouching behind the fountain at the center of the driveway, waiting for him.

As Preacher came out of the trees, a bullet caught him in the left shoulder, another in the center of his chest. The force sent Preacher spinning to the ground. Although the kevlar stopped both, they still hurt like hell. He brought the gun he had taken from Happy up and around, pointed it at the fountain, and when Sleepy leaned over to take another shot, a bullet hit him just above his right temple.

Preacher scrambled to his feet and ran for the stone entryway of the house.

Bashful was still outside somewhere. He’d worry about him later.

He tried the door.

Locked.

Leveling the shotgun at the dead bolt, he turned his head and pulled the trigger. The wood frame exploded, leaving a six-inch hole behind and a ringing in his ears.

Preacher kicked the door in and entered the house at a low crouch, ducking behind a round wooden table in the foyer. The shotgun