The Inn - James Patterson Page 0,55
it consumed by the fight. He moaned a couple of times with exhaustion and anger, searched with his trapped fingers on the back of his belt for the key to the cuffs. It was gone. He sighed and began the long trudge toward where he guessed the road might be.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
WHEN I HAD emptied all six tubs of pills into the sea, I started carrying boxes and bottles of ingredients out. I grabbed a barrel and rolled it on its rim toward the door. The guy I had hit was waking slowly, moaning and sighing, trying to turn onto his side. His partner, held still by Nick’s gun, was watching me carefully. Nick had dragged the respirators off both their faces, but they were sweating badly. These men were going to have to run from Cline after this, and Cline seemed like the type who could find a man no matter where he hid.
“Let’s hurry this up, Cap.” Nick’s eyes were funny. Too distant, too wide. “We gotta meet the team at the point in oh-five.”
“What?” I stopped rolling the barrel. “Nick, are you okay?”
He shook his head. “Hmm? Yes. What? I’m fine. Let’s hurry this up.”
“That’s enough.” I let go of the barrel. “We’ve done all we can. Time to go back.”
Nick didn’t hear me. His head was up; he seemed to be listening to some noise coming from the rear of the boat. The minor distraction was all his captive needed. I didn’t see the knife he’d been working against the duct tape on his wrists until the blade cut through the last shred. He turned and jammed the blade into Nick’s calf.
The gunshot was deafening in the tiny space; the bullet pinged off a pipe and shunted into the bulkhead before me. Nick’s bullet hit the cupboards just inches above my head—his finger had jerked on the trigger. The man grabbed for Nick’s gun and the two wrestled while I came around the big table to assist. My guy was more conscious than I’d thought. He kicked at my legs suddenly, tripping me into the cabinets against the wall. Nick’s guy had his gun. He backed into the corner of the room and fired wildly at the two of us. It was only the boat lurching suddenly down a steep wave that saved us. The man slid, fell; the gun was knocked out of his hands as he hit the ground. Nick snatched up the weapon and pointed it at his opponent’s head.
“Nick, no!” I cried.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
VINNY SAW THEM coming long before they knew he was there. Two tall, thick men jogging quietly through the trees toward the house, guns out. He sat still in his wheelchair at the corner of the porch, his hands beneath the blanket on his lap. He’d never been a good sleeper. More nights than not, he wheeled himself out here to watch the silent forest and think. The journey to the porch had taken longer this time because his left wheel was held in place by an under-sized bolt Doc Simeon had found in a jar in the garage. The ancient gangster smiled as one of the men skirted around the house to check the perimeter while the other walked directly toward him, not seeing him until he was only feet away.
Vinny watched the man assess him in the moonlight. The wheelchair, the newly bandaged leg, the blanket on his lap, and the hat clamped on his withered head. Like people always did these days, the young man underestimated him. The pair were wearing balaclavas, but Vinny could see that there were tattoos on the man’s hands. Some kind of insects—spiders, maybe.
The tattooed man said nothing until his partner returned to his side. The two looked at each other, assessed Vinny again, and then turned to go.
“What?” Vinny smirked. “You’re not gonna kill me? You’re not worried I’ll roll up behind you while you’re inside popping heads in beds?”
The men glanced at him, bewildered.
“Old man, you just sit there and feel lucky,” the tattooed one said. “I ain’t about shootin’ pathetic old cripples in their chairs. You can be the one who tells the story.”
“Pathetic old cripple?” Vinny laughed. “You think so, huh? Boy, I got ten inches of cold hard steel between my legs that might disagree with you.”
The men laughed. Their laughter was drowned out by the roar of the gun from between Vinny’s thighs; the blanket over his knees was shredded as the bullet passed through it. The