Read Online Altar of Bones by Philip Carter - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Philip Carter
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twelve, four fifty-three p.m
. And then his brother, sounding raw and broken, “Ry?”
The only other word he could make out through Dom’s strangling sobs was “dead.”
Dad?
Ry’s throat closed up, but he shook his head. No way could it be Dad. Ry had gone home over the holidays and the old man had never seemed better. He was still grieving for Mom, sure, and for the loss of their home from the devastation of Hurricane Ike, but otherwise … Hell, that game of horse they’d played on Christmas morning—he’d almost kicked Ry’s ass.
Had there been some kind of accident? A car crash? The old man liked to take his boat out on the Gulf this time of year, maybe a squall had come up …
What had the machine said? August 12? That was two days ago.
Come on, out with it, Dom. What in God’s name happened?
He heard a banging noise, as if Dom had dropped the phone, then a burst of laughter, the clatter of billiard balls. His brother said, “Ry?” again, then a mechanical voice cut in demanding seventy-five cents for another three minutes.
He heard coins being fed into a slot, followed by his brother’s voice, sounding scared now, “Oh, God, Ry. This woman came out of the ladies’ room and she had red hair, and after what Dad said, I thought …”
There was a pause as Dom took a couple of deep breaths, then his next words came out clear and relatively calm.
And strange as hell.
“Dad’s had a heart attack, Ry. Dad’s gone, and now they’re going to come after us, because of what he did. The big kill.”
“The big
what
?” Ry said, but his gaze was already sweeping the street outside, every molecule of his being alert.
He heard his brother draw in another ragged breath, go on, “I know I’m not making any sense, but I can’t … not over the phone. You need to get down here fast, Ry, and I’ll explain everything—” Dom made a noise, as if he’d started to laugh, then almost gagged. “I mean, I’ll tell you what Dad told me, which isn’t enough, not nearly enough. But for now just know there may be people out there who are going to try to ki—”
Ry pressed the stop button, cutting off his brother’s disembodied voice.
The pizza van
.
The red pizza-delivery van that had followed him around the corner, that had pulled up next to the fire hydrant over thirty minutes ago now.
Ry dove for the floor just as the van’s side door slapped open and the bay window exploded.
Uzi
, he thought as he rolled, snatched the Walther off the chest, and came back onto his feet. He pressed his back against the room’s inner wall, out of the line of fire from the street.
In the kitchen, the door to the backyard crashed open under the force of what had to be either the world’s biggest foot or an honest-to-God battering ram. Ry reached around the doorjamb with the Walther and emptied half a clip down the hall. More Uzis returned fire, tearing up walls and furniture. Wood splintered, glass shattered, plaster dust billowed in the air.
Whoever these guys were, they weren’t being subtle. And they were professional, taking their time to coordinate their attack, surrounding the house, cutting off any escape route, hitting it hard and fast, and getting out before the cops arrived. Which meant he had a minute, maybe two, before they came at him with everything they had. Ry had another couple of clips in the inside pocket of his leather jacket, but he needed more ammo, and another gun.
The floor plan to his small house was simple. The front door opened into a tiny foyer with a staircase going up and a long, narrow hallway leading back to the kitchen. To the left were the living and dining rooms, separated by pocket doors. Above, was one large bedroom and bath. He had a basement, but the only entrance to it was off the kitchen where the bad guys were, and it was a dead end anyway.
There was no place for him to escape to, no place to hide, and he was fast running out of time.
Ry kept his ammo and extra guns,
. And then his brother, sounding raw and broken, “Ry?”
The only other word he could make out through Dom’s strangling sobs was “dead.”
Dad?
Ry’s throat closed up, but he shook his head. No way could it be Dad. Ry had gone home over the holidays and the old man had never seemed better. He was still grieving for Mom, sure, and for the loss of their home from the devastation of Hurricane Ike, but otherwise … Hell, that game of horse they’d played on Christmas morning—he’d almost kicked Ry’s ass.
Had there been some kind of accident? A car crash? The old man liked to take his boat out on the Gulf this time of year, maybe a squall had come up …
What had the machine said? August 12? That was two days ago.
Come on, out with it, Dom. What in God’s name happened?
He heard a banging noise, as if Dom had dropped the phone, then a burst of laughter, the clatter of billiard balls. His brother said, “Ry?” again, then a mechanical voice cut in demanding seventy-five cents for another three minutes.
He heard coins being fed into a slot, followed by his brother’s voice, sounding scared now, “Oh, God, Ry. This woman came out of the ladies’ room and she had red hair, and after what Dad said, I thought …”
There was a pause as Dom took a couple of deep breaths, then his next words came out clear and relatively calm.
And strange as hell.
“Dad’s had a heart attack, Ry. Dad’s gone, and now they’re going to come after us, because of what he did. The big kill.”
“The big
what
?” Ry said, but his gaze was already sweeping the street outside, every molecule of his being alert.
He heard his brother draw in another ragged breath, go on, “I know I’m not making any sense, but I can’t … not over the phone. You need to get down here fast, Ry, and I’ll explain everything—” Dom made a noise, as if he’d started to laugh, then almost gagged. “I mean, I’ll tell you what Dad told me, which isn’t enough, not nearly enough. But for now just know there may be people out there who are going to try to ki—”
Ry pressed the stop button, cutting off his brother’s disembodied voice.
The pizza van
.
The red pizza-delivery van that had followed him around the corner, that had pulled up next to the fire hydrant over thirty minutes ago now.
Ry dove for the floor just as the van’s side door slapped open and the bay window exploded.
Uzi
, he thought as he rolled, snatched the Walther off the chest, and came back onto his feet. He pressed his back against the room’s inner wall, out of the line of fire from the street.
In the kitchen, the door to the backyard crashed open under the force of what had to be either the world’s biggest foot or an honest-to-God battering ram. Ry reached around the doorjamb with the Walther and emptied half a clip down the hall. More Uzis returned fire, tearing up walls and furniture. Wood splintered, glass shattered, plaster dust billowed in the air.
Whoever these guys were, they weren’t being subtle. And they were professional, taking their time to coordinate their attack, surrounding the house, cutting off any escape route, hitting it hard and fast, and getting out before the cops arrived. Which meant he had a minute, maybe two, before they came at him with everything they had. Ry had another couple of clips in the inside pocket of his leather jacket, but he needed more ammo, and another gun.
The floor plan to his small house was simple. The front door opened into a tiny foyer with a staircase going up and a long, narrow hallway leading back to the kitchen. To the left were the living and dining rooms, separated by pocket doors. Above, was one large bedroom and bath. He had a basement, but the only entrance to it was off the kitchen where the bad guys were, and it was a dead end anyway.
There was no place for him to escape to, no place to hide, and he was fast running out of time.
Ry kept his ammo and extra guns,
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